#How To Start Weight Loss Journey At Home

[neoseotipsblogs]

Beginner's Guide to Weight Loss: 8 Simple Tips to Kickstart Your Journey

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[navydoves]

I know we aren’t supposed to be doing this, but…

✎ᝰ summary: you’ve fallen for the enigma prince xavier and the enigma prince xavier has fallen for you. there are certain rules and expectations put into place for royals like you two, but rules are uptight and both of you want to overstep those invisible boundaries to get closer to each other.

✎ᝰ cw: first time/virginity loss for both, lowkey yearning/pining, fluff/smut, xavier is needy, xavier is a lover boy, slow burn, sensual, royals getting friskaayyy, lots of praise, no Y/N ✎ᝰ wc: 12.6k

✎ᝰ a/n: xavier is my main so i’m trying to do him justice here with my ass writing skills. a lot of the dialogue is very conversational, you'll see what i mean. also not proof read very well so pls excuse mistakes, i’ll make changes as i find them 😢

castles were dreary. people gawked at the tall spires of his home, pointing and taking pictures to preserve the moment they were graced by the presence of the philos royal family. it was laughable sometimes, how commoners and civilians revered the crown without knowing how suffocating it actually was.

yet, to xavier, he saw it as nothing more than his life duty, his reason of birth, the sole reason of his existence, it was to be suffocated. but he made do.

soldiers trained from puberty had no other direction in life than to fight and bleed, and they made do.

forgers took years to mine and quarry within deep caverns, battling off beast eating men only to go back home and scrape their fingertips off just to make weapons. no blacksmith ever complained, they made do.

even those born modestly within domestic walls and loving families sometimes succumbed to the tragedy off illness or crime but had no other choice but to make do. so xavier, born with a diamond spoon in his mouth while covered in scarfs of stain, the only heir to the philos throne, had to make do too. his life was built with the promise that he would gain great power and true nobility once his time came, and until then, the world had to wait on him hand and foot to assure that in every singular way possible, he was ready to rule. just because it was suffocating meant nothing, not when you had such security in your life. he built this mature mindset from young age, and he was often praised for his ability to suck things up and deal with it. it was an unspoken rule of being a royal. you deal, you accept, you fight, you rule, simple.

this frustrating way of living was what he had to deal with every single day of pompous life. the rest of his existence felt mundane and scripted, bound with endless vexation until he perished. and to think that would be hundreds upon hundreds of upon hundreds of years from now. but, if he never breathed in the first place, how could he become suffocated? this wasn't torture, it was normal. yet, despite it all, he started feeling differently. no revelation woke him up in the middle of the night to tell him the truth of his destiny and no mage showed up at his door to guide him on a mystical journey to find the contentment he never knew. no, it was much simpler than that; it took something much simpler to make him feel differently.

a face... a voice, a person all together. a new addition in his life that broken his monochromatic mindset and added a bit of vibrancy. people often say that someone brightened up their life when meeting someone special, but the blinding xavier could say that someone for once dimmed his vision so he could see properly. all he saw was light at the top of his tower, but slowly, his vision became less distorted as he became more grounded. your face, your voice, was what was grounding him.

from the day you met at an impromptu gala, hosted by xavier's parents to encourage liveliness in the city after prolonged battle, to you and him finally holding each other's hands away from prying eyes, he felt a weight lifted off his shoulders. nothing about his future or obligations changed, so it almost shocked him how easily dread left him whenever he was with you. you must be that powerful, he thought.

a familiar fluttering sensation of his heart was present every time he thought of you, and that feeling was only amplified whenever he got the chance to see you in person. letters served terrible in capturing your true eccentricity and wonder but that's all he had to live on when he could think of no excuse to invite you over. you lived several kingdoms away and the time it took to prepare travel to and fro felt unnecessary and unfair to the both of you when you had busy schedules. on top of that, neither of you wanted to let your hovering parents know that you had actually taken a liking to another royal. the drama, gossip, and rumors it could cause your families would potentially break you two apart and that was the last thing either of you wanted.

but today was xavier's lucky day, as well as yours. a few families from more isolated areas were invited to spend the next few days with the philos royal family as a way to discuss trade routes through their kingdoms. thankfully, your family was one of the few invited for the part of the week. so rather, it was xavier's lucky day for the next several days. when the news broke to him it took everything in his power to not grin widely at his parents. he was usually a stoic to them so breaking that face would cause for interest he didn't want.

behind closed doors, however, he spent his time meticulously planning out an outfit for each day you would spend in his castle. he knew your favourite colours, and whether they complimented the rich purple that was his family's colour or not, he would make it work. this was him making do, in a sense. today he wore his signature regal purple suit with blue accents, the fabric, woven from the finest silk and velvet. his tailored doublet was also rich in color and clung to his form, adorned with intricate gold stitching. he wore a low collar trimmed in blue velvet which matched the same shade of blue on his leather belt, tightened around with a gold buckle embossed with his family crest. the pants were similar in style and embraced the same regal purple, with gold stitching that went down to his noir, shiny shoes. xavier never felt the need to impress anyone until you. people were already impressed with just his presence alone, but he wanted to impress you in a way that made your eyes only look in his direction, only see him.

he fixes the collar of undershirt one last time before deciding he looked presentable enough for you. his heart had that familiar erratic rhythm that always reminded him how you've changed him, and he couldn't adore it more. with a small amount of anxiety in his stomach, he steps out his dressing room to greet the servants who patiently waited from him out in the hall. he had to shoo them away to mend himself for once.

xavier gives them a polite smile as they begin to lead him down the wing of the castle and into a neighboring wing where most social activities were held. he could already hear the gentle murmurs and small bouts of laughter that came from the several families that was gathered with his own. the flutter in his heart and the anxiety in his stomach only grew stronger as he neared the adjacent door of the ballroom and then flared when he caught a glimpse of you by your family. your family's colour was blue, there was a reason his suit had these accents today. xavier steps in and is immediately greeted by several nobles who did nothing but be pretentious in their greetings. it was second nature to humor them and mingle for a bit, but today he was less patient, more determined. he wriggled around a few families, throwing in a few shallow bows and smiles before he got up to your mother, a short woman with much indignation running through her veins. xavier gave her a much more polite, venerated greeting than anyone else that day, but it was only to find his way to you, the girl a few feet away and chatting with a king from some western kingdom. when your eyes catch his presence for a moment a tingle erupts in your stomach. god, how you waited for him. you excuse yourself from the conversation with the king and turn to xavier, fully, a shy smile growing on your lips while you bow to him. "prince xavier, i was waiting for you," you chirp.

xavier only stares for a few moments, his eyes tracing over your form and the beautiful modest blue dress you were wearing. he smiles tenderly. "drop the formalities princess," he hums, "it's just you and i here." you chuckle softly and shake your head.

"well, actually, there are several others here." "to me... it's just you and i." you blush and sigh. you always knew xavier to be a bit of a flirt but lately, both in letters and in person, he's been upping the ante and testing the waters between the two of you. you found it exhilarating. he gently reaches out and lazily caresses the side of your hand with his finger before quickly pulling back. it was the most he could do at the moment without being too obvious. "i told you to just call me xavier, nothing more." "i know... but if someone overhears our informality then... you know we can't do that with our families near." "i want to hear you call me my name, though." "later." "when is later?" "why are you so stubborn?" "because you deal with it and because you like it." you felt your mouth go still into silence at his words. both statements were true. you dealt with his stubbornness, and you also liked dealing with it. it was quite the opposite from the courteous personality xavier had with everyone else, so you almost reveled in his juvenile antics. he smirked slightly and leaned in carefully while focusing his eyes on yours. "i guess i'm right."

you turn your head to the side and away from his. his teasing proximity made a gentle heat rise up into your cheeks and the sight of your flustered state made xavier flustered himself. he pulls back and clears his throat before averting his gaze awkwardly. he wasn't sure what to say when his heart felt like it would come out of his throat, but thankfully you spoke instead. "i believe my mother and i are staying in the east wing of your castle for the week. despite my visits, i haven't seen those rooms until now." you remark while turning your gaze back to xavier. he notices your attention on him again and reciprocates. "those rooms are usually reserved for when we have guests sleeping over. since you've never actually had a visit longer than a few hours... you've just never seen those areas." you nod in acknowledgement and smile. "do you think... we'll be busy for the week?" you ask softly. xavier eyes take a hard blink at you, as if you said something incredulous, and he takes a moment to respond. "what do you mean?" "like... with the meeting on trade routes and such. since our parents do most negotiations and commerce, you think we'll be just as busy?" oh, that's what you meant, he thought. xavier rubs his lips together and considers your words in his head. his parents don't usually force him into meetings that weren't absolutely necessary. they had a good sense of trust that whatever xavier needed to do would be done-and they were usually right. although, xavier had a rather strange feeling that that trust would be more-less betrayed this week, given the beautiful distraction before him. "i hope not. i wasn't the one who called for this gathering so i'd like to play as little part in it as possible. i'd rather spend my time with you." "what if i'm always in meetings and i play a big part in the gathering?" xavier's lips twitch into a small smile. "then i guess im right there with you."

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feasts were one very good way of welcoming people into your home, and royals knew that best. the kitchen had had already prepared a lion's den worth of meals for the day, and only that day. only the stars above knew how much time and effort they put into making fresh cuisines and delicacies for a royal's sensitive palate. they made do. xavier watched as several servants rushed out from the halls with trays of food balanced in their palms, ready to arrange them onto the oakwood tables in the dining room. he and his parents were the first to arrive to the dinner ceremony to ensure everything was up to par for a social gathering before the next few days of work. the scent of various steaming dishes filled the air of the room, which made for an invitation to anyone who walked by.

smoked salmon, vegetable terrine, roasted lamb, truffles, brie, even sparkling champagne that was harder to come by nowadays due to import issues was served. many different meals were laid out onto the three lengthy tables within the dining room, a true refined look and very warm welcome to the multiple guests. xavier's parents already took their seats at the end of two of the three tables, and xavier's seat was already designated to be at the end of the third table. but instead of sitting already, like his parents, he stood idle as he waited for the families to start rolling in for dinner, he wanted to ensure that you would sit next to him. he feigned fixing his clothes for the sake of not getting a small scolding, but that bluff didn't have to lost for long as nobles started pouring in.

chatter and distraction were already beginning but xavier had his eyes set on finding you, finding your gentle blue beauty in the midst of all the colours piling up at the door. and when his eyes finally laid on yours from across the room, he smiles. the time separated from you these past few hours since your mingling in the ballroom felt like an ache to him and just like magic, it was gone now.

and despite the various empty chairs before you, when you caught eyes with him, you automatically knew to where to sit. in poise, you walk around the other two tables with your hands delicately to your front. you knew xavier was practically staring at you but you couldn't hold such prolonged eye contact like he could sometimes. "evening," he whispers once your form was right next to his. he takes the sides of the chair next to his throne and pulls it out for you before gesturing you to sit. "this is your spot, don't leave for your mother." the straightforwardness of xavier's words already make you flush for a little bit and you could see the sudden apologetic look in his eyes. "sorry, i didn't mean that rudely. i just... would like you to be near." you laugh softly and squint your eyes at him rather affectionately. without hesitation, you took a seat in the chair he pulled out for you and then look up at him. your quietly adoring eyes made xavier feel a little weak, and it was only then he decided to sit. "no worries, i take no offense. besides, i see my mother too often and you not as often enough. i'll take advantage of the time we have together."

you look at the array of dishes splayed out in front of you on the table and suddenly feel a bout of hunger within your stomach. traveling and socializing was no easy feat and took more out of you than you would like to admit. xavier noticed the way you eyed the aromatic food before you, but he could barely manage to speak any words due to the thumping of his heart. you were so beautiful in every right. you were so colorful to him. so warm. you dimmed everything before him and forced him to only focus on you. you shifted your gaze back at xavier and immediately felt the aura of his gaze. it made you shiver but you returned it in equal. something about this prince was so enigmatic but so revelatory. with each visit you could feel yourself becoming closer and closer with him, and you wondered where the two of you were at now. "prince xavier,"

"xavier," he corrected. you purse your lips.

"prince... xavier, which one of these is your favourite dish? i feel famished if im going to be honest. i want to try your recommendations." he frowns, but points to a pot. "braised chicken. it's the hottest meal we have but the most satiating. there are spices you can try alongside if you're like me and the broth doesn't do you much good." you look toward the pot furrow your brows while refraining from a laugh. "so... it's the hottest meal you have, and you want me to try it with spices? are you trying you to get me to sweat?" you already are princess. he thinks. you and i have been both sweating since earlier. "no, i have no nefarious intentions, but you asked me for recommendations and i gave them to you. y'know, if anything, you might be the true stubborn one between us."

you let out an amused sigh and nod.

"alright, braised chicken with spices then."

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once everyone chose a respective seat at a respective table, dinner service finally, actually began. royals weren't ones to "dig in", it was rather impolite, so they served themselves cordially and with composure, always putting the need of their elbow partner before them. you didn't need to worry about that, though, since xavier insisted on serving you himself. every cut of meat and slather of spices was done by him in his own way. small delicacies and even refills on your drinks was taken care of by his quick, knowing hands. you couldn't tell if he was trying to impress you or take care of you or both, but there were no complaints on your part. "so... you're sure it's not that spicy?" you ask while peering down at your small bowl of braised chicken with ignited broth done by the spices xavier generously added for you. "to me it's not, i enjoy the burn." "that's really not helping. i don't want to make a fool of myself if my throat gets itchy or my eyes start watering." xavier smirks at you and lets out air through his nose. why do you feel the need to care what other people think right now? you were with him, he had your full attention, and you had his. "i can help, then," he murmurs while taking your spoon and scooping up a small serving of chicken from your bowl. this would be regarded as improper and invasive from any noble, but lucky him, all of them were too engrossed in dinner. he blew on the spoon gently before moving it toward your face, down to your lips. "eat, it's good i promise." you blinked at him for a moment before nodding shyly and leaning in to take a bite. xavier domesticity almost made you forget the heat and spice of the food you were being served, but the flavors on your mouth brought you back. it did burn a bit, yes, but it wasn't as bad as you expected it to be. xavier watched your eyes light up in delight as a morsel of food finally made its way into your body. he propped his chin up on his palm and smiled with low-lidded eyes. god, he loved taking care of you. "taste good?" he asked softly. you nod quickly and pat your lips dry with a napkin.

"very good, the spices really do do a good job enhancing the flavor. wow..." you take xavier's wrist gently with your fingers and move it back down to your bowl. you smile and tilt your head with a silent question. "but... does it taste better when you feed me?" stars above, help me. "i'll do this all night if i have to. as long as you leave this room no longer so hungry."

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pink and yellow, those were the colours he chose to wear for the second day of your visit. today his suit was one of silk and brocade, clipped to midway of his waist and fitted nicely against his toned form. the blazer itself was a soft blush colour with gold embroidery swirling in vines and delicate florals at the ends of his sleeves. his undershirt was a pale yellow with a relaxed high collar that gave him a refined, easy look. his back-pockets of his pants matched the theme humble florist with their own flowery design on them. the actual pants, though, pants were plain in light pink and had a bit wider cut today. a simple gold chain hangs from his belt loop and connects to the back, making for an eye-catching accessory. the vibe here was delicate and approachable, easygoing but elegant. he brushed down the sides of his blazer in the mirror and nodded once done scrutinizing himself. the thing about xavier was, he would spend all this time refining and polishing himself for you through his clothes but would never touch his face. he liked going bare and natural without any type of hairstyle or skin up-keep. he wanted you enjoy him in his natural state, and clothes didn't really fall into that category. unlike his handsomeness, clothes could always be altered, tailored, or discarded entirely. once satisfied, xavier turns to face the door of his empty dressing room and walks out with an air of confidence. in routine, he greets the servants out in the hall and walks with them to one of the ballrooms in the same neighboring wing he was in yesterday. the families had been split into different rooms for different topics of discussion, and he had no way of knowing if you were in the ballroom he was designated in. he could only hope.

the clamor of yesterday and the hushed conversation of today was starkly different between the families. supper was filling, and everyone quickly retired once their rest and digest reflexes kicked in. walking you back to your room discreetly felt a little magical because it was just you two, and unfortunately, the furthest xavier could go was just right outside your guest room.

even in the dim light of the evening, your gentle blue beauty and inviting silhouette still managed to tug at his heartstrings. why did he have to leave?

yet, despite his hopefulness, he couldn’t appreciate you even from afar due to your absence in his designated ballroom. the excitement bubbling in his chest quickly deflated and all that was left was a disappointed, bitter feeling. it would be unseemly to leave now, now that a few nobles within the room already noticed him began their greetings with philos's perfect prince. despite the gentle, amicable facade xavier flipped on for face sake, and despite his warm, hospitable voice, his tight smile and ridged walk gave away every bit of annoyance he felt in the moment. he took his appointed seat in the room, the white and blue throne with a golden star balanced atop of it, and barely spared a glance toward the faces in the room.

how long was he supposed to be in here, forced to socialize and talk about commerce that, frankly, he didn’t give a fuck about. “making do” was his entire existence, sucking it all up was what he was made for, but this, you, was something he could not afford to just… brush aside for the sake of it. you’re not as shallow as his royal duties, why would he ever think of sucking this up?

his thoughts almost made him stand and excuse himself to the hall but it was your sudden appearance into the ballroom that halted him from doing so. he watched you politely enter and hold quick eye contact with him before turning your attention to the other families around you. you didn’t want to make it obvious exactly why you were here alone, without your mother.

xavier’s heart thumped erratically in his ears. all sense of distress and hostility vanished from his person and all that was left was within his chest was a deep, abiding sense of fondness. he could read your intentions so clearly right now and it reassured him that you wanted him, coveted him, with the same need he had. he relaxed in his seat and watched you take your own seat across from him. the table was wide and you were far from an arm's length away from him, but he wasn't gonna complain right now. not when you clearly went out of your way to see him.

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"you were staring at me the entire time. i've come to learn you're not a discreet person, your highness." "you were the one who decided to sit directly in my field of vision, princess. why blame me when it was clearly you trying to distract me?" "i go out of my way to convince my mother to let me visit another ballroom and im met with scoldings and accusations for it. you're quite insufferable." xavier lets out a small, low chuckle at your words. he loved bantering with you like a kid, it brought him satisfaction to see how informal the two of you could get. "let's take this outside then, princess." "... you want to fight?" he did not, in-fact, want to fight. instead, you found yourself following xavier to a small, outdoor garden alcove at on the bottom floor of the castle. the roof and walls were decorated in stained glass that spilled lines of rainbows down onto the beautiful gard of forget-me-nots—your favourite flower. you gasp softly and scurry over to a batch to catch a whiff of the new blossoms. no garden you've ever seen seeded only one type of flower or crop; it was always an arrangement of various buds for both aesthetic reasons and the health of the flora. you stand straight and turn your head over to xavier with a delicate and doting look on your face.

"did you... do this for me?" xavier's tucks his chin in and looks down, he smiles to himself with shyness blossoming within his chest. he strides over to where you stood and plucked a singular forget-me-not from the row, his fingers rolling the thin stem of the flower before placing it behind your ear, nestled within the strands of your hair. "to see you smile like that, yes." xavier responds quietly as if someone else threatened to listen to his endearing words. he cups your cheek with his hand and strokes the skin there with his thumb. xavier usually wasn't this bold, but the privacy of the alcove and the growing butterflies between you two made him throw caution to the window and indulge himself in your radiance. you felt bashful, your warm neck and ears and dilated pupils gave that away, but you refused to lean aside. this was everything you wanted, and nothing could peel you away from the admiring gaze of xavier. you turn your head to the side slightly and press a very gentle kiss to the curve of his palm. the tender action caused xavier's eyes to widen search yours eagerly. this was the first kiss you've given him, and it didn't matter to him if it was quick or on his palm, you kissed him. xavier retracts his hand from your face and looks down at the skin there like you just turned it into gold. he brings his hand up to his lips and kisses the spot you just pecked while keeping his intense, devoted gaze onto you. "prince xavier..." you whisper, not sure what to even follow up with. "it's xavier, princess." xavier reaches out again and strokes your hair delicately, a smile plays on his lips. "and yes? are you surprised with how much i want you? you shouldn't be. if only i could truly show you how you meant to me..." you furrow your brows and glance down to the garden floor. you didn't want to ever assume what xavier meant because he was always too cryptic and opaque, but with each passing gesture of his, you couldn't help but feel the electricity that radiated off of him. you wondered if he could feel the heat coming off of you as well. "we're already pushing the limits of our companionship, your highness. even that... peck, it would've gotten me scandalized by the ton." "and yet, here you are, standing and un-scandalized." your worries rolled off of xavier's back like water. he couldn't care less about what scandals the two of you encountered, he only had to save face for his family. but for himself? it was starting to feel like being your companion came before being a prince.

he continues to trace the outlines of your face with his eyes before his gaze landed on your lips. what he would give to just press them against his and let you feel for yourself how anguished he was for you. but you would be against it, he knew, because you still worried about the implications of it all. you couldn't be as untroubled as xavier was, but yet, you knew you wanted the same thing he did. so when his index finger trails down your cheek and to your jaw, down your neck and over your collarbones, off to the side and then down to your hip, you didn't stop him. you shudder softly and wet your lips. "i didn't tell you earlier, but you look beautiful today," xavier murmurs while glancing down to your lips again. you choke up at how smooth his voice was. he was too fucking good at swooning you. "thank you. you look nice today as well. pink compliments you really well." xavier smiles widely at your praise. finally, you noticed the effort he put into looking good for you, but he wasn't satisfied yet. "so what, my face is hideous?" "i...i never said that!" you exclaim. he laughs. "then say otherwise." "huh?" "tell me i'm handsome, tell me how good i look princess." you stare blankly at xavier for a few moments and furrow your brows. you simultaneously wanted to indulge him but also be defiant in such a cheeky request, although he wasn't gonna let that happen. seeing the incredulity on your face, xavier squeezes your hip with a firm hand and smiles. "say it princess, ~ " he sings. you blush immensely. "you're very handsome, your highness." that's my girl.

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today he wore a fine wool and silk suit with a deep grey fitted jacket and black loose pants. the cuffs of his sleeves were also black, as well as the buttons, his shoes, and the undershirt he wore. a small red rose as nestled into the pocket of his suit, and on the outside of the pocket was a white embroidered design of his family's crest. this might've been his most cohesive outfit yet, with his shiny silver hair and all to compliment it.

unfortunately, the time spent between you two was few far and between. you had your moments of conversation and indulgence, but duty often called you away from each other and into councils neither of you cared for. the dinners, where you now only ate braised chicken with spices, and the strolls, where you both hid out in the gardens, became your daily routines and the highlight of your days.

still though, there was more to be had. you had to do everything in slight secrecy to fend off suspicion from others, but when alone, you could feel the tension simmering between the two of you. xavier especially, a man who was thought so much restraint in his life, found himself being tested time and time again. even just a little kiss, a little something could satiate him, but with nobles running around at all times... was the risk worth it? after the morning meal where your mother forced you to socialize with families she made friends with over the last few days, you left the dining room and headed off to your designated ballroom. there were treaties being drafted between certain merchants with ruling families, and the ratification process was just beginning. there only had to be one signature from each family to qualify, and for the sake of it, you would write down your family name instead of having your mother write it. but once that was done? you were home free for the day. this wasn't your kingdom, castle, and these duties weren't necessarily yours to fulfill. in fact, most "families" here simply comprised of the king and queen of that family showing up as representation for their entire kingdom. meaning, in a sense, you weren't needed as much as your mother was. once you managed to get inside the ballroom, your next objective was getting out of their as fast as possible. a little wiggle here, a small bow there, and stroke of a pen was all it took to satisfy everyone and yourself. you excused yourself from the table and readied yourself to leave the suffocating ballroom you've been trapped in for the last few days. as you reach the grand doors, though, your favourite silver-haired, dashing prince walks in with a smile. he sees you and halts, his hand coming up as a gesture asking you to stop as well. "where are you headed?" xavier asks with a slightly concerned look on his face. "i'm done with my part for the day, my mother is handling the rest." you reply, both happy you didn't have to work and resigned that you couldn't gawk at him. xavier furrows his brows and frowns. "where will you go then?" he murmurs.

"to my room, most likely, or maybe i'll take a stroll around the castle and ask the kitchen for early dessert," you tease, "why? you'll miss me?"

"yes." you're taken aback by the quickness and conviction in xavier's voice. you've never heard him speak so... assuredly of something. he steps forward and cups your face similarly to how he did the day before, except this time you retract. there were many eyes around and as much as it hurt you to dismiss him like this, you wanted to preserve what you had. xavier's hand fell slowly as the rejection settled into his chest. he felt hurt, almost a little burned that you would do that so outwardly. "princess-" "there are people around. please, i... i want to protect you and i, okay? don't take it to heart, i... i need you too." his eyes soften but he nods gently. he glances up at the others packed into the room and let out an exhausted sigh. he hated this, he hated the crown right now, everything about his regal and royal life prevented him from you and it frustrated him to no end. he can't make do with this like he's been taught, he just... can't. the irritation welling up in his chest quelled once he glanced back down and saw your reassuring look. it was like every time he felt any sort of resentment, any sour and ugly feeling, you would cure his ailment with just a smile. "please wait for me, princess. i'll be done here as soon as possible." you nod curtly. i'll wait forever. ----------------------------------------------

and wait you did. you headed back into your guest room and decided to wind down with a warm shower and a redress. the fluffy yellow dress you wore only had a few hours in the spotlight today as you stepped into the silky fabric of your loungewear dress. the midnight blue of the slip fit comfortably and hugged just enough to secure. there were thin, adjustable straps on your shoulders that lead to a subtle V-neckline with a delicate lace trim. the fabric is smooth and lightweight, which is just what you liked when you had these rare moments of doing nothing all day. the slip dress itself went down to about mid-thigh, but the black robe you wrapped on top of it went down to just below your knees for modesty. the combination of your warm shower, breakfast still in your stomach, and the loungewear conditioned your brain into exhaustion. the soft-felt was right there and you couldn't help but climb atop of it and take a rest. a rest that would last several hours. when you stirred away and checked the time on the clock on the nightstand you almost jumped out of your skin. it was a quarter past ten (10:15) and you had slept the whole day away. your first thought was immediately about xavier. had you made him wait? was he looking for you? maybe he walked in on you sleeping and decided to let you rest? you felt an immense amount of guilt and regret hit your chest and you fly off the bed. screw it this, screw it all, you thought while putting on your slippers. all these meetings and treaties and debates and councils and everything had tired you down to the point of hibernation, and it directly caused you to neglect the limited you had with xavier. you rush to the door of your room and open it to peek out into the hall. the lights on the ceilings were dimmed which was the castle's indication that activity was dying down and the royal family was already retired. you let out a defeated sigh. how could you be so negligent? he asked you to wait for him and you didn't. you didn't wait for him, and over a pathetic reason too. before you could wallow in self-pity, your stomach made its own thoughts clear. you hadn't eaten since morning. your body felt a bit weak from the lack of food and you knew you couldn't go back to sleep like this. not with this amount of guilt weighing you down anyway. you sigh and step out your room and walk down the hall to try and find a servant or maid to help you out in you scavenge. your feet were slow and dragged out behind you but you soon near one of the kitchens within the wing you were in. before you could step in, a shiver runs up your back and immediately you sensed someone's prescene. "princess!" xavier's voice yelped from not far behind. he scurried down the ballroom he came out of and toward your direction with a hurting look on his face. you follow the same and rushed toward him with guilt plastered on yours. "im so sorry!" "im sorry!" you both yelp out an apology. you take a step back and knit your eyebrows together. "w...what are you apologizing for?" you asked. "i left you, im sorry. i told you i'd come to see you soon but my parents wanted to me stay with the families until all the treaties were signed. it took, all. damn. day. im so sorry." your mouth was a little agape upon hearing his words. the confused look was then reciprocated by xavier. "wait, why are you apologizing for?" "i... i told you i'd wait for you, but i ended up sleeping all day after i left the ballroom. i thought that maybe you didn't want to disturb me and left. i... felt so guilty." the both of you look at each other in astonishment for a few long moments. xavier was the first to crack with a soft laugh that progressed into a hearty one. you continued to stare up at him, evaluating the absurdity of the situation you two created for yourself. "so... we just... both lived today feeling guilty?"

xavier stops laughing for a moment and smiles adoringly at you. his eyes shone down at you with an almost childish glee. your unmoving expression only added to his amusement. you were everything his heart needed.

"that's how i know you're meant for me."

⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎⭐︎

this was your third bowl of braised chicken with spices tonight. finding you in the hall at that precise moment was serendipitous for the both of you. not only for the matter of clearing the air and expelling guilt, but also for the fact that xavier could request the leftovers of meals from supper. he brought you back to your room and finally fully stepped inside with you. with his parents asleep, the visiting families in their rooms, and staff also retired, it was just you two.

xavier did more than just step in, actually, he made himself comfortable. you were sat on the edge of your bed eating and he pulled up a chair beside you, not wanting to invade the intimate space of your bed. he watched you eat with tender eyes as you explained your side of the story for the day, and you did the same as he complained about the exhaustion that overcame him in the ballrooms.

"i still am sorry, my prince," you frown while putting down the bowl on the bedside table, "i broke our promise unknowingly, regardless." xavier smiles warmly shakes his head.

"so did i," he hums, "i wanted to see you within the hour you left but well… here we are. we're both a little guilty, yeah?" you laugh softly and shake your head. "no need to apologize then princess, we're even."

your body tilted down toward his and his body leaned up toward yours, a shared warmth flourished between you two at that moment. the room was quiet and bathed in the cool glow of the moon filtering through the sheer curtains. neither of you turned on the lights when you first walked in because this dim atmosphere was so comforting.

xavier reaches up and strokes your cheek softly with the back of his fingers. he adored your bare face, so youthful and soft to the touch without any product on it. you nuzzle into his touch and giggle softly. he rises from his chair, now towering over you while you were still sitting, and he moves to stand in-between your legs. you lean back slightly to invite him in, and he takes that invitation. his other hand moves to your back and pushes you closer to his form so that your chest was pressed against his abdomen. you felt your heart quicken at the intimacy of every move.

"prince-"

"xavier," he corrects, "i've told you to call me xavier repeatedly for the last few days and you haven't once. it's just us now, no one here to scare you from indulging me, princess. it's xavier."

"… xavier," you whisper out in a breathless voice.

"say it again," he murmurs while sliding his hand down to the small of your back and pushing you closer.

"xavier," you repeat.

"again." he takes his other hand out from your hait and places it underneath your thigh.

"xavier."

"one more time." he pushed your leg up and tucks in your back to make you fall onto the bed behind you. his hand moves up and down your thigh slowly while his other one, now off your back, cups your waist.

"ah… xavier."

he grins widely and leans his head down to nuzzle into your neck. while his outside demeanor may seem composed or even confident, internally he was a wreck. what was he doing right now and why did it feel so good? he felt so nervous that maybe he was pushing the boundaries between you two, but you neither fought back nor complained.

he peppered a few kisses in the crevice of your neck and then moved them down to your collarbones. you brought your hands up slowly to his head of hair and threaded your fingers into his locs. you felt a rush of something new, something you hadn't felt before, come over you. you glance down at xavier and see him already peering up at you.

"are you okay?" he asks tentatively, a nervous tinge in his voice.

"yeah, i'm alright. just…" you hesitate. you knew you two shouldn't be doing this, you knew it was a major violation of royal court rules. un-betrothed, un-courted royals were not allowed to be intimate by any means. if a royal wanted to become intimate in any way, the fastest way was to have an arranged marriage with a willing partner. but none of those circumstances applied to the two of you, which was incredibly scandalous. "… just continue." but you didn't care.

xavier almost lost his mind right there. he almost couldn't believe what you just said but the fond look on your face reassured him that he wasn't going insane.

oh god. oh… god.

xavier moves his hand from your waist to your abdomen where the tie to your robe was knotted at. he looks up to you for permission before slowly undoing it. the tension in the air was thick as both of you wondered just how far this was about to go. the robe fell to your sides and revealed the midnight coloured silk loungewear that you still had on.

xavier's pupils dilate as he takes in the beauty of your form. shocks of arousal went through his body, all pooling in a rather indecent place. he carefully takes the robe off your arms and puts it aside to fully appreciate your figure.

"i can't even describe what i'm feeling right now, you look unbelievable."

xavier's words immediately make you breathless. you've been revered by countless amounts of people in your life but nothing compared to the veneration he was giving you right now. you pull him down closer and nudge your nose against his affectionately.

"xavier."

"yes, princess?

"can you kiss me?"

"yes, princess."

without hesitation he presses his lips against yours and groans into your mouth. you reciprocate with a whine as you both share you first kiss. not just your first kiss with each other, but the first kiss both of you've ever had. it felt better than you expected, probably because the man you were sharing this experience with was someone you adored.

instinctively, your body arches up against his and his body presses down against yours. every time one of either of you pulled back for a breath, the other leaned back in for more. the kiss was juvenile and inexperienced but also heated and needy. nothing else in the world mattered anymore.

and for the first time in a long, long while xavier felt his cock twitch in his pants and start growing into an erection. he had gotten erections when he was younger purely out of hormonal changes, but never out of arousal. despite his age, this was a first for him and it felt so good to need you like this. the heat pooling in between your legs was also a first for you. you could feel a deep throbbing within you that could only be relieved by squishing your thighs together to create friction.

you push xavier back and whine. you weren't sure what you needed more, him or air.

"you look so beautiful like this," xavier giggles, "look at you, so flushed and pretty." he moves his hands up and down your hips with the intent to feel the curves and fullness of your body. his cock was now full erect and painfully pressed up against his grey pants, making an obvious imprint there. you shudder under his touch and close your eyes to savor the warmth of his large hands over your body, slowly rocking your hips up for more. he watches you undulate and moans. there was something so unbelievably erotic about the way you silently begged for more from him with your body. he steadies your hips and smiles. "princess, can i..." he trails off, unsure of how to verbalize his need. instead, he gently lifts your pliant body and turns you to be on your hands and knees on the bed. before you could sputter out in embarrassment, he hugs your form from atop and presses his hips flush against yours, earning a small gasp from you. "xavier," you yelp, "you're...?" he smiles. "erect, yes. what else did you expect my princess? i'm so excited for you and i've never felt this was before." he pushes his hips against yours again but this time a little harder. you could feel the stiffness and heat of his cock grind into your backside. this level of brazenness was something xavier couldn't even explain himself - in fact he was a little afraid of it. he didn't know what he was doing, really, he just moved in a way that felt natural.

"t...that feels so good," you say as you arch your hips up for him like a cat in heat for the first time. your unintentional words of reassurance make xavier groan and encourage him to keep going. he presses against you over and over again until both of you are mewling messes for each other. you could feel your heart thump erratically both in your chest and in-between your legs where arousal built. "ngh... ah... feel good, princess? i want to - ah - make you feel everything you make me feel. i want to give - mngh - pleasure to you." "y...you already are. i have the same desire, - ngh - i want to make you feel good. but it's just... what if we get caught? what if - " "we won't," xavier hisses. "i don't want you to worry like this, not when you're with me. i should have your full attention, not anyone else." he wraps his arms around your waist and fully presses his front against your back. his lips come 'round and press little teasing kisses down your lobe and to your neck. "we don't have to do anything further, we can just stay like this, but please, just focus on me."

xavier's almost whiny voice causes the aching between your legs to throb harshly. you've never seen him be such a mess, but you also have never been such mess yourself. you lift your arm up and wrap it around xavier's head and pull his lips against yours. he takes this as encouragement and thumps his hips harder against you with newfound confidence. too caught up in the moment, you don't even notice his trailing hand that lands right on your navel. "may i...?" he mumbles against your lips. you nod. he slides his hand further down to your thigh and then back up underneath your nightdress. he feels the lace of your panties and almost implodes realizing that he was going to touch you there and you let him. his fingers tease around the edge of your underwear and occasionally slide in to feel your bare hips. every touch he makes causes his aching cock to pulsate in anger for the fact that it hasn't been stimulated yet, but he put you first before everything. your breath hitches once you feel his finger finally graze against your soaking mound. you both let out a groan. "so wet..." he mumbles. the pads of his middle and ring finger gently trace around your pussy lips and folds. he wanted to commit this feeling to memory, the first time he's ever touched you. pleasure you've never experienced before wells up in your body and slowly, you feel your mind going hazy with lust. the explicit books you've read don't compare to the actual feeling of being pleasured. you can't believe this is what you've missed out on. you grab xavier's other hand and move it to your chest over one of your breasts. you felt him squeeze the plushness there almost immediately. his lips find your neck again which add to the symphony of bliss you felt. he was servicing you in every section of your body and he loved it. he loved, loved taking care of you. "i know i'm not yours yet through the court, princess, but i'm yours in every way that matters. i want to service you, make you feel good, take care of you until i physically can't anymore." "w...who cares about the court? ngh - they keep me a...away from you. you have - mngf - my devotion." "then don't let another man hear these sweet sounds, princess. don't let another man touch you or love you the way i do. i want to be yours, wholeheartedly." "only i...if you promise not to let a...another woman be - ahh - with you like this, xavier." "i wouldn't dream of it." xavier stops his fondling for a moment to flip you onto your back. he climbs the bed and smiles down at you before immediately ditching the grey suit. he throws it aside haphazardly, not caring about its maintenance, and leans down to your body. his loving kisses pepper your face causing you to giggle softly. you push him back to playfully scold him but the lovey-dovey look on his face makes your words disappear. "i really can't believe i'm yours," he whispers while continuing his worshipful kisses. "my beautiful princess, you've got me so worked up the last few days i didn't know what to do." his hands move back to your wet center, determined to coax more of those sweet sounds out of you. "and you think i've been doing great?" you retort softly while griding yourself against xavier's fingers. "i've been denying myself such simple pleasures out of fear and now i can't hold back anymore." xavier's eyes soften.

"i don't want you to hold back anymore," he whispers, "i want you to take as much of me as you want until you're satisfied. i'll give you everything. even if it brings me to tears, i will give you everything." before you could respond xavier's fingers deftly hook into your panties and pull down. he does it slowly and looks up at you occasionally to make sure you're okay, to make sure he isn't being selfish. once completely off, he lifts up your nightdress to your hips and just... stares. you hear a small noise come out of him as he revers your most intimate part. his thumb strokes the pubic hairs on your pussy while occasionally bumping into your swollen clit, making you whimper. "d...don't stare!" you exclaim in sheer embarrassment.

"why not? i won't be able to see this again for a while." you sputter at his implication and boldness. but it was when his head moved down toward your folds with a clear intention that really left you breathless. "wait!" you pull his head back. "don't do that either!" he laughs softly at the apprehensive look on your face. "why not? people do it all the time. i want to know you in every sense of the word, including knowing your taste." "but that's... unsanitary...?" even you felt unsure in your words. you weren't dirty, you wore new, clean clothes all the time. you took care of your hygiene almost meticulously and you weren't bleeding. denying yourself this pleasure would be a disservice to your aching, ready body. but letting yourself indulge came with the risks of getting hooked. "just a little kiss and lick?" xavier pouts. he moves his head down again and hovers over your pussy with a needy look. he gave you plenty of time to move him away and reject his offer again but when you averted your gaze and lifted your hips up for him, he almost cheered. he presses his soft lips against your clit and laps at it like a puppy thirsty for water. a little kiss and lick weren't enough for him, and he believed it wasn't enough for you either. you deserved more; you deserved everything he had to give. in his mind, the girl who broke his shell and taught him what love was deserved his every breath. to him you tasted like your scent; warm vanilla mixed with a more fleshy, salty feminine musk. a determined man like him needed to ensure this, though. maybe you had hints of jasmine or amber in you, maybe there was more sweetness waiting for him at the end of his road. your hands find purchase in xavier's head of hair and despite your earlier protests, you push him further into your pussy. at this point, your folds were creamy and dripping from pure and utter excitement, which made for a great drink on xavier's part. he delves in deeper with an eager and untrained mouth, sucking and kissing your clit and circling his tongue (as best as the poor boy can) over your clenching entrance. you almost orgasmed right there but you pulled xavier back from in-between your legs to prevent it. "ha.... hah.... x..xavier! you said just a little ki...! i need to - hah - catch my breath." xavier's head was in a haze but he wore a big goofy smile on his glistening lips. "you taste so sweet, though. i wanted to be a good prince and finish my meal." xavier giggles at the astonishment present on your face. he was so teasing and provocative in a way you would've never guessed, and even if you did like it, you wouldn't admit it. but even if you were taken aback by every other word he said, his glossy lips made evidence to just how much he adored you. willing to dive headfirst for your pleasure and even still whining for more. your eyes trailed down to his aching erection and immediately you felt the need to reciprocate. what did xavier taste like? what did he feel like in your mouth? you wanted to know just as badly as xavier wanted to go back into your beating pussy. you reach out and trace your finger over the imprint of his cock through his pants. xavier shuddered and pushed his hips forward to entice you, a small smile on his face.

"like it? want to see it?"

you nod instead of verbally responding, too shy to voice your newfound desires. xavier felt anxious showing himself to you. he anxious about your judgement, which was a rarity given his position as a respected prince. he usually was the one inflicting judgement on others, not the one fearing it.

you prove to me every day how much you've changed me, princess. xavier unfastens the buckles of his belt and slides it out of its loop, then shakes off his pants to the side. he inches closer to you and hovers over your anticipatory self. he moves his hand to the tent of his boxers and rubs himself gently while letting his eyes roam over you. "can i take off the rest of your nightdress?" "can you take off your top and boxers?" xavier smirks at and nods. he unbuttons his undershirt and slides it off with ease, putting it aside with his other clothes, then looks down at his boxers. he moves even closer and leans his head against yours, nudging your cheek with his nose while touching himself. you could feel the anticipation simmering you two, electric and overwhelming. he reaches into his boxers and grabs his throbbing cock, slowly taking it out of its confinements. he groans once its fully out to scrutinizing your gaze, and you let out a whimper at just the sheer sight of him.

his cock stood tall and proud, arching into his abdomen while covering itself in streaks of pre-cum. he was swollen with need which made you eager to please him even more. tentatively, you reach your hand out and wrap your fingers around the base of his cock which makes xavier tilt his head back in pleasure. he groans as he feels your slow pumping and squeezes on him even though each movement was met with hesitation. while you continued your strokes, your head leaned in closer and closer in attempts to satisfy your curiosity. you let your hand fall for a moment and prepare to take his length into your mouth when xavier quickly pins you back onto the bed upon sensing your intention. your eyes widen in surprise and fear, wondering if you did something. "w...what?!" you squeal. "i don't... i don't want you to do that. i... i want to be the one servicing. i don't want you to do something like that for me." "i...want to make you feel good, though"

xavier smiles tenderly at you.

"you already make me feel good, but i know what you mean. just for today, i don't want you to do it, okay?" "but i want to taste you."

xavier smiles tenderly at you. he moves his hand down to his aching cock and slides his index and middle finger down his creamy shaft and then brings it up to your lips. "taste, then." you felt a shock of arousal hit your body at xavier's eroticism that you could hardly believe he was an inexperienced celibate like you. happily, though, you lean forward and take his fingers into your mouth and moan upon tasting the salty sweetness of his desire. he watches you suck eagerly and move as if you were pleasuring his cock, bobbing your head up and down and enveloping your tongue around his fingers. the sight was too much to bear for him and he lunges forward into a heady kiss. his fingers slide from your mouth as the two of your whine and whimper into against each other's lips. he wastes no time peeling off your nightdress from your undulating form, starting with undoing the strings on your back and pulling it over your head. he finally pulls back from the kiss and stares down at your bare form underneath him. his eyes go from your soft, plush breasts down to your tummy and of course your wet core. "my pretty girl," he murmurs, "beautiful doesn't even describe you. what am i gonna do with you?" "touch me." "with pleasure." he moves his head down to your collarbones and starts a line of kisses down in-between the valley of your breasts. he cups both of them with each hand and rolls his thumbs over your nipples to coax them into peaks. he watches you fondly as your expression contorts in pleasure from his ministrations, giving him a confidence boost. "i like these," he mumbles, referring to your breasts. "yeah?" "yeah. they're soft and squishy, perfect to just play with. do you ever play with them?" an awkward smile appears on your incredulous face. "uh, sometimes? like when i'm in the shower or when i'm bored. my dresses usually get in the way of anything getting in so..."

"if i was a girl, i would be playing with mine all the time. it's very comforting."

you furrow your brows at him and laugh softly at his honesty. you move your hands up to his pecs and squish them playfully in the same manner xavier was touching you. "how does this feel then?" you giggle. "feels like i'm being fondled by a pretty girl. mine compare nothing to yours, though. bet yours taste nice too."

xavier moves down to your hardened nipples and wraps his lips around them with swiftness. you feel him suckle and moan on your skin like a man starved. he continues the same ministration on your other nipple, suckling and groaning with need until he decides to pop off, a large smile on his shining face. "mm, yeah, tastes amazing." you playfully hit his arm which erupts a small giggle from him, causing your heart to flutter. xavier, at the end of the day, is just as silly and childish as the day you met him. and no matter how good his stoic facade is to those around him, you knew him as someone much, much different. something about his smile flames a desire inside of you. not one so much of lust but more of a need for connection. pushing royal rules was something everyone did here and there, completely breaking them was treason. it told everyone you had no restraint, no moral compass, that you are blinded by lust and desire and that you couldn't be loyal to your crown. maybe they were right, because right now you wanted to be loyal to xavier more than any throne in the world. "xavier, i need you," you whisper suddenly. he leans down immediately and presses a kiss to your temple. "i'm right here, my princess."

you press your hands onto his hips and move them down a bit to nestle his hard cock against your thigh. "i need you."

xavier's eyes widen slightly. he wasn't sure from the beginning if this was how far you two would go, given how anxious you were about the risks of doing so; but despite how scary sex could be for a someone like you - both a virgin and a princess - you looked at ease and assured in your words. "princess..." he whispers, "i know we're not supposed to be doing this but... i need you too."

"i don't care anymore. i want you more than i've ever wanted anything in my life." xavier chuckles and presses another kiss to your temple. "well when you put it like that, there's no way i can hesitate."

knowing you needed more preparation, xavier shifted your legs up to your waist and probed you for a few minutes before inserting a singular finger. he watched as his digit was engulfed by you the entire way and he also watched your twisting expression to ensure you were okay. it hurt a bit, obviously, but he was gentle and patient. slowly, he worked you up to two fingers and then three. it only felt uncomfortable because your muscles there were unused and inexperienced with penetration, but xavier did everything right. "you're so tight, starlight. can you relax a bit for me?" he whispers while pressing kisses down your belly. you nod and try to calm your jittery body down with deep breaths, earning an encouraging kiss from xavier. "that's it, just like that. you're doing so well. i can feel you loosing up a bit," he praises. you smile and continue breathing until you felt ready enough to move on. you look down at xavier and cup his face with a gentle hand. what a beauty you had with you. "i think i'm ready." "are you sure? there's no rush." you smile. "i'm sure." xavier nods and moves up your body so that your hips and his were pressed up against each other. he grabs his cock at the base and gently slides it in-between your pussy lips to gather your arousal and nudge your clit teasingly. after a few moments of silent rubbing, he shifts his cock a little lower and positions himself your entrance. he presses repeated kisses to your cheek as he very slowly pushes into you. you immediately tense up but the coos of xavier's voice help you relax again. "i'm a bit in, are you okay?" "y...yeah," you shudder, "feels weird but i want more." he continues pushing in and out, in and out until you took more and more of him with each passing minute. despite this being a major turning point in your relationship and lives, both of you stayed rather quiet from how attentive you were being to each other.

xavier felt how your body was slowly accepting him with each shallow thrust, so he took a slight risk. he pushes in again but this time with the intent to go deeper than before. you tense up again and immediately he comforted you. "it's okay, you're okay. tell me if it's too much." "im okay, im okay. it's just... an uncomfortable feeling, but it's starting to go away." "it's starting to go away?" he repeats with a smile. "then let's get the hard part out of the way, yeah? im gonna go deeper again but stop me if it's too much." you nod and wrap your arms around xavier's back for comfort. his cock slid out of you again and with gentle force, he pushes in even deeper causing you both to groan. you felt a shock of pain and pleasure within your legs but refused to stop at this point. xavier, on the other hand, was trying his best not to cum already. he stilled within you and whimpered softly as he forces himself to calm down before he orgasmed prematurely. sweat beads on his forehead and falls down onto your chest. "oh god, you feel so, so good. 'm seeing stars... ngh." before you could say anything, he slides out of you again and presses back into the same spot within your walls, causing you to arch off the bed and cry out. while there was still a pain within you, it was numbing off into an aching sense of pleasure. you scratch xavier's back as more cries fall from your lips while he continues to go in and out, hitting a bit deeper each time. "oh... xavier... xavier... xavier...!" "i love you, i love you, i love you."

as much as you wanted to see xavier's face, you had to clench your eyes shut from the pressure on your body. your nails continue to mark xavier from the back which only urges him to soak himself deeper within you. "yes starlight, scratch me, mark me, make me yours." he gasps out. every movement he made was a battle with his body to not lose himself inside you right then and there. xavier had experienced countless battles, training grounds, injuries, debates, a myriad of hardship; but nothing was as difficult as simply trying not to cum in you right now.

"xavier," you whine, "xavier, it f..feels good now. i feel like im losing my mind." "lose it princess, lose it with me."

he moves a hand down to your hips and lifts them slightly to get a better angle within you, while the other goes over your clit and stimulates you further. you gasp at the dual stimulation and feel an unfamiliar heat slowly coil within your navel. "xavier, i love you too. i didn't say it earlier, but i do. i love you so much. i love you with everything i have." xavier's pace falters the moment he hears your reciprocated confession. truth be told, he was refraining from cumming by just those words. he smiles endearingly and leans into your face and presses a singular kiss to the tip of your nose. "princess, can i come in you?" he asks softly, his voice now devoid of struggle. you glitch at his ask but before you could answer he continues. "you leave tomorrow, right? i want you to take a part of me before you go. i want it to be with you on your journey back. may... i?" with the way xaiver was asking you with his sweet, tender voice and his adoring eyes, you would've given him a baby if he asked. oh wait. "yes, please do." the elation on his face was almost indescribable, you wanted to laugh. he shifted out of your again and then pushed back in until your pelvis met his. this was the deepest he’s gone in so far and you could feel how his cock curved up into you and nudged against your walls. you felt that final push and cried loudly. you lift your legs to wrap around xavier’s hips while he pressed kisses to your cheek to comfort you. at this point you were attached to his body like glue and you weren’t planning on letting go.

“oh stars above,” he groans, “i fit so perfectly in you princess, yeah?” xavier presses another kiss to your forehead before resting his chin atop of your head. “you’re all nice and snug, i want you to trap me in you so you don’t have to go tomorrow.”

“y…you’re crazy.”

xavier smiles and wraps his arms around your chest. he pulls out again only to sink into you once more. each thrust was no longer as slow and methodical, instead they were getting sloppy and getting slightly faster with each thrust. he still paid attention to your cues and noises to ensure that you weren’t uncomfortable, but he needed to give you an orgasm that satisfy you every pent up need.

one arm moves from under your body and goes down to your aching clit. his fingers circle and rub you there until your bud was perking with pleasure. seeing and hearing how much each ministration was pleasuring you, he moves his head down to one of your breasts and latches onto a nipple to suckle once more. the triple stimulation on your body was too much to bear and in a matter of moments you felt that earlier coil in your stomach start to unravel.

“x..xavier! i feel weird… i think im gonna…!” you gasp and clench onto his body as if you were preparing for the worst.

“t…that’s my girl, let go. i’ve g..got you. you’re gonna squeeze an orgasm an out of me too.”

you squeeze your eyes shut and lock your legs tighter around xavier hips. the next thing you knew, you felt a hot flash down your body that converged in-between your legs and bursted with great force. you almost screamed but xavier ate up your cries with soothing kisses as his own orgasm welled up and tipped over within you. he feels the throbbing of your clit and the tightening of your pussy around his cock, milking him for what he’s had stored up for years.

your first, and his first, orgasm.

xavier’s heavy balls coil up as his cock paints the inside of your sweetness with an intense load of cum. tears fall from your eyes, your body twitched with overstimulation, you felt your mind going numb from how overwhelmed you were, but you didn’t regret a single moment of it. xavier whimpers your name out as his cock spurts out the last few gushes of cum within you. the feeling of something so sticky and hot inside your pussy was incredibly weird but you felt a strange sense of contentment at how full you were.

“i love you so much, don’t leave me. stay here with me.” xavier whispers in a small voice as his body stills within you. he waited patiently for you to calm down before pressing more kisses to your face.

“you…you know i can’t do that,” you reply in a struggle. your body felt exhausted from the exertion but you were still attentive to xavier.

“i know.”

xavier nestles his head underneath your chin and holds you gently and you reciprocate with an embrace around his neck. there was a bittersweet silence between you two. maybe more sweet than bitter for you and maybe more bitter than sweet for xavier. the ache and pain in you went ignored as you prioritized focusing on xavier over anything else in the moment. you couldn’t properly see his face and the dim room made it hard to see his body clearly, but you could tell he was upset.

you press a gentle kiss to his forehead and rub your nose there affectionately. usually you would tease him about acting like a little baby but humor felt misplaced here. your heart ached but you weren’t sure what to say to comfort him. so instead, you say the one thing you could think of and truly mean.

“i love you, xavier.”

“i love you more.”

a/n: i’ve literally slaved away writing this lowkey, but i enjoyed it. sorry if the second half of this seems lackluster, i was slowly going insane from how much i was writing and i needed it to be DONE WITH. anyway xavier for life 💜

[pbaz7]

AGAINST THE TIDE: PART THREE

paige x azzi

word count: 5.3k

A/N: Here’s a chapter with a lot more interaction between Paige and Azzi. Don’t do too much on my girl this chapter y’all she getting better😭. Let me know what you think and leave reactions! I’m low key starting chapter 5 today 🤭

—————————————————————————

April 2021

Azzi and Paige's respective seasons had come to an end, though in completely different fashions.

For Azzi, it was the perfect finale to her high school career. After a long recovery from her ACL and MCL injury, she returned stronger than anyone thought possible in her senior year. And she was able to cement her place as one of the best players in the nation after everyone questioned if she would be able to come back the same. She became a McDonald's All-American and earned the prestigious Morgan Wootten Player of the Year award on top of carrying her team to another state championship, leaving her high school legacy on the highest note possible. When she walked off the court for the final time in her high school jersey, the roar of the crowd and the embrace of her teammates felt like the perfect send-off. Azzi was content. She had conquered every challenge thrown her way, and now she was ready for the next chapter at UConn.

For Paige, the end of her freshman year at UConn was a much different story. On paper, her season was nothing short of extraordinary. She had helped the Huskies defeat their rivals time and time again, putting on performances that left commentators and fans in awe. She’d scored a season-high 32 points and dished out 7 assists against St. John’s of New York—a game where it seemed like her fierce competitiveness toward the St. John’s she’d grown up playing against carried over to this completely unrelated team.

The accolades poured in. Paige was named Big East Player of the Year, unanimous Big East Freshman of the Year, and helped UConn secure the Big East Championship title. She had the most points by any UConn player in their NCAA tournament debut. By the end of the season, she’d been crowned AP Player of the Year and Naismith College Player of the Year—the first freshman in history to earn both honors.

But none of that mattered to Paige.

For all the individual awards and historic milestones, she couldn't forgive herself for how the season ended. UConn had made it to the Final Four, and the weight of expectations—both internal and external—was immense. Paige believed it was her job to lead her team to a national championship, but when they lost to Arizona in the semifinals, everything came crashing down for her.

She replayed the game in her mind constantly, scrutinizing every missed shot, every turnover, every moment she thought she could have done more. The praise and accolades felt hollow, and no one could convince her otherwise. For Paige, and according to the media, the loss was a failure. It didn’t matter that she was only 19 years old, it didn’t matter that she was only a freshman, the media tore into her from every angle and she hated herself for giving them the room to talk in the first place, despite what everyone around her said. If she had won they wouldn’t have had anything to say.

While Azzi basked in the glow of a picture perfect end to her high school journey, Paige drowned herself in guilt and frustration. Day after day, she was in the gym, pushing herself harder and harder. No one had to tell her to work—she was relentless. The sound of basketballs hitting the court echoing through an otherwise empty gym.

For Paige, there was no off-season. The only way to make peace with her freshman year, she thought, was to be better.

Her freshman year had been historic. But Paige didn’t care about history. She only cared about winning, and anything less wasn’t good enough.

May 2021

Paige was back home in the DMV, spending her days exactly the way she had since the loss in the Final Four. The small, private space her trainer let her use had become her sanctuary. She had poured every ounce of herself into her offseason grind, putting on muscle and sharpening her skills. Each shot, each drill, each drop of sweat was a reminder of what she wanted to fix.

The gym was empty, just how she liked it. Paige worked in solitude, her sneakers squeaking on the hardwood as she moved through her drills. The sharp echo of the ball bouncing against the floor filled the space. She was locked in, oblivious to everything but the rhythm of her workout.

The faint creak of the door opening didn’t even break her focus.

“Hey,” a familiar voice called out.

Paige barely glanced over, recognizing Azzi immediately. She gave a slight nod in polite acknowledgment but kept shooting. Azzi lingered near the door for a moment, unsure if she should stay or leave. Last summer, she would have turned around and walked away without hesitation like she almost did. But not this time. She stepped farther into the gym, watching Paige as the other girl moved with mechanical precision, no emotion on her face

After a while, Azzi spoke again, her voice cutting through the quiet. “Are we ever going to talk? You know, now that we’re going to be on the same team.”

Paige didn’t even look up. “Not really in the mood to talk today, sorry.” She said, launching another three-pointer that swished through the net.

Azzi sighed, crossing her arms. “Seems like a pattern,” she muttered, just loud enough for Paige to hear.

That made Paige pause. She caught the ball as it rebounded toward her and turned to face Azzi, her expression annoyed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Azzi leaned against the wall, arms still folded. “You know what I’m talking about. When I came to visit UConn in December, you blew me off. You couldn’t even speak, let alone stick around for five minutes.”

Paige scoffed, dribbling the ball lazily as she shook her head. “Not everything is about you, Azzi.”

Azzi pushed off the wall, her brows furrowed. “That’s bullshit. You were avoiding me. Just stop being pussy and admit it.”

Paige let out a humorless laugh. “Contrary to this inflated-ass ego you seem to have, other people have things going on. It didn’t have shit to do with you Azzi.”

Azzi stared at her, stunned eyes almost bulging out of her head. “I have the ego? You can’t be serious right now?”

“Yes,” Paige said flatly, bouncing the ball once before shooting it again.

Azzi stepped closer, her frustration bubbling to the surface. “You couldn’t put your feelings aside for two seconds to welcome me to UConn because your ego’s so damn big.”

Paige rolled her eyes, spinning the ball on her hand before letting it drop to the floor. “Like I said, it didn’t have shit to do with you. I played like garbage the day before and needed to clear my head.”

Azzi tilted her head, her tone incredulous. “You played fine, Paige. I watched that game.”

Paige snorted, shaking her head as she bent to pick up the ball. “No, I didn’t.” She straightened up and started ticking off mistakes on her fingers. “I had a sloppy turnover, missed three shots that all hit the rim the exact same way because my footing was off, got scored on because I went under screens too many damn times…” Her voice was rising, her frustration with herself evident.

Azzi blinked, caught off guard by the laundry list of self-criticism. “That’s not even that bad, Paige. You’re just trying to find excuses for being childish and avoiding me.”

Paige’s eyes flashed as she now fully faced Azzi, her tone sharp. “See that’s your problem, Azzi. You’re fine with ‘not bad.’ You’re fine with mediocre shit and you get mad at people who aren’t.”

Azzi, clearly offended. “You don’t know shit about me if you think I’m fine with mediocre Paige.”

“Oh, I know enough,” Paige shot back, her voice laced with irritation as she shot the ball again.

Azzi let out a muttered, “Whatever,” as she turned away. She grabbed her basketball shoes, plopping down on the bench to lace them up. Afterward, she moved to stretch, her movements calm and deliberate, just like she always did.

The silence between them was heavy, but neither seemed willing to break it. Paige resumed her shooting, her focus sharp and a little intense now. Azzi followed suit, picking up a ball and taking her own shots. Unlike last summer, when they’d somehow found a rhythm together, this time they kept their distance, rebounding their own shots and staying on opposite ends of the half court.

The only sounds were the echo of the basketballs, the swish of the net, and their heavy breathing. The tension that lingered between them from the argument didn’t dissipate, but they both seemed like they were just going to ignore it.

Paige’s focus faltered as her phone, lying on the bench nearby, began to ring. The sharp tone interrupted her music in her ears, cutting into her concentration. She ignored it the first time, then the second, but by the third, she was definitely irritated.

“Are we serious?” she muttered under her breath, catching the ball after it went through the net and tucking it under her arm. She walked over to the bench, her frustration evident in every step. Grabbing the phone, she glanced at the screen before answering.

“Yes, E?” Paige said, clearly irritated with everything happening today.

Azzi glanced over briefly but kept shooting as she heard the nickname she knew was for Evina, her movements still smooth and efficient. She couldn’t help but listen to Paige’s side of the conversation, even if she pretended not to.

“I’m fine,” Paige said, her tone clipped. A pause, then, “No, I don’t need you guys checking in on me every five minutes. I’m not a kid.”

Azzi caught her rebound, her curiosity piqued. She heard Paige’s exasperated sigh before she continued. “I said I’m fine!…I’m sorry…I’m just in the gym, okay?”

Another pause, longer this time. Paige’s expression softened slightly, though her tone remained defensive. “Yes, I’m eating. No, I’m not overdoing it. Can you guys please just stop hovering for like two seconds? I swear I’m fine.”

Azzi missed her next shot, distracted by the way Paige’s voice wavered slightly on the last sentence. She retrieved the ball and glanced over again, noting the way Paige’s jaw was clenched slightly with the conversation.

“Yes E, I get it, okay? I do. But I don’t need you to—” Paige stopped mid-sentence, closing her eyes and letting out a frustrated breath. “Yeah, I know it’s not my fault–Yes I know. Ok, I’ll call you later.”

She hung up abruptly, tossing her phone back onto the bench with more force than necessary. Her shoulders sagged for a moment before she closed her eyes, took a deep breath and straightened up, spinning the ball in her hands as she made her way back to the court.

Azzi didn’t say anything, but she watched Paige carefully, her expression unreadable. Paige didn’t acknowledge her, resuming her shooting with a little more force than before, as if trying to work out her frustrations on the court.

The silence between them stretched on, filled only by the rhythm of bouncing balls and the occasional swish of a perfect shot.

July 2021

The short break before heading to UConn for the summer session had gone by a little too quickly for Azzi. It felt like one moment she was at home with her family, soaking up their familiar warmth, and the next, she was packing her bags, giving tight hugs, and heading off to start a new chapter in Connecticut. The thought of being at UConn felt surreal, even though she’d visited before. Now it was official—she was part of the team.

The roster had shifted quite a bit since her last visit. Azzi wasn’t the only fresh face; two other freshmen, Caroline and Amari, had joined the team. The sophomore class had thinned out, now consisting of only Paige, Aaliyah, Nika, and Piath. Aubrey was the only junior on the team, and was known for her quiet but steady presence on the court. The upperclassmen rounded out the roster, with seniors Christyn and Olivia bringing their experience, Evina stepping into a leadership role, and Dorka, a graduate transfer, joining the fold for her first year at UConn.

It was a balanced team, a blend of youth and experience, and Azzi felt a mix of nerves and excitement at the thought of working with them. The expectations were high, but she was ready.

…

From the moment she arrived, the practices were intense. UConn’s reputation as a basketball powerhouse wasn’t just for show, and the demands were grueling on Azzi’s body. The upperclassmen set the tone, with Evina and Christyn emerging as clear leaders, guiding the team both on and off the court. Paige, despite being only a sophomore, was right there with them. She had an undeniable presence, her skills speaking louder than words, and her surprisingly calm demeanor commanded respect everyday at practice.

Azzi, however, was still trying to get a read on Paige. The girl was an enigma. For someone who could be so fiery and competitive on the court, Paige seemed almost indifferent to Azzi off it. She didn’t go out of her way to ignore her, but she didn’t engage either. Paige showed up to team bonding events, polite and cordial, but her interactions with Azzi were nonexistent unless they were arguing during drills or scrimmages.

It was frustrating, to say the least. Azzi couldn’t tell if Paige didn’t like her or just didn’t care for her presence. And yet, somehow, during today’s team bonding activity—a scavenger hunt organized by Coach CD, of all things—Azzi found herself assigned as Paige’s partner.

Paige muttered something under her breath when the pairs were announced .

Azzi crossed her arms, arching a brow. “Trust me, I’m not exactly jumping for joy here either.”

Paige rolled her eyes at Azzi’s comment , adjusting the strap of her backpack. “Let’s just go.”

The rest of the team was already scattering in pairs, armed with clue sheets and a mix of determination and excitement. Azzi glanced at their first clue and sighed. This was going to be a long afternoon.

The two of them trudged through the scavenger hunt, their movements as tense as the silence between them. Paige seemed perfectly at ease with it, her eyes fixed on the list in her hand. Azzi, on the other hand, was brimming with unspoken frustration. She wasn’t one to hold things in, and after several minutes of biting her tongue, she couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why don’t you like me?” Azzi blurted out, the words cutting through the quiet.

Paige barely looked up from her paper. “I don’t not like you,” she replied, her tone not hinting at her emotion.

Azzi huffed, folding her arms as she followed Paige. “Yeah, sure. That’s why you barely talk to me outside of practice. That’s why all you do is argue with me when we scrimmage. And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you roll your eyes every time I open my mouth.”

Paige finally stopped walking, turning to face Azzi with a mixture of confusion and something else. “You’re reading too much into it Azzi. Just because we don’t hang out doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, her expression incredulous. “Then what does it mean, Paige? Because from where I’m standing, it sure feels like you’ve decided you can’t stand me and you bust my ass everyday in practice.”

Paige sighed, glancing around as if hoping for the next clue to appear and rescue her from the conversation. “That doesn’t mean I don’t like you. It just means I think you need to be better.”

Azzi blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the statement. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Paige said, her voice even. “You’re good, Azzi. Everyone on the planet knows you’re good. But if you want to be great—if you want to be what this team needs—you have to start acting like it.”

Azzi scoffed, her frustration bubbling over. “Are you kidding me? I work my ass off every single day. I’m in the gym just as much as you are—probably more.”

Paige shrugged, not bothered by that last comment knowing it wasn’t true. “It doesn’t matter how much you work if you don’t carry it with you onto the court. Until you start playing like you know you’re the second-best player on this team, it’s not going to mean anything.”

“Second best,” Azzi repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Wow, what an honor.”

“Exactly,” Paige said, her eyes narrowing. “You don’t agree. You need to own that. Play like it. Make everyone feel it.”

Azzi shook her head, incredulous. “Just because I don’t have a giant ego like you doesn’t mean I don’t think I’m the best.”

“I don’t have an ego,” Paige said. “I just know what this team needs.”

Azzi stepped closer, her voice rising slightly. “Oh, you mean they need another uptight, self-centered recruit who thinks they have all the answers?”

Paige’s jaw tightened, but she kept her voice calm. “No, they need the top recruit they just got to stop being passive and start leading. They need someone who plays like they know they’re the best so the rest of the team can feed off of it.”

Azzi let out a bitter laugh. “So... basically an asshole?”

Paige exhaled sharply, clearly done with the conversation. She shook her head and turned back to the scavenger hunt, muttering, “You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t,” Azzi shot back, her tone challenging. “And you know what? You don’t get me either. You think you’ve got me all figured out, like I’m some shy, passive player who’s too scared to take charge. But you don’t know the first thing about me Paige.”

Paige stopped walking, spinning around to face Azzi. “And you think you know me? You think I’m just some uptight ass self-absorbed player who doesn’t care about anyone else? I just have my own shit to deal with. Not everything is about you.”

Azzi bristled at the words, her voice dropping to a quieter but still heated tone. “I never said it was about me. But you could at least try to make me feel like I’m part of this team instead of treating me like an outsider.”

Paige’s expression softened for just a moment, but she quickly masked it with a shrug. “Maybe stop acting like one.”

Azzi stared at her, her frustration mixing with hurt. “You really think I’m not trying?”

Paige didn’t answer right away, her eyes flicking back to the scavenger hunt paper. “No that’s not what I said, I think you’re holding yourself back. And this team doesn’t have time for that.”

Azzi shook her head, biting back a retort. They resumed walking, the silence between them now heavier than before. Paige stayed focused on the clues, while Azzi followed a step behind, her mind racing with everything they had just said—and left unsaid.

After a stretch of silence, the tension between them still hung heavy in the air. Azzi walked a step behind Paige, her frustration simmering beneath the surface as Paige stayed focused on the scavenger hunt paper, seemingly unaffected.

Finally, Paige slowed her steps, glancing over her shoulder. Her voice was quieter this time but still firm. “Azzi… I don’t not like you. Seriously.”

Azzi looked up, startled by the unexpected comment. “Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered.

Paige turned to face her, her expression unreadable. “You belong on this team. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. And yeah, you can be frustrating as hell and I definitely don’t agree with a lot of the things you say, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re good. Doesn’t mean I don’t like you and I’m sorry if I made you think that.”

Azzi blinked, caught off guard by the blunt acknowledgment. She shifted her weight, her frustration tempered but not entirely gone. “Well, maybe if you didn’t act like I had something to prove all the time, I’d actually feel like I belonged.”

Paige exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Pushing you is how I know you do belong. I wouldn’t waste my time talking to you if you didn’t.”

Azzi’s lips pressed into a thin line, but a flicker of understanding passed through her expression. “Fine,” she said after a beat, her tone quieter now. “But maybe try dialing it back a little. Just… once in a while. It’s tiring.”

Paige shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Azzi rolled her eyes at the silence but didn’t press further. They resumed walking, the tension between them still lingering, but the weight of it had lessened—just enough to keep moving forward. Maybe Azzi would try her luck again at getting to know the blonde.

…

Later that night the team was gathered in one of the larger suites, the atmosphere buzzing with energy as conversations overlapped and laughter echoed through the space. Players lounged across couches and the carpeted floor, munching on snacks and joking around. It was one of the nightly bonding sessions the seniors insisted on, a tradition meant to bring the team closer as the season loomed.

Paige sat at one end of the couch, scrolling through her phone with a focused expression. Azzi, perched on the armrest opposite her, noticed how Paige’s grip on her phone tightened slightly, her jaw set in a way that betrayed her usual calm demeanor during times like this. Curiosity piqued, Azzi leaned subtly to get a glimpse of what Paige was reading. The headline immediately made her frown: “Paige Bueckers: Can She Handle the Pressure This Season?”

The article was harsh but clearly biased, questioning Paige’s ability to bounce back from the previous year’s challenges. Paige’s face betrayed nothing, but Azzi could feel the tension radiating from her as her jaw continued to tighten.

Without a word, Paige suddenly stood, catching everyone’s attention.

“Where are you going?” Nika asked from her spot on the floor, looking up with a raised brow.

“The gym,” Paige replied flatly.

A collective groan went around the room.

“Come on,” Christyn said, leaning back against the armrest of a chair. “We’re supposed to be bonding, not sneaking off to the gym again.”

“You’ve been there all day already,” Olivia added, shaking her head. “What’s left to work on?”

Paige crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed by the protests. “You don’t have to drag me out later I swear. I’ll be fine.”

Before anyone else could chime in, Azzi spoke up, her voice cutting through the noise. “I’ll go with her.”

The room fell silent, and all eyes turned to Azzi. Nika blinked, looking as though she misheard.

“Wait, what?” Aaliyah asked, tilting her head.

“Azzi, you good?” Christyn asked, confused about her voluntarily being around Paige.

Even Paige hesitated, glancing at Azzi with a mix of surprise and confusion. “You don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” Azzi interrupted, her tone firm. “There’s some stuff we probably need to work on together anyway.”

Paige’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to figure out Azzi’s angle, but she didn’t argue.

Nika glanced at Caroline, who sat beside her on the floor. “Am I the only one wondering what’s going on here?”

Caroline shrugged, looking equally curious. “Nope.”

“I mean, we’re all thinking it,” Dorka chimed in, earning a few quiet laughs.

Paige sighed, clearly ready to leave the scrutiny behind. “I’ll grab you some clothes,” she muttered, already heading toward her room.

Azzi stood, ignoring the murmurs and exchanged glances from the team. Aubrey, who had been quietly observing from the corner, gave her a small smile, the only one not visibly surprised.

As Azzi followed Paige out of the suite, Nika leaned toward Aaliyah, whispering just loud enough to be heard, “This is either going to end in a fistfight or... something we don’t want to know about.”

“Probably both,” Aaliyah replied with a smirk.

Azzi caught the comment but didn’t react having no idea what they were talking about.

…

Azzi and Paige had just finished an intense workout. They worked through it together in silence for the most part with the occasional high five or pay on the back. The gym was eerily quiet at this hour, with only the hum of the overhead lights and their heavy breaths filling the space. Both of them were seated on the floor, backs resting against the padded wall, their bodies dripping with sweat.

Paige let her head fall back for a moment, staring up at the ceiling before finally looking at Azzi. “Thanks,” she said, her voice softer than usual.

Azzi glanced over at her, slightly caught off guard. It wasn’t the thank-you that surprised her—it was the way Paige was actually looking at her. For the first time, there wasn’t a guarded or dismissive edge in her expression, just sincerity.

It threw Azzi off balance for a second, and without thinking, she blurted out, “Woah your eyes are blue.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, a small chuckle escaping her lips. “They sure are,” she said, amused.

Azzi shook her head, laughing at herself. “I just mean, I never noticed before,” she admitted. “Probably because you’re always glaring at me the few times you actually address me.”

Paige laughed again, the sound lighter than Azzi expected. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I know I can be... a bit much sometimes.”

Azzi shrugged, brushing it off.

They sat in comfortable silence for a beat before Azzi tapped her phone screen, the faint glow illuminating the time. “So, you wanna tell me why we’re in the gym at...” she squinted at the numbers, “1:47 a.m. on a Wednesday?”

Paige glanced at her, the corners of her mouth quirking up slightly. “I know why I’m here. You wanna tell me why you decided to join me?”

Azzi leaned her head back against the wall, smirking. “I knew they wouldn’t let you come if I didn’t. Plus, like I said earlier, there’s some things we need to work on.”

“Like what?” Paige asked, her curiosity piqued.

Azzi turned to face her more directly, her expression serious but still teasing. “Like you passing the ball where I’m going instead of where I am.”

Paige rolled her eyes, a playful scoff escaping her. “I’m a great passer.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, her smirk growing. “And I’m the best shooter in the country. I move a lot. You need to figure out where I’m going to be, not just where I currently am.”

Paige blinked at her, processing the critique. Her lips twitched like she wanted to argue, but instead, she let out a small laugh, nodding slightly as she thought about it.

Azzi stood up, brushing off her shorts before grabbing the ball that sat nearby. She spun it in her hands and tilted her head toward the court. “Come on,” she said, motioning for Paige to follow her.

Paige smiled despite herself, pushing up from the floor. “Fine,” she said, her tone mock-defeated.

Azzi grinned. “Let’s see if you’re as great as you claim you are.”

Paige laughed, jogging after her toward the court, the tension between them starting to ease in the quiet rhythm of the game.

Paige and Azzi stood at the top of the key, the ball in Paige’s hands as Azzi explained what she’d meant earlier.

“You follow my eyes, just like everyone else,” Azzi said, dribbling the ball before passing it to Paige. “But my eyes don’t always tell you where I’m going. You’ve gotta look at my movements instead.”

Paige nodded slowly, absorbing the critique. She dribbled the ball once, then shifted her stance. “Alright,” she said, her voice intrigued. “Let’s run through it.”

They started with basic passes, Paige watching Azzi closely. Some were spot-on, hitting Azzi perfectly in stride. Others lagged slightly behind, forcing Azzi to pause or adjust.

“See?” Azzi said after one of those off passes, tossing the ball back to Paige. “You’re looking at where I am. You’ve gotta watch my hands.”

Paige tilted her head, brow furrowing. “Your hands?”

“Yeah,” Azzi said, holding them up. “My hands show you where I’m going to end up. Pay attention, and you’ll see it.”

Paige bounced the ball a couple of times, nodding. “Alright, let’s try again.”

They went through the drill several more times, Paige focusing on Azzi’s hands like she’d suggested. Slowly but surely, the passes started to click. Paige began to notice the subtle flicks of Azzi’s fingers or the way her hand angled before she cut. After a while, the passes were seamless, their movements flowing together effortlessly.

“See?” Azzi said, catching another perfect pass in stride. “Told you.”

Paige smirked, brushing a stray piece of hair from her face. “Guess you were right.”

“Always am,” Azzi teased, tossing the ball back.

The two of them had been running the same drill for what felt like forever. Paige’s passes were sharper now, landing perfectly in Azzi’s hands as she moved seamlessly through her cuts. The flow of their movements had become natural, like they’d been doing this together for years.

Azzi caught the ball mid-stride and jogged back to the top of the key, bouncing it casually. “You know it’s almost three, right?” she said, glancing at the clock.

Paige paused, hands resting on her hips. “They’re going to kill you for letting me stay this late,” she said, half-smirking. “You’re supposed to be the responsible one, remember?”

Azzi shrugged, her lips curving into a small smile. “They never said what time you had to leave,” she replied. “All they said was that it was supposed to be team bonding.” She held the ball out toward Paige. “I’d say we bonded a little bit. Plus,” she added, her smile widening, “we haven’t argued the whole time we’ve been here, so that’s a win.”

Paige chuckled, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the hem of her shirt. “Guess you’ve got a point.” She reached out and took the ball from Azzi. “And for the record, I wouldn’t call you responsible. You’re just as bad as me for sticking around this long.”

Azzi laughed softly, leaning back against the padded wall at the baseline. “Maybe. But if you didn’t notice, I’m not the one who dragged us here in the middle of the night.”

Paige shot her a playful glare, bouncing the ball a couple of times. “Fair enough. But you didn’t exactly put up a fight about it either.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Because I saw how tense you were and someone had to make sure you didn’t overdo it. Like I said—team bonding.”

Paige shook her head, laughing under her breath as she lined up a shot. The ball arced perfectly through the air, swishing cleanly through the net. “Fine,” she said, turning to Azzi. “But if they ask, this was your idea.”

Azzi rolled her eyes, pushing off the wall. “Yeah, sure. I’m sure they’ll believe that.” She walked over and retrieved the ball, tossing it back to Paige.

For a moment, they stood there in the quiet gym, the weight of the night settling between them. Paige glanced at Azzi, a hint of gratitude in her expression. “Thanks, by the way. For coming with me.”

Azzi shrugged, though her smile softened. “Don’t mention it.”

Paige held the ball, debating for a second. Then she smirked. “One more run?”

Azzi sighed, shaking her head with a chuckle. “Fine. But only one more.”

“Promise,” Paige said, already moving to her spot.

Azzi jogged to hers, the exhaustion fading as they fell back into the rhythm they’d built over the past few hours. It was definitely more than one run through.

[delicateperspective]

Lyrical analysis: “All This Time”

I wasn’t planning on doing any lyrical analysis right now, but this hit me like a ton of bricks and now I need to share. I beleive this song was written for us. A love letter. And the more I look at the lyrics, the more convinced I become.

Line-by-line analysis:

It’s late now

Right away we’re starting with a timestamp—but not one that feels grounded. “Late” as in “too late,” or maybe “later than it should have been.” There’s a subtle regret in this line, a recognition of delay. Of silence.

I’m trying to find the words to say for ages

This feels like the emotional thesis of the song. He’s saying the thing he’s been holding in for years, and acknowledging that the silence hasn’t been apathy—it’s been inability. There’s a sense of pressure here, of time compounding the weight of what he hasn’t been able to say.

Just have patience

Soft, direct. Spoken like a plea. Or a reminder. Not the first time he’s asked us for this—and likely not the last. It’s quiet reassurance from someone who knows how long we’ve been holding on.

It’s not how you spend the time, it’s if you waste it

This line really guts me. Because it flips so much of what’s been weaponized against the fandom on its head. The idea that believing in him, in this, in them, is a waste of time. He’s telling us no—it’s only a waste if we get nothing meaningful from it. And we’ve gotten so much. Friendship. Art. Community. Queer joy. And maybe, just maybe, that was the point all along.

And I keep on building mountains Hoping that they’ll turn to gold

He’s working. He’s pushing. He’s trying to shape something massive out of what he’s been handed, hoping it’ll transform into something worthwhile. That all the effort won’t be for nothing. That the structure he’s building will free him.

But the truth is, I still doubt that What I do can get me home

This one hits hard. Home has always been symbolic in his narrative—it’s tied to peace, to authenticity, to Harry. And here he’s admitting that even he doubts whether the path he’s on can get him there. The plan isn’t foolproof. And the cost is high.

When it gets cold Oh, sometimes, sometimes, I lose my hope

There’s a vulnerability here. He’s not just putting on a brave face—he’s showing us the cracks. Telling us that yes, he breaks too. That some days the fight feels too big.

Our eyes meet And I can tell that you’re the same as me

This line changes the whole tone. Suddenly, we’re not looking at him—we’re with him. This is the gaze exchanged between artist and audience. The ones standing at his concert waving pride flags. He sees us. He sees you. Just like we see him. And he’s saying: you understand.

It’s the way we It’s the way we see ourselves through walls of trees

There’s so much metaphor here it’s almost dizzying. “Walls of trees” evokes something dense and natural, like a forest you’re trying to navigate. It’s hard to see clearly. But we do. Through media stunts and denials and years of silence, we’ve always found him. And he’s found us, too.

And you keep on building mountains Hoping that they’ll turn to gold

The mirror flips. This time, the mountains are ours. We’re the ones putting in the effort—tracking, believing, showing up, holding the line. Hoping it still matters.

But the truth is, you still doubt that What you do can get me home

This is the part that knocked the wind out of me. In the lyric video, the official words are “get me home,” not “you.” And that matters. Because it means he sees the loss of faith in the fandom. He knows how much we’ve invested, and he knows that some of us are starting to question whether it’s still worth it. Whether we’ve done any good. Whether our faith ever meant anything. And he’s acknowledging that doubt head-on.

When it gets cold Oh, sometimes, sometimes, you lose your hope

The parallelism is deliberate. The song isn’t just about his doubt—it’s about ours. He’s tracing the arc of hope and hopelessness that runs through this whole journey. And he’s not blaming us for it. He’s just... naming it. And in doing so, validating it.

But the friends we make, the love it takes Is worth, is worth, is worth the pain

This is where the whole thing shifts. It’s not a sad song. It’s a song about endurance. About choosing each other, even when it hurts. About the joy and love that grew out of all of this, despite everything.

The friends we make, the love it takes Is worth, is worth, is worth it all this time All this time All this time It’s worth it all this time

A refrain that doubles as a mantra. All this time. Every year, every theory, every concert, every coded lyric, every painful denial. It’s all led here. And he’s saying it's worth it. That we were worth it. That this hasn't been for nothing.

Final thoughts:

This song doesn’t scream. It doesn’t wave its arms. It whispers. And in that whisper, it carries everything he hasn’t been able to say.

It’s about the silence. It’s about the fans who stayed. It’s about the pain of staying closeted and the people who kept the light on for him. It’s about doubt and fatigue and joy and the relentless choice to believe anyway.

It’s not a love letter to Harry. It’s a love letter to us. To the fans. To the ones who saw him and stayed. To the ones who made art and built community and found each other because we believed there was something real worth holding onto.

And he’s telling us: I know this is late. But I still see you. And it has always been worth it.

[shesjustanothergeek]

The Gods We Can Touch Chapter Six: Salt and Blood

Masterlist of Series

Summary: The older twin of Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, you were a picture of the maiden, untouched and untainted by man's sins. At least, that was what Alicent Hightower believed when she held you in her arms moments after her old friend's labors. You were her shining light, her dream. Though you were never hers, she believed you were meant to be.

What will become of you as time passes and the Queen's shining light grows within the blackened darkness? Will her eldest son's morbid fascination with the light burn the realm? Or will her second son's obsession with the only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen change the course of the Seven Kingdoms as we know it?

Author's Note: Alright, everyone. This is the last time you'll see baby Aemond and the reader, so let's cherish it. In the next chapter, we will start where the show did with the characters aged up in Ep. 8. I'm very excited to write for adult MC. I'm not going to lie; I'm a bit worried about writing Aemond's inner dialogue, as I've never written for a male character who isn't obsessed with the reader, but I'm sure I'll do fine. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Warnings: Alicent being delulu, parentified sibling trauma, and watch me make you feel even worse about Driftmark.

As you journeyed from the gloomy corridors of the Red Keep to the sulfuric atmosphere of Dragonstone and now to the sandy shores and scattered shells of Driftmark, an air of sadness seemed to cling to you wherever you went. You stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing down at the tranquil sea, overlooking the stone coffin that cradled your late Aunt Laena. Two deaths, each carrying its weight of sorrow, yet only one mourned.

You wondered what it would be like to die choked in flames like Ser Harwin and Lyonel Strong did. Would it be the same as suffering dragon fire like your Aunt? Most likely not. Hers was a swift burning of flesh from bones, while theirs was hours of agony and suffocation. 

Despite what your family claimed, the idea of dying to your own dragon’s flames wasn’t an appealing end to you. It didn’t seem noble like how stories explained it to be. It was horrifying to have your skin torched from your body, to feel the power of a thousand suns on your flesh. It would be excruciatingly painful, and you wished it upon no one, not even those you despised most. You would much rather meet the Stranger in your sleep. 

You barely settled into your new home on Dragonstone before your mother received the two ravens. One bringing news of Ser Harwin and the other of Laena, containing death in the ink. You consoled your mother and father as best you could, hugging and kissing and telling them that you loved them and were sorry. It was an impossible task to do, but you couldn’t help yourself. You hated seeing them so distraught and wanted to make them feel better. 

At night, you cried into your pillows in your now isolated bedroom until Jace and Luke entered, watery eyes matching yours. As the eldest, it was your job to hold your family together when your parents couldn’t, and it left you no time to properly grieve the loss of an Aunt and a father figure.

You felt terrible for your cousins Baela and Rhaena. To go to bed one night and wake up the next without a mother was a depth of grief you couldn’t imagine. You didn’t think you could live a life without your mother; you would die with her, and the ability of your cousins to continue without her was admirable as you observed their sullen faces streaked with tears. 

Your Great Uncle Vaemond spoke his sermon in High Valyrian, which was too fast and practiced for you to understand. You could decipher some words here and there, but ultimately, you were lost listening to a man you rarely met. You felt your mother straighten her stance from behind, her arms coming to circle the three of you in a protective embrace.

Vaemond’s eyes were on yours, Luke’s, and Jace’s, but everyone else was focused on him—on the coffin with Lady Laena’s face carved into it.

As your eyes wandered to the other people surrounding the funeral procession, fear struck you as you caught your eldest uncle’s eye. It wasn’t very comforting to see Aegon so soon. You had set it in your mind that you wouldn’t have to see him for many years, and yet, here you were, dressed in an obsidian and red-sleeved gown, pearls adorning the collar and your veiled headpiece. Quickly, you turned away, instinctually taking Jace’s hand in yours.

An air of stiffness surrounded your family that you weren’t blind to. It was always there, but now, more than before, you felt it. You thought it was childish to be so locked into familial drama when someone lay dead inside a casket. Though you didn’t remember much of the times you met your Aunt Laena, she still deserved the respect of putting these grievances aside. You knew you were part of it, but more important things were happening than what you suffered. 

The cries of your father sent waves of sadness into your heart, and with the sudden urge to get him to stop, you left the safety of your brother and clung to your father’s waist. He lifted you into his sea-worn arms and clung to your frail body as if it was the only thing that kept him from sinking into his grief. You rested your temple onto his shoulder, tears of empathy falling from your eyes as he pressed your head closer. 

Afraid of what would become of your father if you let go, you allowed him to crush you in his embrace for as long as he needed it as a scornful laugh broke through the tense atmosphere. You peeked from your position to see Great Uncle Daemon chuckling to himself with a shake of his head at what Vaemond said. You felt annoyance bubble inside you, solidifying your distaste for the man as the Velaryon guards clad in silver armor and blue seahorse sigils lifted the ropes and lowered your Aunt into the roaring sea. 

You didn’t leave your father’s side for the remainder of the day, not even when he slowly lowered himself into the sea with his sister as the cold, salty breeze swept through the evening. You wanted to speak with Aemond, if just for a small moment, but your family came first. They always came before anyone else, a fact that your mother instilled into the very fabric of your being.

Sitting atop one of the rock ledges near your father, you dipped your feet into the saltwater, dragging your toes to watch the water ripple and allow time to pass. It didn’t feel right to leave him alone. The image of him falling into the ocean as your Aunt played repeatedly in your mind’s eye. You were afraid in his grief, he would follow her. Only when your father’s squire, Ser Qarl, took your father from his place with his sister did you leave, joining the rest of the goers for the wake late in the evening.

Searching through the crowd of people for your mother and your brothers, you couldn’t find them. Alone with none of your family for protection, you felt fear pull at your chest. Your hands began to scratch at your arms and scalp, attempting to quell the insatiable itch. The fabric prevented you from doing so, and tears of fright soon began to collect at your lashes. 

From across the balcony, you saw a flash of green, a color that had never offered you comfort until now. Yet as quickly as you saw it, it vanished, leaving only a head of white promptly running down the stairs. You felt your heart drop into your feet as you watched Aemond run across the sandy dunes like he was running from you. 

The call of a dragon you never heard before screeched through the gray skies. It was mournful as if it were calling for a lost pet or child. In this case, it was a rider. As you looked up, you could see the vast shadow of Vhagar’s silhouette soaring through the clouds, flying in the same direction your uncle went. You felt your eyes grow wide with worry at the realization, wanting to chase after Aemond and warn him.

“Let’s get you to bed,” a tender, feminine voice came from behind you as you jolted in surprise. The tall figure of Queen Alicent stood before you, curly auburn hair pinned back into a magnificent updo and clad in her usual green and gold as she put a hand on your back. “Your mother already sent your brothers.” 

“Where is she?” you hastily asked. Aemond was no longer on your mind.

“I’m uncertain. Your father is off drowning his sorrow in his cups with his squire,” she answered in the same velvet voice you remembered her having, bitterness you didn’t understand laced in the undertone.

You felt offended by how the Queen spoke about your father. He was grieving. He was allowed to spend time with whomever he wished, doing what he wanted.

Alicent lifted her arm, wrapping it around your petite frame, and led you inside Hightide. It was not as cold or formidable as Dragonstone; its dark magic melted into the walls, yet it didn’t hold the warmth of the Red Keep. Still, you felt unwelcomed here, either by the place or its people. The pale stone walls were filled with bits and pieces of shells from clams, mollusks, and other long-dead shell creatures mixed into the mortar to make it stand the test of salty air. 

The Hall of the Nine, where you passed as Queen Alicent, led you to the guest chambers, where you held the Driftwood throne where your grandfather Corlys reigned. You recalled when you visited this place many years ago and how he went on about the many treasures from his sieges and conquests that decorated the room in all its glory. He and his wife, Rhaenys, sat in a heated discussion in front of the hearth.

Once you reached the door to your shared bed chambers with your brothers, Alicent turned to you. It was the first time you had seen her since what Aegon had done to you, and you felt tension. It seemed as if she wanted to speak, to say everything that had been bottled up since the revelation of her son’s transgressions, but she was unable to do so as tears choked her. Instead, the only words that came out were those she couldn’t say to her children. 

“I hope you can find the time to visit the Keep. Helaena asked when you would be returning, and it broke my heart to tell her you wouldn’t be,” she confided, stroking the thin black fabric covering your dark hair. “Aemond has turned inwards since you left, and Aegon has become crueler to him. It makes me wonder if he’s always been this way and that my love for him has blinded me from his transgressions.” 

You said nothing. The mention of Aegon’s name still felt like a blow to the stomach. “I hope you can find it within your heart to forgive my son for what he did to you and that we may yet be the family we were always meant to be.” Your tongue felt like lead as your breathing began to race, your chest rising and falling at a rapid pace as Alicent kneeled before you, a sad smile on her supple lips as she tenderly swiped your tear-stained cheeks with her smooth thumbs. 

“I love you, my shining light, my dream.” 

Leaning in, she took your small frame by your shoulders, kissing your forehead as one would do to their babe. You felt sick, nausea churning in your stomach as you quickly opened the bedroom door, hastily shutting it behind you in fright. 

It was all too much—Lady Laena’s death, Ser Harwin’s, seeing your father in shambles, and Queen Alicent’s steadfast belief that you should become a part of her family no matter what happened to you. The Queen desired to wed you and Aegon despite the horrors he committed. The realization that she genuinely didn’t see what your eldest uncle did to you as something that would permanently bar you from joining the union pierced your heart. You would much rather marry Aemond or Helaena, but having no ties to her seemed better.

Your brothers peered at you curiously from their beds as you clutched your chest, looking as if you ran the entire way here. They didn’t ask any questions, and you didn’t move to speak, loosening the ties of your gown and shrugging it off until you were only in your smock. You didn’t feel like changing into your nightdress in front of your brothers, deciding to climb into bed and shove your face into the pillows, refusing to cry in front of Jace and Luke as you fell into a dreamless sleep.

When Aemond learned of Lady Laena’s death, he knew it was a sign from the Gods that his time had come. The Seven had deemed this the moment to prove himself to everyone who doubted him and thought him useless without a dragon. 

Vhagar. 

The largest, oldest, and strongest dragon in the world was riderless. 

Aemond believed that once he gained the only thing he lacked, life would finally be what it should have been. He would make his father proud, shove all the taunts and jests from Aegon and his nephews back into their faces, and finally become a man you deemed worthy—your Mors Martell. 

As Aemond fled from the wake when the candles had long melted, he thought only of the ichor coursing through his veins. Dusk was upon the island, and the night’s wind blew harshly, strands of his silver-blonde hair covering his face as he climbed over the dunes. Vhagar was further from the castle than he initially thought.

“Fuck.” Aemond released a sigh of exasperation and scrambled across the uneven ground. 

When he came upon the dragon, he was in awe. Vhagar was as frightening as she was enormous—a giant, green-scaled, moving mountain that shook the ground and blew sand with every movement and breath from her powerful lungs. 

Taking advantage of Vhagar’s resting state, Aemond crept along the sparse grass, feeling each gust of air she created with her wide nostrils, blowing the sand into his face and ears. Anxiety was present in his gut, feeling a slight tremble in his limbs as he closed the distance, wrapping his hand around one of the many ropes draped across Vhagar’s scales. Suddenly, he felt the ground underneath him quake, and the head of the dragon lifted with a low rumble.

Vhagar observed Aemond with tired yet calculating amber orbs, double eyelids blinking. She grumbled as she bore her teeth to him. They were the size of a fully grown adult, sending a shiver down his spine. As if it were an act of divine intervention, Vhagar laid her enormous head back down, seeming disinterested in the young boy before her. 

If Lady Laena’s death wasn’t proof enough Aemond was fated by the Gods to claim a dragon, the most powerful beast in the world, laying its head in acquiescence certainly was. Blinded by his small victory, nerves still in his mind, he reached for the rope ladder again, only for Vhagar to raise her head and growl, low and deep. A snarl formed on her great maw as Aemond stumbled back in shock and saw the light of orange flames gather at the back of her throat. 

“Dohaerās!” (Serve!) he shouted instinctively, recalling the many lessons he observed in the Dragonpit as he felt the heat of fire on his countenance. “Dohaerās, Vagus! Lykirī!” (Serve, Vhagar! Be calm!)

With Aemond’s commands, the she-dragon relaxed, recalling her flames and closing her mouth. She purred to him like a cat, a sign that she approved his merit while standing in the face of death. Vhagar would allow the Prince an attempt to claim her, but he must prove himself before the eyes of the Gods, before the eyes of a dragon. 

Aemond took the ropes and climbed atop the mighty Vhagar’s back, positioning himself in the saddle and grabbing the reigns. 

“Sōvēs!” (Fly!) Aemond ordered, and Vhagar rumbled, raising her legs and shaking the sand from her scales. “Sōvēs!”

She obeyed, taking a few giant steps and flapping her great wings, pushing off from the ground and leaving a sandstorm in her wake. Though Aemond told Vhagar to fly, he still had yet to control her as she took to the night sky in a near-vertical position, catching him unaware. The force knocked him from the leather saddle, leaving him dangling in the air with just the reigns for purchase. Aemond screamed with fear, feeling as if his stomach lurched out of his body as he struggled against the whipping wind to regain control. 

She tested him as he grabbed the pommel, sat upright, and pulled the ropes to balance her. He felt like he was on a bucking horse, loosening, tightening, twisting, and turning to the left and right to steer her safely. Vhagar ignored Aemond’s movements and continued to fly like he wasn’t there, diving into the dunes of Driftmark before he reared her upwards, dragging her claws across the sand. He squealed in terror, blocking the debris that scratched his face as she soared over the sea.

Aemond knew he needed to prove himself to her, to show the war-hardened dragon that he deserved to ride her. Her chirps and groans from the day earlier called to him like nothing before, singing to the Prince in her dragon song of forlornness and isolation. Perhaps that was why he felt compelled to claim her. They both shared that feeling of loneliness deep within their souls, that same oddness in their families. The dragoness was too large to be held within any structure, leaving her in forced solitude, her only companions being her rider. Aemond was the only one, despite his Valyrian features, not to have a dragon. 

That would no longer be his story.

Aemond fortified his mind and will, putting his soul into his movements as he lifted Vhagar higher in the sky. He could feel the blood of Old Valyria coursing through his veins as the mighty dragon obeyed, leveling out her vast wings and soaring over Spicetown and back to Driftmark. He screamed with fear and joy as she flew with him in the skies, a bright smile he was sure you could see in Lannisport. 

Aemond had proven himself. He had shown himself and all who doubted and bullied him for not having a dragon that he was capable, that he was worthy. 

Everything was as it should be.

Perhaps you would allow him to kiss you again and spend the night in his embrace. Aemond had no doubt you would be proud of him as he listened to your assurances that he was brave, a dragon knight who you could trust with your secrets and protect you from enemies, and that he deserved your heart. 

Aemond landed Vhagar with a grace he hadn’t possessed before, climbing down the rope ladder on her side with windburnt cheeks. As soon as his feet touched the sand, he ran straight to the underground caverns of High Tide to wake you and explain everything.

“Jace!” 

You faintly heard a voice calling, sounding distant in your dream state. Ignoring it with a groan, you rolled over, trying to return to sleep.

“Jace, wake up! Someone stole Vhagar!”

This woke you from your sleep. You sat up to see Baela and Rhaena hovering over your brother’s bed. 

“We need to stop them!”

Jace and Luke quickly threw the covers off and stuck their feet into their slippers as you observed them curiously. Rubbing the sleep from your face, you yawned, begrudgingly following them. 

“You cannot steal a dragon,” you countered after a long silence in the pale stone halls, your voice laced with sleep. It felt like you had hardly gotten a wink. 

“She is my mother’s dragon! I was supposed to claim her,” Rhaena countered, tears collecting in her dark eyes. 

Yawning again as you followed a few paces behind your siblings and cousins, you rolled your eyes, wanting to bite with the remark, “Why didn’t you?” But you didn’t say it. The reason was apparent why she didn’t, and Rhaena didn’t need any more reason to be distraught.

They led you to the caverns of High Tide, stumbling in your sleepless state. They led to the beaches lit only by dim torchlight, your movements groggy and slightly annoyed. On the other end of the tunnel, Aemond appeared before you with a proud grin and windswept hair. You couldn’t help but mirror his expression, a contagious self-satisfaction that spread to you. 

He needn’t say it aloud. You could tell by how he carried himself, shoulders back, chin high, and a slight lift to his cheeks, that your uncle claimed a dragon—the mightiest one in the world, Vhagar. 

“It’s him!” Rhaena exclaimed, pointing an accusing finger at Aemond.

It didn’t deter him, countering with his head high, violet eyes flicking from you to your cousin. “It’s me.”

“Vhagar is my mother’s dragon!” she yelled, hurt as if this reasoning would change Vhagar’s fate. As you moved to Aemond, Jace grabbed your hand, stopping you with an anxious yet demanding look on his face. 

“Your mother is dead, and Vhagar has a new rider now,” your uncle replied, and you felt your brows raise in shock. You knew better than most of the cruelty he could commit, but after spending time with Aemond and seeing the softer, gentler, and kinder side of him, it took you off guard. 

“She was mine to claim!” Rhaena argued, charging toward him in a challenge. Your skin began to itch, and your breath quickened. 

The hatred felt at the funeral carried over into your brothers and cousins. Tension in the air crackled like a fire in a hearth, watching the yellow and orange flames slowly dwindle into embers until someone threw tinder to spark it.

“Then you should’ve claimed her! Maybe your cousins can find you a pig to ride,” Aemond sneered. “It would suit you.”

Your lips parted in empathetic offense as you looked from your uncle to Rhaena, tears of guilt and shame pricking at your eyes. You apologized about the pig, and you thought Aemond forgave you, but it seems he couldn’t let go of the hurt no matter how close you were. The feeling of joy for your uncle’s feat was as brief as your friendship.

With a surge of rage, Rhaena charged forward, attempting to push Aemond, but he swiftly countered, and she fell to the ground. You jumped back in shock as you covered your mouth, Luke standing beside you. Baela screamed, protecting her sister as she punched him across his face and Aemond yelped in pain. Without thinking, you went toward your uncle, fearful for his well-being in your heart, but he swiftly stood before you could reach him, returning the same swing to Baela. You gasped in horror and moved to the side, narrowly missing your cousin’s body from colliding with yours. 

“Come at me again, and I’ll feed you to my dragon!” Aemond snarled at the twins, and without warning, Jace ran to him with a shout, shoving your uncle in offended anger and smacking him across the cheek.

You screamed for them to stop as you watched Luke try to join the fray, but you held him back, scared that he would get caught in the crossfire. He was the youngest and the littlest, most likely to get hurt. You needed to protect what family you could. Aemond brought this upon himself with his words of arrogance, but that didn’t stop you from wanting to defend him, too.

The scene before you was violent, a flurry of white, black, and red running atop Aemond as Luke slipped from your grasp, all pummeling, kicking, and screaming at him as you cried for them to stop. He was helpless as he suffered blow after blow, and you felt your heart splinter. This wasn’t a fair fight. Without worrying for yourself, you jumped on top of Jace, pulling him back from your uncle and giving him a chance to defend himself. You felt like a betrayer, turning against your twin to save your uncle. Your brother grunted as you both fell to the ground, his body on top of you as you struggled to keep him from fighting. 

You and your siblings had fought before, but nothing like this. It was so vicious, filled with violence and want for pain, as Jace whipped his head back into yours, causing it to slam against one of the many jagged rocks across the ground, having you see stars. He went back into the brawl with no worry for your safety as you heard the unsheathing of a knife, your eyes blurry as you struggled to see the scene before you. 

“You will die screaming in flames just as your father did!” Aemond yelled, suddenly holding Luke by his neck with a rock in his hand.

“My father is alive!” Luke gasped in protest, flinging his arms and blood running down his face.

You needed to get up to protect Luke from physical harm and the threat of discovering your lineage. You didn’t believe Aemond would kill Luke. He was capable of violence, but he wasn’t a murderer. As you tried to move, your skull felt filled with sand, pulling you back down to the ground as you felt the warm trickle of liquid run down your neck. You blinked rapidly, trying to clear your sight and mind. 

Aemond spoke again to Jace, seeming to forget your existence and holding a sense of superiority. “He doesn’t know, does he, Lord Strong?” 

You forgot how cruel Aemond could be. Your stolen moments of reading and kisses in the night had closed your eyes to it.

“Aemond, don’t,” you mumbled, skull pounding as the excruciating sounds of your brothers and uncle’s shouts pierced your ears like needles. 

You blinked your eyes into focus, seeing Jace wildly swinging a knife at Aemond as you managed to kneel. Your brothers didn’t realize how dangerous what they were doing was, that a knife wasn’t something to use against someone who was armed with only a stone in hand. While Aemond was bigger and had more combat experience, a dagger would kill him. Being upset because someone claimed a dragon wasn’t worth murdering over. 

Reaching your arm out with a soft grunt, you grabbed Jace’s ankle as Aemond pushed him over, holding the same rock above his head as he did for Luke. You thought Aemond knew better than this. You gave him the perfect opportunity to run and get help now that Baela and Rhaena huddled into a scared, crying mess, but he was too far gone into his anger to see reason, blinded by it. 

“Aemond! No!” you shouted hoarsely, trying to stand but failing as your head pounded like a drumbeat.

He turned to you then, lowering the rock to his side as he stared at you with the sudden realization of what he had done. Your uncle was filled with a surge of superiority inside him. He couldn’t think straight, and when he happened upon the five of you, people he was always told that he was above, something inside him that lay dormant finally broke free. He knew he was always capable of violence, but felt remorse when he saw your bruised nose, tear-streaked cheeks, and blood dripping down your throat. 

Did he do that to you? 

Suddenly, Aemond was blinded, sand thrown into his eyes as he stumbled back and heard the yell of Luke, unimaginable pain soon following. You watched in horror as your brother savagely sliced into your uncle’s left eye, blood pouring and splattering across the ground. 

Aemond couldn’t remember if you were amid his attackers. He surveyed the bruised and battered bodies before him and realized what he had done as his stomach fell to his feet.

He hurt people, just like Aegon. You would never entrust your secrets to him. His hands committed violence, but his heart desired to tell a different story—one of a strong and noble prince who went through many trials and tribulations to prove himself worthy of the princess's heart.

All you could hear were screams. Screams from you, screams from Aemond as you crawled towards him, sobbing. 

“Aemond!” you cried as he doubled over, falling into your body as he screeched in pain. 

“It hurts!” he wailed into your chest, his free hand clawing into your back. “It hurts! Help me!” 

You trembled, arms struggling to keep yourself upright against his weight as the flurry of guards rumbled inside your skull like thunder. Unable to make out their words as they moved, it seemed like you were watching the world from outside your body, from the lenses of another, as Ser Harrold pried Aemond from your embrace.

It hurt. Everything hurt—your heart, stomach, muscles, and head. You weren’t sure who led you, Baela, Rhaena, Luke, and Jace to the Hall of the Nine as a flurry of people gathered, pushing and shoving as you clutched your skull. The room was so bright, so loud, as you heard your uncle’s screams. You felt sturdy arms grab you by your shoulders, roughly moving you as if you were nothing more than a doll, as it felt like your eyes were about to burst. Steel blue fabric blocked your eyes as you saw the hazy image of a seahorse stitched into the fabric.

“Father?” You reached out, small digits feeling along the fine silk until the texture of scruff scratched at your skin. Blinking, you saw the aged face of your grandfather, Lord Corlys, as he gathered you and your brothers behind him. 

Where was he, and where was your mother? 

You felt sick as people scattered around you like seagulls when they discovered a bloated whale carcass, all trying to see the injured Prince, who cried until the Maester poured Milk of the Poppy down his throat. It felt like when you accidentally drank the water from Blackwater Bay, like a cold, nauseous sensation that sent beads of sweat rolling down your spine. 

“I don’t feel good,” you whispered to Jace as you leaned into his side, clutching your head and gut. He paid you no mind, peering behind your grandfather to see your other one appear, bearing total weight upon his dragon-head cane. 

“How could you let such a thing happen?” Viserys questioned Ser Harrold, examining Aemond as you heard the sickening squelch of flesh and rattle of metal tools. “I will have answers!”

Despite it undoubtedly being a harrowing sight, you wanted to be by your uncle, to hold his hand through it, to feel his pain with him, but you couldn’t. You needed to be with your brothers. What they saw and experienced would haunt them for the rest of their lives. Luke had taken Aemond’s eye. 

“The princess and princes were supposed to be abed, my king,” the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard explained, shame woven in his words. 

Viserys wouldn’t allow his knights to show such carelessness, surveying each of them with critical eyes. “Who had the watch?”

“The young prince was attacked by his cousins, your grace,” Ser Cristion nonchalantly replied. His words angered you for reasons unknown, and you felt a lump rise in your throat. 

Viserys turned to the room, looking between the two Kingsguards on opposite sides of the family as he hobbled on his cane. “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!” he boomed in a way you hadn’t seen before. You were afraid he would direct his anger at you, Jace, and Luke, wrapping your arms around them like you were in any state to protect your brothers. 

“I’m very sorry, your grace,” Ser Westerling said, head hung low in unimaginable disgrace. You felt bad for him. There was no way he could have stopped this. He was doing his duty and serving his King. It was Ser Criston who should be blamed.

“The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes before, your grace-”

“That is no answer!” your grandfather yelled at Ser Criston, causing a clap of pain to thunder inside your skull. 

You wanted to go to bed, sleep for eternity, and be awake to everything as it was yesterday. Your brothers and cousins unbloodied and Aemond dragonless and with an eye. 

“Where’s mother?” you noiselessly questioned Jace, leaning into his ear and almost losing your footing. You needed to stay strong for them. 

“It will heal, will it not? Maester?” Queen Alicent asked, velveteen voice quivering with pain for her poor son. Maester Kelvyn finished stitching Aemond’s skin, throwing the needle and thread into a bowl with your uncle’s fleshy, viscous eye. 

“The flesh will heal. The eye is lost, your grace,” his nasal voice replied matter-of-factly.

You were going to be ill. 

Quickly, you ran through the multitude of people, pushing past Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys, who tried to stop you before you vomited all the contents of your stomach onto a person’s unsuspecting shoes. The crowd gasped in revolt, those not close to you jumping back and clutching their chests in shock. You found yourself before the fireplace, basking in its comforting warmth as you leaned onto the hearth and looked at the unlucky soul you retched on. 

Perhaps the Gods had a twisted sense of justice as you saw the disgusted face of Aegon before you. You didn’t hide your amused smirk.

“Tend to the Princess!” the King shouted to the Maester, seeming to forget about his injured son and throwing his cane in your direction. 

A flurry of green came before pale gray, tenderly cradling your visage in her palms as if you were her child, inspecting it. You grabbed the Queen’s wrists and attempted to push her away as if her touch burned, but she resisted, struggling against your childish strength until she grabbed your shoulders. Her touch reminded you of Aegon as you burst into tears, muscles going limp and at Queen Alicent’s mercy. She turned your head in her grasp, examining you with the utmost care that made another wave of nausea through you. 

The crowd observed in anxious silence as Aemond turned to watch his mother treat you with the affection he wished to receive. Familiar hatred bloomed inside his heart, swallowing his dry mouth as he thought resentfully. He would still have his eye if he hadn’t been so concerned with you. 

“I want my mother.” you whimpered, lips quivering in fear as the Queen lovingly wiped the blood from your neck. 

The Queen released you from her grip as if you had struck her, chest heaving and wide brown eyes watering as she turned to her eldest son. Your mother was here; you didn’t realize it.

“Where were you?” she interrogated Aegon, smacking him upside down before he could answer. 

“Ow! What was that for?” he questioned, incredulously rubbing at the afflicted area grimly. You held no sympathy for him as you hugged your sides. 

“That was nothing compared to the abuse your siblings suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool!” she whispered heatedly so only he could hear, shaking his gangly body in rage. You looked at the Queen with confusion, thinking she had gone mad with grief when she said “siblings.”

As the grand Hall doors creaked open, a shaft of golden light spilled into the room, casting long shadows on the marble floor. With an air of elegance, your mother swept into the room, her silk gown trailing behind her. Following closely was Uncle Daemon, his formidable presence filling the space. Amidst the whispers and murmurs, your name and that of your brothers floated through the air, drawing your attention. Without a second thought, you moved toward her, the sensation of fingertips brushing your bicep as if a ghostly hand had tried to hold you back, sending shivers down your spine.

“Show me, show me!” your mother ordered you and Luke, softly running her digits across your body as you sobbed with relief. “Who did this?”

“They attacked me!” Aemond yelled before you could get a word out, leaning from behind his chair. 

You saw his wound on full display. An ugly crisscrossed row of stitches lined up his eye socket and onto his forehead, the flesh puckered and pink as it fought the infection. Your mother moved your face before you could stare any longer as a chorus of accusations from your brothers and cousins sang. You couldn’t get the image of his gash out of your head. 

“He was going to kill Jace! I didn’t do anything!” Luke loudly shouted as you scrunched your eyes with a painful wince.

“Enough!” you heard your grandfather yell, and you looked at him with helpless, watery eyes, but no one listened. 

“It should be my son telling the tale!” the Queen protested, fist pounding against her chest with conviction over the voices.

You continued to look at your grandfather in anguish, the King of The Seven Kingdoms, whom everyone ignored except you. “Silence!” he yelled, voice rattling inside his hollow chest as flem flew from his decaying mouth. 

The Hall went silent, quieter than the Stranger himself, as everyone looked at one another, stunned at the turn of events. People came here to mourn the loss of a daughter, an aunt, a niece, a wife, and a sister. Viserys looked at you and then at his son, his ivory staff sounding with every movement as you swallowed, the taste of bile strong. 

“He called us bastards.” you silently whispered to your mother, wiping the tears and snot from your face.

“Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened.” The King approached your uncle as he slumped into the armchair, stepping swiftly and with a newfound curiosity. “Now.”

“What else is there to hear?” Alicent questioned, clutching at her neck as tears threatened to spill. “Your son has been maimed, and her son is responsible.”

“Twas a regrettable accident,” your mother countered, moving her body to shadow the three of you from the onlookers.

“Accident?” the Queen repeated, astonished. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush! He meant to kill my son!” 

You realized the truth didn’t matter now. All that did was what people perceived it to be. 

“Twas my children who were attacked and forced to defend themselves!” your mother argued as she placed a comforting hand onto Luke’s shoulders. “Vile insults were levied against them!” 

Your grandfather turned from his son to the four of you as you inhaled a shuddering breath. “What insults?” he questioned, a dangerous lilt to his tone that you had never heard before as the Hall went silent. It raised the hairs on your arms. 

“The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put loudly to question,” your mother replied, her chin high yet holding a nervous waver to her voice. 

As she turned towards you, your mother’s eyes conveyed a silent but insistent demand to verbalize what you previously whispered. She wished everyone to hear these words from you—the compassionate and considerate eldest daughter known as The Gods’ Light among the common folk. With tears streaming down your cheeks and your chest heaving with emotion, you gazed at Aemond with a sense of guilt. You knew the words you were about to utter would carry an extraordinary weight. Both sides sought someone to bear responsibility for the turmoil, but you recognized the unspoken truth. 

At that moment, honesty seemed inconsequential. Aemond had suffered the loss of his eye due to Luke’s actions, and you keenly felt your failure to shield your brothers from harm. You would never fault at your duty again. 

“He called us bastards,” you confessed, lacking the anger and conviction of your siblings as you sniffled, refusing to look at Aemond. 

You watched as the Queen’s auburn tresses bounced with the slight affirming nod of her head, a look of disbelief and recognition crossing her face. At that moment, it became clear that she had informed Aemond about the deception, hardening your heart with betrayal. You had believed that she was different and loved you like family, and it stung to realize that she didn’t hesitate to spread lies that would hurt you.

“My children are to inherit the Iron Throne, your grace. This is the highest of treasons,” your mother reasoned, stepping forward to her slouched father as you attempted to reach for her hand to keep you hidden. “Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such awful slanders.”

As you gazed at your mother, her expression eerily mirroring that of Alicent’s, your lips began to quiver with unease. Was your mother implying that he should be subjected to torture? It seemed unfathomable. She couldn’t possibly be serious.

“Over an insult?” the Queen asked, shaking her head in disbelief. You knew she was trying to protect herself as you glared at the woman you once thought held the moon. “My son has lost an eye!”

“Tell me, boy. Where did you hear such lies?” the King seethed, face a hairsbreadth from Aemond as you whimpered.

“The insult was training yard bluster,” Alicent swiftly reasoned, eyes flicking desperately from her son to her husband. “The lot of boys. ‘Twas nothing-”

“Aemond,” your grandfather interrupted, ignoring his wife’s explanation. “I asked you a question.” 

Your uncle sat in solemn silence, his lone violet eye unwaveringly fixed on the ground while his father awaited his reply. Before he could utter a word, the Queen unexpectedly interjected. 

“Where is Ser Laenor, the children’s father? Perhaps he would have something to say on the matter,” she jeered.

Your grandfather turned, sparse brows scrunching together as he turned to Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys. “Yes. Where is Ser Laenor?”

“I do not know, your grace. I… could not find sleep and decided to take a walk,” your mother answered for them, smooth palms wiping across her crimson skirt.

The Queen let out a derisive laugh, her disbelief evident as she shook her head at her old friend. It was impossible to ignore the precise timing of Daemon’s arrival into the Hall of the Nine, trailing just moments behind Rhaenyra with her tousled strands of golden hair. Alicent bore the knowledge of her friend’s calculated machinations, even as Rhaenyra’s children stealthily slipped out of their beds to perpetrate the heinous act of maiming her son. She couldn’t dismiss the nagging suspicion that Ser Laenor was likely engaged in equally treacherous activities.

“Entertaining his young squires, I presume,” Queen Alicent sneered like before, making you feel the same deep-seated ire. 

As no one dared to voice their opposition to her words, a glint of silver caught your eye from the corner, revealing Ser Criston Cole’s silent laughter. Like Ser Harwin, you felt the urge to wipe that smug grin off his tanned face, even though you knew it was impossible.

“Aemond, look at me. Your King demands an answer,” your grandfather began, staggering before your uncle. “Who spoke the lies to you?”

Everything went silent; the roaring of the fire and the crashing of the waves in the darkness were all that could be heard in the Hall. You understood that whoever Aemond implicated might not live til the next morn. You felt your throat grow tight and struggled to breathe, clutching at your throat as you swallowed the acrid taste in your mouth. Queen Alicent told him as you recalled the time in Helaena’s room. It confused you at first why she would spread such gossip as she seemed to hold a tenderness for you. Claiming your brothers were bastards went without saying you were, but you realized that whatever contempt she had within her heart weighed far more significant than any affection for you. 

Some of you wished to shout that it was her, but you realized that was something Alicent would do without a second thought if the roles were reversed, and you did not want to be like her. She was wicked and cruel, just like her eldest.

“It was Aegon. He told Aemond to call us that,” you answered as every pair of eyes flocked to you. You didn’t like how close your grandfather was to him, afraid that he might strike him for the consequences of his mother. You felt your heart lurch into your throat as you gained the courage to speak the words aloud of all the bad things he did to you. “And he… he”

Before you could finish, your mother tucked you into her waist, kneeling and pushing your face into her shoulder. You tried to pull away from her when his hand rested on your head, the welt sensitive to touch. 

“Don’t,” she whispered into your hair, disguising it as a kiss. They deserved to know. Everyone needed to know what awful Aegon did to you. You wanted to move against her, but your mind was foggy and muscles weak.

“Me?” Aegon exclaimed with shock, wide amethyst orbs looking at you with a broken expression. 

“And you, boy,” your grandfather crept towards him, the rhythmic tapping of his cane piercing your skull like an ice pick. “Where did you hear such calumnies?” Your uncle refused to answer him as his gaze bore holes into your being. There was no remorse in your heart for him. “Aegon, tell me the truth of it!” Viserys shouted, causing you to flinch and cover your ears. 

“We know, father,” Aegon replied fearlessly, refusing to remove his stare from your quivering form. “Everyone knows. Just look at them.”

Feeling the stares from the guests, you admired your uncle for not implicating his mother like a coward, removing your body from your mother, wiping the snot from your lip. Let them look, you thought, inhaling a deep breath as you felt your mother bring you closer. They would stare at you for the rest of your days. It was best if you grew accustomed to it now.

“This interminable infighting must cease!” the King declared, banging his walking stick off the pale stone floor. “All of you! We are family! Now, make your apologies and show goodwill to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it.” 

You grimaced at his words, and though you loved your grandfather, having been his favorite granddaughter, you disagreed with him. You refused to apologize for your family trying to defend themselves, and the Queen couldn’t help but agree more. 

“That is insufficient,” Alicent said, gesturing to her son. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my King. Goodwill cannot make him whole.” 

Aemond’s fingers dug into the wooden framing of the armchair, and your chin quivered at the thought of what he might be feeling. 

“I know, Alicent,” Viserys sighed, “but I cannot restore his eye.”

“No, because it’s been taken,” she sobbed, clutching at her chest, flicking her hair back in a manner that reminded you of Aegon. “There is a debt to be paid. I shall have the hand of her eldest to one of my sons. To mend the rift and unite the House of the Dragon once more.”

“Alicent,” your grandfather breathed in a warning, yet still turned to his daughter, having a hint of hope in his violet eyes.

You looked at your mother, shock overcoming any sadness you felt as she shoved you behind her skirts like a hen would do to her chick, too stunned to speak. “I refuse.” 

The Queen shook her head, a sneer curling her plump lips and wet cheeks. Rhaenyra was a selfish, wicked woman with no inclination of decency. Why couldn’t she see this would be solved if she returned Alicent’s rightful daughter to her? The Queen steeled herself to the belief that she would have to fight for her right to have you. She knew deep in her bones that you would one day be by her side.

“Then I shall have one of her sons’ eyes in return. The Princess is innocent,” the Queen declared with a desperate wave of tears. 

Aemond looked to his mother, face impassive, and senses dulled from Milk of the Poppy. He didn’t recall telling her about what you did for him, though it was very little. It felt like he was becoming a second thought to his mother, who seemed only to be scheming on how to insert his niece into their lives. Aemond realized then that he would always be second in his mother’s heart to you, and he felt hollow at the thought, the love that once filled it for his niece ceasing to exist.

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment,” your grandfather warned Queen Alicent. She said nothing as her chest heaved, brown orbs flicking between her husband and old friend.

Believing the matter finished, the King backed away, but Alicent wouldn’t allow this to be the end. She looked to her sworn protector, an apathetic expression on her visage. 

“If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.” Ser Criston looked to the Queen with a startled expression as Luke cried for your mother. “He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son.”

“You will do no such thing,” your mother steadfastly declared, ensuring the three of you were behind her.

“Stay your hand,” the King commanded as the Queen shook with rage, desperately looking between her husband and sworn protector. She reminded you of a deer cornered in a vast forest, listening to the distant howls of wolves closing in for the hunt.

“No, you are sworn to me!” she yelled, finger pointing to her chest indignantly. All waited for the knight to respond, the Lord Commander slowly bringing his hand to the hilt of his sword.

“Protect your brother,” your mother whispered, never straying her eyes from the Queen. Without further instruction, you stood before Luke, gradually backing him away from the group of people unnoticed. You understood Alicent would not hurt you, as did your mother. 

“As your protector, my Queen,” Ser Criston replied with a wary head tilt.

“Alicent, this matter is finished. Do you understand?” your grandfather declared, seething, his face centimeters away from his wife before he addressed the room. “And let it be known that if anyone’s tongue dares to question, the birth of Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed.” 

Breathing a sigh of relief, you let go of Luke, coming to take your place beside your mother as she thanked the King. The unsheathing of a blade cut through the room as the form of Queen Alicent charged toward your family, startling you, the King’s ancestral dagger in her grasp. Luke screamed as she reached the four of you, but your mother stepped in her path before Alicent could enact her rage. 

Suddenly, a person shoved into you, disregarding your existence as you found yourself on the floor. You noticed how the stone seemed to ebb and wave like the flow of the tide. Lord Corlys appeared beside you, lifting you into his arms, securely bound around your torso as he took you into the circle of your cousins and brothers, your mother struggling against the Queen. 

“You’ve gone too far!” your mother admonished the Queen as tears burned her eyes. She pushed against Alicent, and she jerked against her, trying to get to your brother.

“I?” Queen Alicent exclaimed, voice thick with anguish as you attempted to push out of your grandfather’s arms, kicking your legs into his side. “What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, and the law while you flout to do as you please?”

“Alicent, let her go!”

The Queen still poised the dagger to strike, its new path being that of the heir to the Iron Throne as your mother looked helplessly to the onlookers. No one made to separate the two as they all stared in shock, the fire illuminating their faces like wraiths of death. Landing a hard smack to Lord Corlys’s neck, he dropped you as you shoved through the onlookers toward your mother. She put her life for yours and your brothers, but who would put hers before theirs? 

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? My happiness and dreams? It’s templed under your pretty foot again!” the Queen sobbed, her form trembling with hurt and rage, everything that she bottled inside her for years. 

“Release the blade, Alicent,” Lord Otto commanded, a man you hadn’t met until this morn, but she paid him no mind, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she pushed against her old friend. 

“Wasn’t taking her, my only light, enough for you? And now you take my son’s eye, and to that, you feel entitled,” she confessed, tears making the Queen’s mouth thick with wetness as you shouldered your way to the inner circle of people. 

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness,” your mother interrogated, a bitter grimace on her sharp lips. “But now they see you as you are.”

Alicent stared at your mother with an enraged offense that wrinkled her brows as she felt fire surge through her, and with a loud cry, she unthinkingly swung your family’s ancestral dagger. You screamed, running to your mother as you pulled her back, seeing a gash on her inner arm that gushed with blood. 

“Mama,” you wept, tenderly holding her limb as if it would break. 

Dropping the dagger, Alicent took an instinctual step toward you, a blanched, horror-stricken expression across her round face. She longed to go to you, to dry your tears and stroke your head against her bosom like your true mother would, but she could not. The terror and fear in your wide brown eyes that resembled her own sliced through her chest and laid her heart and soul bare as she felt a small hand slide into hers. The Queen hoped to see you standing beside her and thought herself mad before she securely took her son’s fist.

Much like you, Aemond knew his parent needed him. “Do not mourn me, mother. ‘Twas a fair exchange,” he expressed with a maturity beyond his years. He turned to you, a violet gaze once filled with joy now devoid, hollow, and one less eye. “I may have lost an eye but gained a dragon.”

You wished Aemond hadn’t claimed one this way and felt a hiccup wrack your lungs as you cried into your mother, Jace, and Luke coming beside you. You sadly realized this was the end of the fleeting companionship you cultivated with your uncle. All the stolen moments of reading, ideas, philosophies, and aspirations you shared under the cover of privacy were nothing more than air the moment he ran across the dunes. You would have still cared for him without a dragon, as before, but his pride wouldn’t allow it, and now he stared at you with an eye that you knew far too well. 

Aemond hated you. He loathed you and your brothers with a fire that would never cease. This was your fault. He lost an eye because of you—because he cared about his bastard niece and had the foolish dream of becoming the man you loved. You did not deserve it. You were nothing more than a common girl born from sin, undeserving of your station. He would despise you for the rest of his days no matter how his heart screamed to have you by his side when darkness fell and all that was left was the ghost of your touch. 

Masterlist of Series

Spotify Playlist

Happiness never lasts in ASOIAF. I'm going to miss writing for baby Aemond and reader. They were so cute! From now on it's going to be messed up young adults with severe mommy uses and mental illness. I'm not going to say who has which XD. Thank y'all so much for reading and I hope to see y'all in the next chapter!

Tagged Peeps: @millies0bsimp, @britt-mf, @marvelescvpe, @haikyuusboringassmanager, @discofairysworld, @lottiemsgf , @nessjo , @fiction-fanfic-reader , @qvnthesia , @hotvillianapologist , @p45510n4f4shi0n, @theendlessvoidofdarkest , @readerselegance , @gothamgurl2024 , @aleemendoza2425-blog , @vaylint

[distantsapphicdream]

The Birthday Blues

This is my first attempt at fanfiction so I hope you enjoy :) Partly inspired by 'Who will love a little sparrow?' By @littlcdarlin, so please check out their work!!

Pairing: Jackson!Joel and GN!Reader

Wc: 1.7k

Tags: Fluff, a little angst, mentions of child loss, post outbreak.

❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀❀⊱┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄┄⊰❀

A birthday was the celebration of birth and life itself, a dedication to the years someone had spent upon the Earth and usually a hope for many more. Often accompanied by cake and awkward, out of tune song, birthdays were a joyous occasion that were held dearly by most.

For Joel, celebration had not been seen for years. The day was always covered by a shroud of grief that had long slipped between his ribs and nestled right into his heart. He had no right to celebrate, not when he had failed so miserably to protect his little girl, forced to watch as the light of his life faded in his arms.

The watch had never come off his wrist since then, the glass shattered and the time forever immortalised at the moment of Sarah's death. She had only gotten it fixed hours before as his birthday gift.

Getting older was a privilege he had never thought himself deserving of, why him? So many others lost their lives young, before and after the outbreak, innocent and full of hopes that lay crushed in the dirt of their graves. Sarah deserved to grow old, to grow up in the first place, not Joel.

An early riser he had always been, up before the birds managed to chirp their good morning greetings as the sun made its appearance. But today? Joel slept in. The dreaded day had come, and he refused to face it.

When he finally turned over in bed to let the day begin, nothing lay beside him as he reached out in the soft sheets. Right. You were on the early morning patrol, and he likely wouldn't see you until noon. Maybe it was for the best, you deserved better than to see him sour and sorrowed first thing in the morning.

His feet carried his weight across the floor, the old wooden boards creaking softly with each step he took. A glance at the mirror spoke everything of his age, not that he had miraculously transformed overnight, but the significance of the day had him noticing just how worn he looked.

Lines had embedded themselves into his forehead, no longer hidden away when he relaxed his features, along with the telltale flecks of crows feet at the corners of his eyes. Had he always looked so grey and so glum? The longer he looked, the deeper the reality settled into the pit of his stomach; Joel was old.

Old or not, he had started his day with coffee since the ripe age of fifteen and had no plans of stopping now. It was the one consistent thing throughout his life, a comfort that reminded him of simpler days back in Arlington when he sat on the porch and held a scalding cup in one hand, watching the sun rise.

Mornings in Jackson could be started the exact same way, but it was never truly the same, a mere replica of the past that could never scratch the itch of home.

Unwillingly, his body stiffly trudged along through the house as the dregs of sleep clung to his system, begging him to lay back down and never get back up. But he continued the journey to the kitchen, eventually stopping in his tracks at the sight of you there.

"Good mornin'." Joel muttered in greeting, his voice still slightly rough from waking up. "What happened to patrol? I thought you were meant to be out." The question came off harsher than intended, as though he had wished you weren't there, which was far from the truth.

Shaking his head in a sheepish manner, his hands raised in a placating gesture as he stepped towards you. "Not that I ain't happy to see you, just wonderin'." Apology came in the form of a gentle brush of his lips against your forehead, meant to soothe any ideas you may have gotten about his initial questioning.

"You think I was going to miss your birthday? Tommy agreed to swap with me, said it was no problem." You answered, a slight smile curving across your lips as Joel brought you into his arms. "Happy Birthday." It was a mere whisper against the shell of his ear, as though the day were some big secret that no one else could know about. Though that made it more intimate, more quiet.

Joel bristled at the mention of the occasion, yet forced himself to bear it for your sake; you were just being nice. "Thank you, sweetheart." He spoke lowly, the smallest of smiles tugging at his mouth as you pushed a hot cup of coffee into his hands. The mug was old, worn, and familiar, fitting into his hands perfectly from years of continual use.

"You know you don't have to make a big fuss about it, just gettin' older, ain't a big deal." But it was, it was a bigger deal than he truly cared to admit. The signs of age had already sank into the depths of his bones, the odd click of a joint sounding like a mockery of how life had passed him by.

You, on the other hand, still had a bright glimmer in your eye when you looked at him, undeterred by the years that came with him. Growing old was a sign of strength, especially after the outbreak, a display of survival as the world itself crumbled.

"If you don't want a fuss, I won't make one. But.." The words trailed off as a spark of excitement grew clearer in your expression, mixed with nerves that threatened to make your stomach topple over. "I got you a present." A gift, that was a fuss.

Joel thought to argue, to deny whatever you were surely going to thrust into his hands any minute now. However, the way you looked at him made him stop midway through forming his rebuttal. You were excited, even giddy to give him the gift, and who was he to ruin that joy, even if it meant a little discomfort?

"Alright, alright, lay it on me. Better not be anything you traded an arm and a leg for." The idea that you would disadvantage yourself just to get him something for his birthday was one that made his heart ache.

"It's not, I promise. Pretty small actually." You assured, delivering a feather-light kiss to the curve of his cheek to soothe the worry knotted into his brow. The wrapping was simple and even slightly messy, tied together by a little bow made of twine.

Setting his coffee down on the counter, the paper crinkled as you placed the present into Joel's hands with a smile, watching as he tested its weight and felt the shape of the object, running a finger along the edges. "Now, just what is this?" He murmured, letting his hands roam over the surface of the paper in curiosity.

"Open it and you'll find out." You mused, jabbing a finger at the wrapped gift to coax him into opening it. His fingers were precise as they reached for the twine, gently tugging at the bow to unlace it and set the crinkled paper free.

Inside lay a worn copy of a book long published before the outbreak, the pages slightly yellowed with age and torn at the edges. The title read 'A Woodworker's Guide to Whittling' in faded lettering, the image on the cover depicting a carved horse that had clearly been crafted with care.

Joel stood in silent reverence as he allowed his fingers to peruse the page, flicking them over in admiration to commit each design to memory; a rabbit, an owl and a buck to name a few. "This..this is really somethin'." Something, that's what he had deemed it.

When you looked at him to nervously seek his approval, he let out a soft huff of laughter before nodding his head. "More than somethin', sweetheart. I'll use it, promise, maybe even make one of 'em for you." It was his birthday, and Joel was promising to carve you something nice from his gift.

"You don't have to make me anything, Joel, it's for you. I know you like to keep yourself busy." His workspace was a testament to that, an array of projects with some frozen in the middle of their progress, just waiting for the day his hands would whittle a knife into the wood once more. Joel had never liked to remain idle for long, often becoming restless if left with no task to busy himself with. The gift gave him an outlet for that frustration, offering his still hands something to focus on.

He gently set the book aside to allow his arms to wrap around you again, soft yet strong as they cradled you in a tender embrace. "You're too good to me." Joel blurted, his face hidden from view as he tucked his chin atop your head. "That mind of yours is real thoughtful, sweetheart." You had taken the time and the care to find something that interested him, something that let him delve deeper into his passion; you were far too good for the likes of him.

So he held you closer, angling his head down until he could pepper another kiss to your brow as a silent reminder to himself that you were really there in his arms, that you were with him.

"That coffee's gonna get cold." You quietly teased, poking a finger at his ribs to push him back just slightly. But his grip was insistent, reluctant to let go of you.

Relenting to his unyielding grasp, you tilted your head up to capture his lips with your own, soft and sweet as you melted against him. "Happy Birthday, Joel." A half giggled whisper came against his lips as you pulled back to offer your well wishes.

"Thank you." If only for a fleeting moment, you could have sworn that Joel's eyes appeared to be misty with the glossiness of unshed tears. Though as soon as they were there, they were gone, and he put on a brave face.

It was a hard day, nobody could blame him for feeling the weight of his long-standing grief. But with you in his arms, it felt a little easier to bear.

Maybe this year would be better, and a birthday would feel like less of a burden.

[beforetimes]

found a fic idea i planned a few months ago in my gdrive, so i figured i'd share it here!

everything starts with fire. a fire that rages and takes all of cang qiong down with it. flames that lick at every peak, irrespective of whatever martial prowess their lords might have. liu qingge coughs through the smoke, unwillingly pulled away from the worst of it. he catches sight of his sister—just a brief glance, but enough for him to fight against getting pulled away. then; everything goes black.

liu qingge wakes up much later, the concept of cang qiong mountain not even a breath in his mind. gone from his memory, all he remembers quite clearly is his name and the fact that he's missing someone. he's not quite sure who. he has a sword he remembers to weild with the help of muscle memory, and sets out on a journey, wandering to find... something. someone. he's not sure. all liu qingge knows is that he needs to keep moving. it's important that he does.

after a few days, he stumbles into a valley. large, beautiful, rolling green hills filled with flora and fauna, trees lining the edges, a mountain in the backdrop that frames it like a painting. swirling clouds of white that make up most of the sky, picture-perfect blue peeking out where they don't.

in the middle of it all, a small home.

liu qingge makes it down, slowly but surely. and knocks on the door much later, leaning back and awaiting a response.

he's greeted with two people who he doesn't recognize, but who clearly recognize him, if not made clear by the very confused "shidi?" he gets from the man in green and what feels like it should be a familiar glare from the person in black next to him.

of course, liu qingge doesn't want to bother with the melodrama. he tells them what he knows; he woke up alone. nothing but his sword and the clothes on his back. he hasn't seen anyone who's recognized him. he doesn't remember anything. not even you two, he adds, when the man in green opens his mouth to say something.

from there, after an examination from a healer the two apparently know, they get this news: they cannot tell liu qingge every single thing that has transpired in his life because the source of his memory loss is magical and doing so may trigger a worse fit that could become permanent—instead, they need to (and this is where liu qingge cringes a tad) create a space where he can push through the blockage, slowly but surely, and remember himself again. which is possible, he's told, but only if he doesn't rush this.

liu qingge is reluctant, but doesn't really know what else he could have to rush to do, so he asks if he can stay in the pair's home for a while. just while he recovers. the one in black is ready to say no before the one in green is speaking over him to say yes, please, don't mind my husband, he's just a little possessive hahaha! and liu qingge really doesn't mind, he thinks he can understand why the man might be when he stares at the space where the green one's neck ducks behind his robes.

anyway, he gets his introductions, given two names — shen yuan and luo binghe. they spark something in his head, some familiarity, and he realizes that they haven't been lying about knowing him. which more or less seals the deal about him staying with the pair of them.

over the next few weeks, liu qingge relaxes. he doesn't notice how tense he was until his shoulders loosen and he can feel weight lifted off his shoulders, almost as if it was physical. shen yuan and luo binghe are gracious guests, but—

well, there's just one problem. liu qingge is. falling. for them.

which!!! he didn't mean to!!!! he will swear it up and down everywhere he goes he didn't mean to!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! but shen yuan is so unflinchingly chilly in a way that makes him seem warmer when he thaws. he draws and paints and writes poetry that he lets liu qingge read now and then, liu qingge growing enamoured with the ways he twists all these words into images he could hardly imagine. he's obsessed with the quietness of shen yuan, all things unsaid and barely there touches that feel like fire on his skin.

luo binghe, in comparison, is overwhelming, like a fire raging (hah!) in a hearth. seemingly brash and unbending, liu qingge watches him cry crocodile tears to get his? shizun's? favour, listens to him joke and watches him clean the way only servants do. gets caught up staring at his curls and imagining running his fingers through them, images of braids and days spent dozing under the summer sun with all three of them curled up against each other like kittens in a shoebox.

he just. everything about this place is so warm and kind. it feels like something he's never experienced, even if liu qingge knows that he has no way to know if he's ever been at a place that feels so wholly comfortable. (and almost like home). the atmosphere is domestic. they squabble over chores, eat dinner together, even go out for night hunts, sometimes. luo binghe's attitude towards him starts chilly before thawing and soon he's getting prodded and teased as much as shen yuan is.

then, somehow. liu qingge goes to bed and dreams. and all he can see is smoke and fire. his sister's face. the peak lords and their disciples. his responsibilities become anchors tied to his shoulders.

he wakes up, nearly throws himself out of luo binghe and shen yuan's bed, waking the both of them in the process. liu qingge is on the verge of qi deviating, and luo binghe must notice. because one moment liu qingge is on his way out, one hand on the sword, and shen yuan calling after him, and the next moment he takes a hyperventilating breath, luo binghe is across him weidling his own sword.

its a messy fight. not because of blood or injury but because of everything shouted between them. ruthlessly tearing at insecurities, made up taunts that liu qingge only says because he knows it will upset luo binghe. as their swords clash, liu qingge can feel himself grow weaker, even as his qi still goes out of control.

and then he feels a hand on his back, ice cold qi circling through his meridians, and turns back to look at shen yuan in shock.

i remember you, he says. you did this for me, once, a long time ago.

shen yuan nods, and luo binghe finally sheaths his sword, and liu qingge feels out of his depth, wedged between two people trying to slow him down while his sister, his home, somewhere far off, burn.

he turns to the two of them, feels reluctant to ask for fear of rejection, but liu qingge tells them he needs to go. his sister could be dead and he needs to know her fate. he needs to salvage what he can of his peak, find his disciples, his martial brothers. and he needs to leave them behind, unless they were? willing to come along? and the last part is said so quickly he hopes that it could fly under the radar.

but they both hear. the miraculous part of it all is that they both agree.

liu qingge is taken aback. luo binghe laughs at the expression on his face and shen yuan thwacks him lightly on the arm with a fan before telling liu qingge that they'll spend the night preparing before leaving tomorrow.

liu qingge just agrees, nearly in shock, following after them. vaguely numb. he watches the two of them lean into each other as they enter the home and feels his heart try to beat out of his chest.

he's soooo fucked. liu qingge thinks he's never been in love before but if he has, it's never felt quite like this.

and that's all i have so far! lmk if you'd want to see this written out in full as a fic, too ^_^

i just think like. the fallout of liu qingge remembering everything — luo binghe's actions and shen yuan almost? snubbing him? would complicate so much. on top of luo binghe and shen yuan's realization that they might love liu qingge when they get to see him without his biases making him more hostile to luo binghe/the idea of them as a couple. trying to tackle the way they'd eventually end up together would be sooo hefty but sooo fun.

[fadyelj]

All Summers End In Beirut

That summer in Beirut was never meant to be a journey inward; it was a time to shed the tension that had been building for years, a silent rage caged behind words, waiting for release. If I hadn’t confined it to words alone, that rage might have carved valleys out of stone. Instead, Beirut had to become the channel, blurring into nights spent chain-smoking in dimly lit pubs, romances that ended at dawn, and goodbyes that lived only on social media — Adieu, my dearest Beirut, though Beirut would know better.

I didn’t come here to romanticize the city or to make sense of my past. Beirut was simply the stage for a deliberate escape, a place to lose myself, not to find myself. Depth? I didn’t want it. Self-discovery? Even less. 

You go to Paris to find yourself, not Beirut.

They say romantics run from reality, but I think the opposite can be true. Sometimes, it’s the realists who are drawn to it, clinging to the poetry of a place like Beirut, knowing full well the inevitable heartbreak. Still, they chase it, how can they live knowing that the greatest art has always been born from the agony of others.

They say romantics run from reality, but I think the opposite can be true. Sometimes, it’s the realists who are drawn to it, clinging to the poetry of a place like Beirut, knowing full well the inevitable heartbreak. Still, they chase it, how can they live knowing that the greatest art has always been born from the agony of others.

Most who know me now might think I loved Lebanon from the very start, that my attachment was unshakeable, rooted in my childhood. And yes, I loved it — loved the version my father painted in late-night stories, those poetic tales he’d spin after slipping me a few bills for my Arabic lessons. My American-born Lebanese mother would look on, quiet but approving, as if to remind me that the language, the culture, was theirs, and that I was the inheritor of this beautiful burden. I memorized Ana esme Fady, w ana mn el Lebnan before anything else, words embedded as deeply in my identity as my own name.

My childhood was grown around Lebanon , a world away, yet vivid, woven from stories passed down like folklore. For years, my father’s tales could hold a magic of their own, sketching a distant land in colors bright and cinematic . But as soon as I began to think critically, that magic wore thin. I dug deeper, searching for something beyond his poetic recollections — and, yes, I found it. I just didn’t like what I saw. The stories, once so full of promise, started to feel threadbare, unable to hold up to the truth I’d uncovered. Resentment crept in. I felt the weight of belonging to a place I’d barely touched, a version of Lebanon that felt faded, passed down like an old newspaper, each retelling dulling its colors.

My father never wanted us to inherit his hate for the ugly parts of Lebanon. But the more I learned, the more I felt its grip on me. My God, as I fell down the rabbit hole of history and politics, the anger took root. I hated it. I hated my people. How could they turn heaven into hell? What gave them the right? I was only a child, but even as an adult, I still can’t find the answers. The unfairness of it all punctured me — the idea of a “home” drilled into my mind, yet always out of reach. Baba’s explanations never quite satisfied me. How could they do what they did? This new idea of Lebanon felt like a burden I hadn’t asked for, a heritage as heavy as it was distant. My anger grew as fierce as my love once was, aimed at my parents for planting this identity inside me, one that felt both too far away to reach and yet too close to escape.

When you’re a child born to the diaspora, there’s a harsh awakening. The stories you once loved take on shadows, and you begin to see yourself as part of a fractured history. A life in the diaspora is unforgiving, forcing you to carry a culture defined by survival and loss, a homeland that calls to you just as it keeps you at arm’s length. And yet, you’re expected to honor it, to love it. But where the hell was it for me all these years?

In those years of resentment, I lost myself in what you might call the most “American” ways possible — masking everything behind a polished exterior, where emotions were kept in check, and vulnerability was a distant concept. I crafted a composed, respectful façade, presenting a calm demeanor to the world while slipping in and out of identities like costumes, each one leaving its mark until the reflection in the mirror became unrecognizable. Certain truths I’ve kept buried, tucked away, left unspoken for the sake of the moshtamaa and a culture that expects us to live in quiet service to its ideals. Those years were a season of cold, each step pulling me further from warmth, further from a true self I could barely reach. Even today, I find myself still living in service to the moshtamaa. If I weren’t, wouldn’t I be writing freely?

But the moshtamaa wins, as it always does, leaving two choices: pretend and save face, or die by its sword. So, I’ve learned to play the game we all know too well, the one practiced behind closed doors. I walk the line between what’s true and what’s accepted, balancing carefully, learning to give just enough to satisfy but not enough to betray what lies beneath.

Today, though, I’m grateful to have found warmth again, in places I least expected, maybe even in Beirut itself. If this story is about anything, it’s about laying the bricks for a return that would come later — a return built on facing myself under a different sun, through eyes altered by time and distance, in a city that doesn’t promise forgiveness but offers, perhaps, the faint hope of reconciliation.

I’ve always considered myself a pessimist — or at least I was. Now, I’m less certain. Do you believe in naseeb? In the idea that everything is maktoub? Most days, I do. When the world throws me down, leaving me to stare at the pieces of something I thought I’d built, it’s almost comforting to believe this was fate, set out by some higher power. It’s a rational way to face my failures, a way to soften the edges of my shortcomings — and my friends, there have been many.

But then, there are other days, those rare days when my focus sharpens or when I’m medicated enough to believe fully in my own power. On those days, I don’t believe in naseeb. In those moments, it’s up to me to seize the world, to mold it, to make it my own. I’ve tasted the highest highs and endured the lowest lows, and somewhere between them, naseeb lingers in the background, watching, almost amused. Funny thing, this naseeb — it’s there when you’re at your worst, a crutch to lean on. But at your best, you realize it’s only ever been a story you’ve told yourself to make sense of things.

That’s why, sometimes, I hated this culture — or is it society pretending to be culture? I haven’t spent hours dissecting the difference. But I still wonder why this culture sometimes feels like a weight. Kindness can be a strength, yet sometimes it feels like a burden, a weakness we carry with pride. We’re so polite, even in revolution, so restrained, so respectful. We humanize everything. As Lebanese, we’re raised to be hospitable, welcoming, open-handed, even to those who come to tear us down.

It’s birthed into our history, in the very fabric of who we are. We’ve been the greatest lovers, poets, philosophers, building legacies out of words, hospitality, and resilience — but at what cost? We’ve shown grace to invaders, generosity to those who left scars, keeping that welcoming face, even as our eyes are gouged out . This hospitality, is it a survival instinct or our own self-inflicted wound?

We offer kindness to those who have broken us, a habit we can’t seem to shake. And that, more than anything, reminds me I’m Lebanese. Not through resilience, but in this weakness, this tendency to submit to fate and rationalize everything through comforts like naseeb. We’ll rationalize until it destroys us, convincing ourselves it’s out of our hands, that we’re powerless in the grand scheme. Maybe that’s the true Lebanese trait: cloaking our wounds in politeness, surrendering to the story we’ve been told is maktoub.

That summer in Lebanon was meant to last just two weeks — enough time to keep my mother from losing her wits and for me to avoid getting too attached. Lebanon was on the brink of a full-blown economic collapse, but somehow it was still the kind of crisis you could strangely enjoy. We Lebanese have a talent for squeezing joy out of hell itself. But the food poisoning was relentless; I swear I had more bouts of it than actual meals. Gas was scarce, leaving me stranded in the Chouf for two weeks alone. The electricity cuts, ones I’d later learn to base my schedule around, were already routine.

In 2021, Lebanon was cheap if you had U.S. dollars. “You could live like a king,” they’d say. A king, perhaps, but in a crumbling kingdom, a decomposing throne on shifting ground. That short, two-week escape stretched into five long months, a summer that took on a life of its own.

What do you do for five months in Lebanon? You put Baba’s folklore to the test. He’d told me he’d lived ahla eyam — the best days of his life — there, so I set out to see if his glory days held up, with my own modern twist, of course. The summer had to commence with the usual formalities: endless relatives streaming in daily (we were foolish to think two weeks would ever be enough), a parade of faces remarking on how much I’d grown, offering life advice I’d never follow, cursing the country I was born in, and reminding me, insistently, that I was Lebanese. Looking back, I wish I could’ve handed them that reminder with the same smug tone they’d given me. They needed to hear it, not me — after all, they weren’t the ones constantly reminded of where they came from. And it showed.

Then, finally, the real summer began: the clubbing, the drinking until I felt out of body, the strange sensuality of Beirut’s nights washing over me. Chain-smoking until my lungs felt scorched, wild kisses with strangers whose names I’d forget, tasting the city on every tongue. By dawn, I’d come home smelling like a chimney, my mother half-wrinkling her nose, half-smiling.My mother, first experienced Lebanon in the aftermath of the civil war, under Syrian occupation. Her homecoming was to a Lebanon in ruins, where she endured nasty, sexual remarks from Syrian soldiers on the streets — a Lebanon that had barely survived yet clung to the hope of reconstruction. For her, the country had weathered war, and through its scars, she could still see its beauty.

I am as doe-eyed as she was, hopeful for Lebanon’s rebirth. Yet, it saddens me to think of her early hopes — built on resilience but weighed down by reality. My mother loved the Lebanon I experienced that summer, perhaps even envied it. Watching me live it seemed to offer her a glimpse of the dream she’d never fully held. But her Lebanon never stood a chance, whether from the war or the expectations placed on her as a Lebanese woman raised in the diaspora.

It’s impossible to put into words how much my mother sacrificed to raise her children as Lebanese. She learned Arabic alongside us, prepared the traditional foods that connected us to our roots, and carried the weight of social expectations with grace, kindness, and love. If my father gave us Lebanon, my mother, in countless ways, taught us what it meant to be Lebanese, especially within the diaspora. For this, she’s rarely received the credit she deserves.

The summer grew lonely fast, and with time on my hands that I barely knew how to use, where better to spend it — or rather, who better to spend it on — than the faces on dating apps? I downloaded them all, swiping through profiles like browsing a gallery. I skipped anyone listing philosophy or psychology as interests — the very subjects I read into alone but had no desire to mix with summer flings. A philosopher would kill my buzz, and a psych enthusiast? Probably too eager to “read” me and fail.

I’ve never bought into zodiac signs, thinking we mold ourselves into those traits if we let them define us. As a Cancer, I’d rather avoid that “complicated” stereotype. And yet, you, my Beiruti lover, slipped through the cracks. There were plenty before you, and to be clear, I am no sex symbol — quite the opposite, really. But I have a certain charm, a mask I wear well, though, it unravels fast when the right string is pulled. I have a bad habit of being too deep for those who don’t care, and maybe too blunt for those who do.

This wasn’t supposed to be a journey of depth, I remind you, but I made an exception. After all, I was the ajnabi, the foreigner with broken Arabic, overly polite, saying please and thank you into every sentence, careful not to get too personal. The one who always leaves.

In a world where everything is instantly accessible, connections too often die before they’ve had the chance to truly live. A few minutes on an app, both revolutionary and tragic, now seem enough to define intimacy. But then again, everyone before you faded into irrelevance; after you, they simply ceased to matter.

You appeared unexpectedly in my swipes. Looking back, it almost disappoints me that it began there, as if it’s an insult to everything that came after. Whatever this was, it broke every boundary of digital connection, beyond anything an algorithm could contain. You shattered every rule, challenged each line I’d carefully drawn to keep people out. I may never write like the legends, but I would later love you with the urgency of those who inspired them.

Have I sold you the groundwork for a coming-of-age love story? God, I hope not. Those stories aren’t written for people like us, and they’re certainly not meant for places like Beirut. I won’t say if we broke that rule, but if we did, it was a story lived in the soul, never meant to be captured for the eyes- certainly not yours.

The dating app was our first encounter, our first in-person meeting the second — both unfolding in a single, impulsive night. It was the only time I allowed myself to be that spontaneous, that open. For once, I let go of who I thought I should be; I just let myself be.

I wish I could reach back, shake that past self, urge them to stay present, to see things as they truly were. Over the past two years, I’ve rewritten this story more times than I’d like to admit, asking myself: What was it about you that’s so hard to release? What keeps me searching for traces of you in others, only to come up emptier than you left me? The answer should enrage me, but instead, it humbles me. I could have cast you as the villain, and in many ways, you were. You shaped so much of who I would become: how I’d love, the person I’d grow into. And yet, here I am, sparing you, as if you were a debt I owed for sins from a forgotten life.

You were never the villain; we were just kids, and all summers start and end in Beirut.

That night replays in my mind like a vinyl on loop, the needle pressing down, cutting through the haze of a post-pandemic fog. I wasn’t nervous, and neither were you. In Beirut, no one knew me yet. Does that sound pretentious? Maybe so, but that probably means you don’t know Beirut. I didn’t — not then, not until a year after that summer. But I learned quickly: in Beirut, everyone knows everyone. It’s a city stitched together by connections, faces you know by name, names you know by rumor. That’s what makes it beautiful and, just as often, unforgiving.

Did we have dinner? I can’t remember. But I remember the abandoned home we tried to climb — somewhere in Gemmayze, or Mar Mikhael, maybe Sodeco. I was hesitant, still too green to embrace the thrill of Lebanese lawlessness. But you, with that maddening confidence, climbed as if you belonged there, as if the city, its people, and even its emptiness were yours to claim. You wore that boldness well, like armor, until, like all armor, it eventually cracked.

We ended up on a bench in Mar Mikhael, talking into the night. I let years of pent-up anger spill out, pouring words over you like gasoline, almost hoping you’d catch fire. Was I that fragile, that quick to unload it all? You, though, you kept your calm, saying so much with so few words, holding back just enough to keep yourself safe. I’d learn to play that game eventually, but never as well as you.

That night, we seemed to live a hundred lives in a few hours, time expanding until it felt like it might never end. But, of course, it did. Something shifted in me as it drew to a close, like a new wire connecting deep in my mind, a change I’ve carried ever since. It ended with a kiss, messy and unapologetic, pressed against the walls of Mar Mikhael under a blue streetlight, your confidence outbidding mine, as if we were two revolutionaries daring the world. A soldier watched us, but we didn’t care.

Beirut was a different time then. The soldier couldn’t even feed his kids, let alone care if two strangers kissed in the street. Beirut today, the soldier beats you just so he can feed his kids — and somehow, you understand.

I’ve written about this too many times, penned it as if it were my will and the country its witness.

I‘ve only given you the beginning, and though the story doesn’t end here, for you, it must. Perhaps I haven’t left you fulfilled; Beirut has that way about it — a love in extremes, a city defined by the unfinished, and inhabited by those merely passing through. That summer felt endless, with stories I’ll never put to paper. I’ve come up with countless reasons why all summers must end in Beirut, but in the end, they’re only theories. You’ve seen my contradictions laid bare. Whitman was allowed his contradictions, so why not me? Am I Whitman? No, not in this life, and not in the next. But I’ll contradict, freely.

In the end, there will always be three sides to this story — yours, mine, and the truth.

What I know to be true is this: you shook me in ways I never expected, and here I am, writing about a time that perhaps should have been left unwritten, simply lived. Maybe it was my American politeness, or my Lebanese hospitality, that softened each retelling, but no matter who you are now, you will always be my Beirut.

The summer of 2021 has never returned, yet it left me with more than I bargained for — lessons about life, about myself, about the person I longed to be and what I must never become.

You offered me revolution but gave me meghli ice cream, and I forgive you.

A year later, I moved to Lebanon, learning to love Beirut as you once taught me to , holding it like a secret, forgiving its sins, and embracing it as if I were your sacrifice to the city. If that’s what I was, then I’ll honor it. Beirut always knows better.

I promised myself not to search for you when I returned, not to wish for you in the eyes of strangers. But when I broke that promise, every face fell short — not because of them, but because of us…

My dear, this city without you is like nurturing a lone flower in one hand while severing its roots with the other.

[aller-geez]

A Place Among Predators

(A Fang Family Reunion [pt 1 of 3])

written & illustrated by: allergeez ✨

Summary: Kriia knew meeting her boyfriend’s family in person would be a challenge, but she wasn’t expecting to do it while sick. Determined not to let a bad cold ruin everything, she pushes through the long journey to the Fang Estate in Erinth—a sprawling gothic mansion deep in a fog-laden hamlet, surrounded by towering ancient trees and steeped in eerie tradition.

The Fang family is infamous, their name carrying both power and mystery. They are elite, deeply respected, and bound by customs older than the land itself. To be accepted among them is no small feat. Kriia is determined to prove herself, to show that she belongs in their world—sickness be damned. But as the weekend unfolds, she quickly realizes that navigating the weight of tradition, the watchful eyes of powerful predators, and the growing pressure of keeping up appearances might be more than she bargained for.

As the family prepares for The Culling—a ritual that is equal parts necessary and haunting—Kriia is faced with the question: Can she truly find her place among predators? Or will the weight of expectation and the secrets beneath the Fang family's legacy prove too much to bear? 8.7k words

Content Warnings:

Body Horror & Supernatural Themes: Discussions of rituals, feeding on souls, and predatory instincts.

Illness Depiction: Heavy focus on sickness symptoms, including sneezing, fever, congestion, and exhaustion.

Family Expectations & Social Pressure: Themes of proving oneself, feeling like an outsider, and navigating unfamiliar traditions.

Violence & Dark Fantasy Elements: References to hunting and an intense family ritual with potentially unsettling implications.

Emotional Themes: Grief, loss, and finding belonging.

Rexar had been talking about this trip for weeks.

Every chance he got, he’d bring it up—in the car, at dinner, during their late-night video game marathons, even half-asleep with his head on Kriia’s lap, mumbling about how she was going to love it there.

“The Erinth estate’s insane, babe,” he’d say, voice brimming with the kind of enthusiasm he usually reserved for trap metal concerts and street fights. “Like, picture a mansion, but make it even more ridiculous. The halls are so long you could probably start a new civilization in one and no one would find you for weeks. And my family? They’re gonna love you. My mom runs the house. My dad runs the family.” Rexar said it simply, like it was an undeniable fact. “She’s the heart. He’s the teeth.”

Kriia had smiled, feigned confidence, nodded along. But in reality?

She was nervous as hell.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t met the Fangs before. She had—technically.

Over countless video calls, she’d laughed with his sisters, exchanged sarcastic banter with his brothers, even had a full hour-long conversation with his mom once when Rexar fell asleep on the call.

And they’d all been nothing but welcoming.

But meeting them in person? That was different.

She’d heard stories—so many stories.

Rexar had grown up surrounded by opulence, expectations, and something much darker lurking beneath the surface. The Fang family was old, powerful, and steeped in traditions that most people wouldn’t even believe. She had listened as Rexar shrugged off details that would have sent a normal person running—details about The Culling, the way his family hunted, the weight of the rituals that dictated their lives.

And she had nodded, laughed at his dry humor, accepted it.

Because that’s what you did when you loved someone.

Still, accepting was not the same as understanding.

She wasn’t just meeting his parents. She was stepping into the den of one of the most feared and revered predator bloodlines in existence.

And she was going in as an outsider.

That fact alone was enough to set her teeth on edge.

Rexar, of course, had no clue about her nerves.

He was too excited, too caught up in the idea of bringing her home, showing her somewhere he grew up, finally letting his family meet the person he had willingly fasted an entire year for.

"You know they already love you, right?" Rexar had said one night, sprawled across their couch, feet kicked up on the armrest, flipping a guitar pick between his fingers.

Kriia had snorted, stretching out beside him. "They love me through a screen, Rex. That's different."

He had turned his head toward her, grinning. "Nah. Trust me. You're gonna kill it."

That was the problem.

She was supposed to kill it.

Charm them. Impress them. Prove that she belonged in Rexar’s world, that she was strong enough to handle whatever expectations came with being tied to a Fang.

And she would.

Or—she would have.

If she didn’t wake up sick as hell.

The second she opened her eyes, she knew something was off.

Her throat ached, scratchy and raw like she’d swallowed a handful of gravel in her sleep. Her head was thick and stuffy, her sinuses tickling like they were threatening to betray her at any second.

She groaned, rolling onto her side, pressing the heels of her palms against her eyes.

No. Nope. This wasn’t happening.

She wasn’t getting sick.

Not today.

She sniffled experimentally—bad idea.

The tickle in her nose flared instantly, sharp and relentless, pushing up until she had no choice but to snap forward into her pillow.

“h’kTSHHh!—hh’ihhNGXT’uhh!”

A second later, she heard Rexar stirring from his spot beside her, groggy and half-awake.

Shit.

She froze, heart hammering. Do not wake up. Go back to sleep.

He made a vague, grumbling noise, then—mercifully—went quiet again.

Crisis averted.

She exhaled slowly, carefully, then dragged herself upright, ignoring the way her head swam.

She reached blindly for her phone, checking the time.

They were leaving in two hours.

Okay. She could fix this.

If there was one thing Kriia was good at, it was bullshitting.

All she had to do was act normal.

The plan was simple.

1. Shower—because maybe she’d feel less like death warmed over if she was at least clean.

2. Cold meds—the good kind, the kind that would at least hold her together until they got there.

3. Fake it. Pretend. Do what she did best—act like nothing was wrong.

She could handle this.

She had no other choice.

With a deep breath, she sniffled back the worst of the congestion, squared her shoulders, and got to work.

Because if Rexar wanted this weekend to be perfect—

She was damn well going to make sure it was.

The purr of the Hummer’s massive engine vibrated through Kriia’s bones as they sped down the highway, Rexar drumming his fingers against the steering wheel in perfect sync with the metal blaring through the speakers.

Nine hours.

That was how long it took to get from their home in Scrila to the Fang Estate in Erinth.

Nine. Goddamn. Hours.

Kriia had been hanging in at first. She was exhausted, sure, but the road trip had started out fun—they took turns picking songs, made dramatic performances out of their favorites, and had stopped for snacks at every possible gas station, stocking up on caffeinated sugar bombs and salty junk food like they were preparing for war.

But by the halfway mark?

Kriia was fucking struggling.

The cold meds she had taken before they left had started wearing off hours ago, and now, with nothing but sheer willpower and stubbornness keeping her upright, her body was starting to revolt.

The pressure in her sinuses had built steadily throughout the drive, growing heavier, thicker, until her whole face felt like it was packed with cement.

Her throat was raw, scratchy from all the silent coughing she had been forcing into her sleeve whenever Rexar wasn’t looking. And her headache?

Fucking. Brutal.

Still—she was holding it together.

For now.

Barely.

The real problem was the sneezing.

Kriia had spent years mastering the art of holding back sneezes. It was a skill she had perfected out of pure necessity—after all, she wasn’t exactly the kind of person who liked drawing attention to herself when she was feeling vulnerable.

And right now?

She was feeling very fucking vulnerable.

Unfortunately, her immune system didn’t give a shit about her pride.

The fits were coming whether she wanted them to or not.

The only thing she could do was stifle them beyond recognition.

She had gotten good at it—good enough that Rexar, despite being stupidly observant, hadn’t noticed.

Yet.

But it was getting harder. Way harder.

The congestion behind her eyes made every suppressed sneeze feel like a personal attack. The second she forced one down, the next was already building, lingering at the edge of her senses, taunting her.

By hour six, Kriia was unraveling.

Her sinuses were a disaster, her throat raw, and every inhale felt like it might trigger something disastrous. Her head pounded in rhythm with the dull hum of the highway, and she was starting to feel like her body was actively trying to betray her.

Meanwhile, Rexar was completely, blissfully unaware.

One hand on the wheel, the other rummaging through a bag of snacks, he was happily rambling about the estate, his energy seemingly endless despite the grueling drive.

“Oh, princess—wait till you see the library. It’s got, like, secret doors and shit. I used to sneak in there all the time as a kid just to—hold up.”

Kriia barely had time to react before her breath caught sharply.

No. No, no, no—

She twisted into her sleeve just in time—

“h'NGXt!—hh’tSHH’kngt!—hhHh’NGXTCHh-uhh!”

The force of it left her momentarily stunned, her head dipping forward as she pressed her wrist firmly under her nose, willing herself to keep it together.

Rexar shot her a look. “Was that a sneeze?”

She blinked, feigning innocence. “Huh?”

His squint deepened. “I heard something.”

She sniffled discreetly, forcing a casual shrug. “Probably the radio.”

There was a beat of silence where she could feel him considering it—

Then, miraculously, Rexar just shrugged and went back to his snack raid, muttering something about "needing a damn drink."

Kriia exhaled slowly, carefully, pressing her knuckles under her nose as another tickle flared dangerously in her sinuses.

That had been way too close.

She couldn’t let that happen again.

She just had to hold on a little longer.

By the time they finally pulled up to the Fang Estate, Kriia was holding on by a thread.

The place was breathtaking—a sprawling gothic estate nestled within a fog-laden hamlet, its towering spires barely visible through the dense mist. Ancient trees loomed on all sides, their twisted branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers, their bark slick with the ever-present damp. The air was thick with the scent of moss, rain-soaked earth, and the faint, lingering traces of old woodsmoke, wrapping around them like a second skin.

Beyond the estate, narrow cobblestone streets wound through the small village, the old-world charm almost eerie in the dim, muted light. Weathered lanterns flickered weakly against the fog, casting long, wavering shadows along the path. In the distance, the silhouette of a towering chapel stood against the treeline, its steeple barely cutting through the mist.

The weight of history clung to the land, as if the very stones beneath their feet had been watching, listening, for centuries.

It was exactly what she imagined a Fang estate would look like.

And standing at the entrance, waiting for them, was Zeraphine Fang herself.

Rexar’s mother.

Fuck.

The moment the car stopped, Rexar practically leapt out, grinning wide as he scooped his mom into a hug.

Zeraphine laughed, the sound warm and low, wrapping her arms around him easily despite the height difference. She was tall for a woman, but Rexar still dwarfed her at 6’4.

She was beautiful in the way that older predator women always were—sharp features, effortless poise, and an air of quiet authority.

Her hair was shoulder-length, silver-blonde, with streaks of deep red, the curls framing her face in a way that made her look both regal and dangerous at the same time. Her eyes—a striking mix of gray and crimson—studied Rexar with fondness before flicking toward the car.

Kriia, meanwhile, was fighting for her goddamn life.

The second she reached for the door handle, the tickle in her sinuses surged, sharp and demanding, her breath catching involuntarily.

No. Not now.

She pressed two fingers under her nose, holding her breath, waiting it out.

After a few agonizing seconds, the feeling eased just enough for her to pull herself together.

She sniffled discreetly, squared her shoulders, and finally stepped out of the car.

Rexar was already waving her over excitedly, looking like he was having the best day of his life.

And when Kriia finally reached them, Zeraphine turned to her with a warm, knowing smile.

“You must be Kriia,” she said, voice smooth and rich with a hint of amusement.

Kriia offered her best grin, shaking her hand firmly.

“That’s me.”

Zeraphine hummed, studying her.

"Rexar’s told us so much about you," she said. "We were starting to think you weren’t real."

Kriia snorted, then instantly regretted it as it sent a sharp tickle straight up her sinuses.

She sniffled quickly, covering it with a casual laugh.

“Well, I’m here now,” she said smoothly. “And trust me—I’m just as real as the headache he gives me every day.”

Zeraphine laughed, and just like that—some of Kriia’s nerves faded.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

The inside of the estate was somehow even bigger than Kriia had expected.

The ceilings stretched impossibly high, held up by carved stone pillars that looked ancient yet impeccably maintained. The floors were polished dark wood, the walls adorned with massive oil paintings of regal, sharp-featured ancestors whose eyes seemed to follow them as they walked. Chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the space, their intricate metalwork shaped like curling flames—an unsubtle nod to the Fang family’s infamous pyromancy.

And the people?

Everywhere.

Fangs of every shape and size moved through the halls, some dressed in modern, casual clothes, others in traditional, high-collared attire that made them look like they had walked straight out of an old vampire novel. They were a beautiful, predatory mix—all of them sharing the Fang bloodline’s striking features, their sharp eyes flickering with interest as they passed.

As they navigated the sprawling halls of the Erinth Fang Estate, Rexar led Kriia past a series of towering archways, nodding enthusiastically at passing relatives, most of whom greeted him with fond smiles, a high-five, or a large, Fang-esque hug.

Every few feet, someone else recognized Rexar.

And every single one of them commented on how much he had grown.

He was thirty. He had not grown in years.

"Rexar! Gods, look at you—it's been ages!"

"Holy shit, you're huge! What are they feeding you?"

"How do you keep getting bigger?!"

"You’re gonna hit seven feet soon at this rate!"

Rexar, to his credit, took it all in stride.

"Y’know, I get that a lot."

His usual wide, charming grin was permanently fixed to his face, laughing and greeting each one with his signature easy warmth. He was in his element here—his energy infectious, his confidence effortless.

Kriia, meanwhile, was struggling.

Her head pounded, her sinuses burned, and every breath she took felt like she was inhaling through wet cotton. The heavy fog outside pressed in against the estate, seeping through the ancient stone walls and settling into her bones, making her fever feel ten times worse. The damp, clinging air carried the scent of rain-soaked earth and moss-covered stone, thick and inescapable.

She forced herself to stand tall, nodding politely when introduced, but her body was screaming at her to lie down and never get up. The flickering lanterns cast elongated shadows against the towering bookshelves and worn wooden beams, giving everything a dreamlike haze—though whether it was the fever or the fog outside, she wasn’t sure.

And then—of course—they ran into Perry.

He stood at the end of the corridor, leaning against a carved stone pillar, arms folded neatly over his chest. Even at a distance, his mismatched eyes were sharp, dissecting, their eerie glow fixed on Rexar with an air of casual disapproval.

His horns—deep green, curling like polished obsidian—caught the light, and his sleek, dark coat made him look like he had just stepped out of some high-end magazine. Not a single thing about him was out of place.

Which made him the complete opposite of Rexar, who immediately grinned like he’d just spotted his favorite person in the world.

"Perry!" Rexar called out, clapping a hand on his shoulder before he could dodge. “Dude, I was hoping I’d run into you! What’s up, man?”

Perry barely reacted, save for the subtle, impatient flick of his eyes toward Rexar’s hand, which was still on his shoulder.

"Apparently, you," he deadpanned, his voice smooth, clipped, and carrying zero enthusiasm.

Rexar just laughed, ignoring the obvious distaste and squeezing his shoulder once before finally letting go.

“Bro, don’t act like you’re not happy to see me,” he teased. “You missed me, admit it.”

Perry exhaled through his nose, the closest thing he ever gave to an eye roll, and finally turned his attention to Kriia.

His gaze flickered over her just once—quick, assessing, noting everything.

The too-flushed cheeks. The slight sheen of sweat. The way she subtly swallowed before speaking, as if trying to soothe a sore throat.

Interesting.

"Kriia," he said smoothly, offering a hand. “Nice to finally meet you in person.”

Kriia, despite feeling like death, still managed to shake his hand firmly, flashing the same confident smirk she always did over video calls.

“Likewise.”

She sniffled subtly, barely catching it before it became too obvious.

Perry didn’t miss it.

But he didn’t say anything.

He just tilted his head slightly, gaze still locked onto hers, like he was picking her apart in real time.

Rexar, completely oblivious to the tension, clapped Perry on the back again and laughed.

"Man, don’t let him intimidate you, babygirl," he said to Kriia, grinning. "Perry tries to be all mysterious and broody, but deep down? He’s just a big nerd."

Perry’s jaw twitched.

“Charming,” he said dryly.

Kriia barely bit back a smirk.

She was sick as hell, but Rexar being this unfazed by Perry’s entire existence was genuinely hilarious.

Still, before Perry could respond, Zeraphine poked her head out from one of the doorways down the hall, waving the two over.

“Rex baby, you want to see your room?”

Rexar perked up instantly. "Hell yeah, let’s go!"

Kriia took the lifeline instantly, already turning to follow him.

But just before she could go—

Perry’s voice followed her.

Soft. Amused.

“I do hope you enjoy the weekend, Kriia.”

She didn’t need to look back to know he was smirking.

And she didn’t need to hear the subtext to know exactly what he meant.

He knew.

And he was waiting to see how long she could keep up the act.

Every step she took felt heavier, her body dragging with the weight of exhaustion. The fever simmering under her skin had grown worse in the time it took to get from the car to their room, the heat pressing into her bones like a slow, persistent burn.

Her sinuses throbbed, packed so thick with congestion that each inhale felt like breathing through damp cotton. She sniffled discreetly, but it was a losing battle—her nose was running and stuffy at the same time, leaving her in a constant cycle of either sniffling or swallowing around the thickness in her throat.

Her ears felt clogged, her head aching dully from the sheer pressure building behind her eyes.

And the sneezes?

A fucking nightmare.

She had managed to hold them back so far, each sharp tickle forcing her to pause for a moment, biting the inside of her cheek, pressing her wrist hard against her nose, waiting for it to fade.

She was losing, though.

Her breath kept hitching, forcing her to turn away slightly, feigning a casual rub at her nose while she swallowed back the urge.

No one had noticed yet.

But one person did.

Zeraphine.

Rexar’s mother didn’t say anything.

But Kriia felt the weight of her gaze.

Sharp, perceptive, knowing.

Still, she didn’t comment.

Instead, she simply led them down the long hallway, her tone warm as she spoke.

"This will be your room for the weekend."

She pushed open the massive double doors, revealing a sprawling bedroom steeped in old-world grandeur.

A towering four-poster bed dominated the center, its dark oak frame carved with intricate patterns, draped in layers of deep crimson and black silk. Heavy velvet curtains framed the windows, their fabric thick enough to block out the ever-present fog that curled outside. Beyond the glass, the hamlet stretched out in eerie silence, the twisted silhouettes of ancient trees barely visible through the shifting mist. The scent of damp stone and aged wood lingered in the air, grounding the room in a sense of history—both elegant and haunting.

There was a fireplace, already lit, casting dancing orange light against the stone walls. A sitting area with plush chairs and an ornate wooden desk sat in the corner, complete with a collection of old books and handwritten letters.

It was beautiful.

And Kriia barely saw it.

She was too focused on staying upright.

Zeraphine turned to them with a graceful smile.

"Dinner will be ready in an hour," she said, voice warm. "I'll leave you two to settle in."

With one last look at Kriia—a look that said she had noticed every damn thing—she turned and disappeared down the hall.

And the second the doors shut behind her?

Kriia crumpled onto the bed, groaning into the blankets. A deep, miserable groan muffled into the pillows, vibrating with pure exhaustion.

She felt like absolute shit.

Her body was overheated, her skin clammy from the fever that had been slowly rising all day. Every inch of her throbbed, her muscles sore from the sheer effort of keeping herself upright for the past nine hours. Her head pounded, a dull, relentless ache pressing against her skull, making even the dim, golden glow of the bedside lamps feel like too much.

And her sinuses?

Completely, hopelessly clogged.

She couldn’t get a single proper breath through her nose, forcing her to breathe through her mouth—which only aggravated her raw, aching throat further. Every inhale felt thick, like she was pulling air through a straw filled with molasses.

Her ears were stuffed up, too, muffling the sounds around her, making everything feel just slightly off-kilter.

And then—there was the tickle.

That constant, merciless itch deep in her sinuses, teasing at her already overwhelmed nerves, threatening to push her over the edge.

Kriia pressed her wrist hard against her nose, willing the sensation to fade, her breath hitching in silent desperation. She couldn’t lose control now.

Not here.

Not with Rexar watching.

But fuck, it was so strong—spreading like static electricity, crawling its way up until her breath gave a sudden, sharp hiccup.

Shit—no, no, no.

She twisted just in time, barely managing to stifle the fit into the blankets, her shoulders jerking violently with each suppressed sneeze.

"hh’kNXT’tt!—h'NGXT’chh!—hh!—hh’tSSHhu!"

The last one slipped out—harsh, scraping, far too wet.

A sharp sniffle followed, barely enough to clear the congestion, and she immediately winced at how obvious it sounded.

Rexar, who had just sat down beside her, froze.

His red-flecked eyes narrowed instantly, brows furrowing in suspicion.

"Babe," he said, nudging her gently. "What’s up? You’ve been, like… weirdly quiet since we got here."

Kriia hesitated.

She couldn’t tell him.

If his family found out she was sick, they’d probably shove her straight into the tunnels like they did with him whenever he got sick as a kid.

The thought made her stomach twist.

Kriia forced herself to sit up, ignoring the way her vision tilted dangerously for a moment. She plastered on a smirk, one she hoped still had its usual confidence, and shot Rexar her best “I’m totally fine” look.

“Just—tired from the drive,” she said, voice hoarse but light, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m good.”

Rexar squinted.

He wasn’t buying it.

His storm-gray eyes flickered over her face, taking in every detail—the slight flush to her cheeks, the glassy haze in her eyes, the way her breathing wasn’t quite right, just a little too controlled.

But instead of pressing, he sighed through his nose, leaning back slightly against the edge of the bed.

“If you say so,” he muttered, not sounding convinced.

Then, instead of calling her out, he gestured toward the room around them.

“Y’know, this place is kinda sentimental for me,” he admitted, a rare softness creeping into his voice. “I stayed here a lot growing up, when we came through Erinth for Cullings. Out of all the rooms in the estate, this one was always mine.”

Kriia glanced around, trying to focus on his words instead of the relentless tickle in her sinuses.

The room was massive, all dark stone and deep crimson accents, exuding the weight of old money and older secrets. A towering four-poster bed stood at its center, draped in impossibly soft-looking blankets, its heavy wooden frame carved with intricate, timeworn details.

One entire wall was dominated by towering windows, their glass fogged at the edges, offering a ghostly view of the mist-laden hamlet beyond. Gnarled, ancient trees loomed just beyond the estate’s perimeter, their twisted branches half-lost in the dense, ever-present fog. On the opposite side of the room, a fireplace stretched nearly to the ceiling, the kind so cavernous it looked like it could swallow a person whole, its hearth blackened with age.

It was exactly the kind of place she could picture a younger Rexar sprawled across the bed, lazily strumming his guitar, trying to carve out a space for himself in the sprawling, shadowed world of his family.

She wanted to say something—maybe make a teasing remark about how absurdly dramatic it was that he had his own gothic prince suite—but—

The tickle flared.

Her breath hitched.

Shit—

Kriia turned sharply away, muffling the sneezes as best she could into her wrist.

“h’KTSCHhh! hh’ihhNGXT’uhh! hh’kTSSHh’uhh!”

Messy, unrestrained—still stifled, but nowhere near subtle.

The second the sneezes escaped, she felt Rexar move.

Before she could even recover, he was already at her side, one warm, calloused hand brushing across her cheek, checking her temperature.

“Ah—dude,” she croaked, barely managing to play it off.

Rexar’s expression flickered with suspicion, his grey-red eyes narrowing slightly.

“Dust?” she supplied quickly, sniffling thickly and waving a vague hand toward the air. “There’s—like, I dunno—old books or something in here, right?”

He didn’t look convinced.

But after a long, assessing pause, he just sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Yeah, maybe.”

Crisis averted.

Kriia exhaled slowly, schooling her expression into something more relaxed as she turned away, reaching for the water bottle on the nightstand.

But then—

Her breath caught again.

Shit.

She barely had time to wrench her sleeve up before another harsh, stifled sneeze ripped through her. “Heh’n’gtx!” Then another. “hhh’nGNxxt!” And another. “H’GXTSH’ue!”

Rexar straightened immediately, brows furrowing. “Okay, that is not dust.”

Kriia swallowed hard, scrubbing at her nose with the heel of her hand. “It’s fine,” she rasped, already feeling the telltale burn building again. “I’m fine—”

“Babe.”

She could hear it in his voice—the shift from playful skepticism to something more serious, more concerned.

And the worst part? He wasn’t wrong to be.

She was losing this battle.

Her breath kept hitching, shoulders trembling with the effort of holding back the sneezes threatening to overwhelm her. Rexar could see it, his gaze sharpening as he stepped closer, watching her carefully.

“Kr—”

A knock at the door.

Kriia could’ve kissed whoever it was.

She latched onto the distraction instantly, clearing her throat and quickly scrubbing her sleeve under her nose as a tiny, hesitant voice called from the hallway:

“Um… dinner’s almost ready.”

Kriia and Rexar both turned toward the door.

Rexar’s expression softened instantly.

“That’s Runa,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “My youngest sister.”

Kriia seized the opportunity, shoving the blankets off herself as she stood, forcing a grin. “Right. Let’s go.”

Rexar hesitated.

His concern hadn’t faded—not by a long shot—but with his little sister waiting outside, he let it go.

For now.

The Fang dining hall was colossal.

Massive chandeliers cast a warm, flickering glow over the endless stretch of dark wooden tables, each overflowing with platters of lavishly prepared meats, charred vegetables, and golden, freshly baked bread. The scent alone was intoxicating—smoky, rich, layered with spices Kriia couldn’t even begin to place.

And the sheer number of people in the room? Overwhelming.

The instant they walked in, Kriia barely had time to register the vastness of the space before ten distinct voices erupted all at once.

“Rex!!”

The pack descended.

Thorne and Sylwen, the oldest of the Fang siblings, towered over the rest—Thorne with his heavy, bear-like frame and Sylwen’s coolly amused expression as she leaned on her twin’s shoulder. Elaris and Garrik were next, talking over each other as they teased Rexar, shoving him playfully like they were still in their teenage years.

Nyxara and Marwyn were elegant in their greetings, Nyxara rolling her eyes with a fond “Still slouching, I see,” while Marwyn gave a rare, but genuine smile, offering a quick, affectionate “Welcome home, little brother.”

Varos, the last of the older brothers, grinned wickedly and mussed Rexar’s hair, dodging the half-hearted swipe aimed at his arm.

Then came Zyra, barreling into Rexar with all the force her twenty-year-old self could muster, already grilling him for stories about Scrila, about his band, about literally everything he hadn’t told her yet.

Vesper lingered a little behind, cool and observant, offering only a “Glad you made it in one piece,” before retreating back to her seat.

And finally, Runa, the shyest of them all, stood just behind them, watching Kriia more than Rexar.

Kriia forced a smile, but her head was spinning.

So many names. So many faces.

Kriia hadn’t even noticed the man at the head of the table until his deep, commanding voice cut through the lively conversation. “Rexar. You’ve finally decided to show up this year.” Orin Fang’s sharp, piercing gaze flickered between his son and Kriia, assessing, weighing. His presence was imposing—not loud, not overbearing, but absolute.

And not just Rexar’s direct family members, either—she recognized some of his extended family sitting among the others at the table:

Aunt Lilith, the infamous adventurer who had found and adopted Perry, nudging Uncle Zerrok with her elbow looking far too amused as she watched the chaos unfold

Aunt Selka, Aunt Erisen, and Aunt Calista, all chatting amongst themselves, but keeping a keen eye on their younger relatives.

Cousins Loriel and Rivana, each engaged in their own quiet conversation, but still offering Rexar a nod of greeting.

It was a lot to take in.

And Rexar?

He was completely in his element.

Laughing, talking, effortlessly shifting between every conversation, giving as good as he got whenever one of his siblings teased him for staying away too long. He thrived in the attention, soaking it up like a plant in the sun, answering every question, grinning through every jab.

Meanwhile, Kriia?

Dying.

She was tense, silent, nothing like the quick-witted, sharp-tongued version of herself that his family had seen over video calls.

And it was not going unnoticed.

Especially not by Zeraphine.

His mother had seated herself near the head of the table, but Kriia could feel her gaze on her, assessing.

Still, she said nothing.

She merely gestured for them to take their seats, and the moment they did—the real feast began.

The food was undeniably incredible. Every dish was rich and indulgent, perfectly seasoned, the flavors both comforting and decadent. Under any other circumstances, Kriia would have been devouring it with reckless abandon.

But instead—

She was fighting a war.

Her sinuses were on fire, the relentless tickle teasing deep within her nose, an unbearable itch that refused to settle. Her head throbbed, her throat was raw, and the effort of stifling every cough, every sneeze, every miserable sniffle was draining her by the second.

She couldn’t let them hear.
Couldn’t let them see.

So she played it off.

Whenever her breath hitched, she masked it with a sip of water, letting the glass linger near her face just long enough to cover her expression.

Whenever the urge to cough clawed at her chest, she disguised it as clearing her throat, forcing it to be soft, controlled.

And when—despite everything—a sneeze finally won, slipping past her defenses, she stifled it so viciously into her napkin that it barely made a sound.

"hh’NGXt’CHH!—hh’ihhGNXT’uhh!"

Still, Rexar’s head turned.

He hadn’t missed it.

His eyes narrowed slightly, his easygoing demeanor not shifting, but his attention firmly locking on her now.

She sniffled hard, pretending to wipe at her mouth with her napkin, her fingers pressing just under her nose as if adjusting her septum piercing. The tickle flared violently in retaliation, and she barely managed to smother another round of sneezes into the fabric before they could escape.

"h’KTSCHh!—hh’kTSHH’uhh!!"

Her shoulders trembled with the effort.

Rexar didn’t blink.

She avoided his gaze.

She pushed food around her plate, nodding along absently to whatever conversation was happening, hoping he would just let it go.

For a while, he did.

But as the night wore on, she found herself retreating further and further into silence.

By the time dessert was served, she wasn’t even pretending to eat anymore.

And that?

That was when Rexar really noticed.

The second the meal ended, Rexar pushed back from the table, stretching like it was no big deal.

“We’re crashing early,” he announced, casual and easy, glancing at Kriia like this had been her idea all along. “Long drive, y’know?”

A few of his siblings groaned in protest, but Zeraphine only nodded.

“Get some rest, love,” she said, her voice gentle—too knowing.

Kriia forced a weak smile, offering a polite “Goodnight,” before following Rexar out of the dining hall.

The instant they were out of sight—

“Okay. Spill.”

Kriia sighed, already knowing this was coming.

She was too tired to fight it anymore.

So, after a long pause—

She finally admitted it.

“I think I’m sick...”

The words sat between them for a moment, hanging heavy in the dimly lit hallway.

Rexar’s expression shifted instantly—the teasing gone, the concern fully settling in.

His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, his voice dropping into something softer.

“Babe…”

Kriia sighed, letting herself lean into his warmth, just for a second.

“It’s fine,” she mumbled. “I just—I feel kinda shitty. And I probably look even worse.”

That got her a reaction.

Rexar huffed, offended on her behalf.

“You always look hot,” he corrected, squeezing her waist for emphasis. “But also, what the hell, why didn’t you say something earlier?”

Kriia groaned, burying her face into his shoulder.

“Because! It’s your family! I didn’t wanna be that girl—the one who shows up and instantly hides in the guest room for two days. I already feel like an outsider here, I don’t want them thinking I’m—”

She cut herself off.

She didn’t want them thinking she was weak.

Didn’t want them to see her as pathetic, breakable, a fragile little thing that needed handling with care.

Didn’t want them to send her to the tunnels.

Rexar sighed, pressing a slow kiss to the top of her head.

“Kriia. Baby angel. My precious little babydoll.”

His voice was gentle, but firm.

“You’re not hiding. You’re sick.”

She huffed, sniffling miserably against his chest.

“Doesn’t make a difference.”

He chuckled, low and fond.

“Princess, they love you. My mom is, like, obsessed with you. And if she knew you were sick, she’d probably be in our room right now with a whole-ass team of healers, force-feeding you soup.”

Kriia shuddered at the thought.

Rexar just laughed.

“See? Wouldn’t be so bad.”

She grumbled, muttering something about how she’d rather be left for dead, but she didn’t argue.

And Rexar?

He saw right through her.

So, instead of pressing, he scooped her up effortlessly, carrying her toward their room like she weighed absolutely nothing.

Kriia let him.

Mostly because she was exhausted.

But also because—even if she’d never admit it—Rexar’s arms were warm. Safe.

And right now?

That was exactly what she needed.

Kriia woke up to the soft murmur of the TV and Rexar’s body heat pressed against her back.

For a second, she could almost pretend she was back home.

Back in their ridiculously oversized bed, tangled in blankets, half-awake while some stupid reality show droned on in the background.

Except—

She wasn’t.

Her head throbbed, her throat was on fire, and she was very much not home.

A deep, prickling tickle bloomed high in her sinuses, sharp and relentless, overtaking her before she even had the chance to fight it.

"hhh’tSCHHh! hh’TSSCHhh’uhh!—hH’ihhNGXSH’uhh!"

The sneezes burst out of her in rapid succession, harsh and miserable, muffled only slightly by the pillow she had buried her face into.

Rexar’s hand found her back immediately, rubbing slow, lazy circles.

“Morning, beautiful.”

His voice was still rough with sleep, but his teasing grin was already in place.

Kriia groaned louder, half sniffling, half glaring at him.

“Shut up.”

Rexar chuckled, completely unbothered, still tracing mindless patterns along her spine.

“You sleep okay?”

She grunted in response.

It was halfhearted at best.

Another sharp inhale cut through the thick air, and she barely managed to twist away before another fit overtook her, her body jerking forward with the force of it.

“Hihh’GXXTsh! ehh’Gxxtchh! Hiihh’NGnxxt’iuh!”

Rexar winced in sympathy, his arm sliding fully around her waist, voice dipping into something softer.

“You feel any better?”

Kriia sniffled, scrubbing at her nose with the sleeve of her hoodie.

Another grunt.

Less convincing.

Rexar sighed.

“Didn’t think so.”

He spent the entire day doting on her.

Fetching her water, bringing her food she barely touched, pulling the blankets up when she shivered, turning the TV up when she was too tired to talk.

Kriia tried to tell him to stop.
Tried to insist she was fine, that she didn’t need him to hover.

But Rexar wasn’t having it.

“If you’re not gonna let me call my mom in here to actually take care of you, then you’re just gonna have to deal with me doing it.”

Kriia groaned, throwing an arm over her face.

“Unacceptable.”

Her breath suddenly hitched, a sharp gasp catching in her throat before she could stop it—

“Hh’NDKT’ih! H’GXTSH’ue! K’GNSH’iiew!”

The force of the sneezes rocked her forward, tearing through her already raw throat, leaving her sniffling and dazed.

Rexar just laughed, rubbing circles into her back as she curled into herself.

“Too bad, babygirl.”

She tried to glare at him, but her head was too heavy, and he was too warm, and the congestion thickening behind her eyes made it impossible to do anything except melt further into his side.

Her breath shuddered violently, her whole body tensing against him as the sneezes overtook her without warning—

“hh’NGXT’uhh! hh’NTSCHh’iew! hH’ihhKSHh’uehh—hh’NGXT’uhh! H’GXTSH’ue!”

A sharp gasp tore through her chest, but the fit wasn’t done with her yet. Her nostrils flared desperately, damp and quivering as her breath hitched unevenly. She was completely helpless against it, caught in a torturous limbo where the sneezes refused to come but refused to fade.

Rexar barely had time to glance down before she sneezed again—directly into his side.

It was messy, wet, leaving a small damp spot on his shirt that she barely had the energy to be mortified about. He felt her tense in embarrassment, her fingers twitching against his chest like she wanted to pull away, but he just chuckled softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer.

“Bless you, Princess,” he purred, voice thick with lazy amusement.

Kriia let out a miserable, stuffy whimper, her breath still trembling on the edge of another fit. Her nose twitched against him, red and dripping, her eyes glassy with the effort of trying to force it out.

Rexar watched her with open adoration, his grin widening as she wriggled in frustration, her breath hitching miserably without relief.

“Poor babygirl,” he murmured in her ear, his voice warm and teasing, sending a fresh shiver through her exhausted frame.

Her eyes fluttered open just long enough to shoot him the weakest, most pitiful glare he’d ever seen.

He grinned.

Without her even having to ask, he brought his hand up, his calloused fingertips tracing a slow, featherlight line from the bridge of her nose to the very tip—then back up again.

Kriia jolted, her breath stuttering sharply in response.

But still, the fit refused to break.

Her nostrils flared wildly, her damp, pinkened nose twitching with the maddening, stuck sensation. A tiny tear welled at the corner of her eye, her lips parting with helpless, stuttering gasps.

Rexar chuckled, feeling a little bad but unable to stop himself from enjoying the sight.

“Damn, sweetheart,” he teased, switching tactics, his nail ghosting lightly along the delicate curve of her septum, then tracing along the sensitive rims of her nostrils. “Your nose is being real stubborn today, huh?”

She whined, voice so small, so utterly wrecked with congestion and frustration that he had to bite back a groan.

Then—finally—her breath hitched in a violent gasp.

Her whole body tensed, her chest stuttering against his as she pitched forward into him.

“Ngt’chh! hptt’CH! GXTtt’chh! hh’GKXT’ihh! hh—hHh’KSHHhh’iew!—hh’ihh’KSHHh’uhh! hh’HKXT’chh! hH’ihh’kSHHh’uehh!”

The fit tore through her in drawn-out, rapid-fire bursts, barely muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

Rexar hummed in praise, rubbing slow, soothing circles along her back as she shuddered against him, breathless and spent.

“Atta girl,” he murmured, lips brushing against her temple. “Knew you had it in you.”

Kriia let out a muffled, mortified whimper, burying her face in her hands, her entire body radiating warmth—though whether it was from the fever or sheer embarrassment, Rexar couldn’t tell.

“Th-thag you,” she mumbled, her voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

He pressed a slow, affectionate kiss to her temple, his hand still tracing soft, absentminded circles against her back.

“Anytime, babygirl.”

And for the rest of the day, she let herself exist in the cocoon of his warmth, his hands in her hair, the deep rumble of his voice as he mindlessly narrated whatever show was playing.

For the first time since they got here—

She felt safe.

But by the time the sun started to set, Kriia knew what was coming.

She’d known since before they even left Scrila.

Tonight was The Culling.

And Rexar was leaving.

She could feel it—the shift in his energy, the way his usual easy charm had dimmed.

He was still smiling, still laughing, still teasing her every chance he got.

But beneath it?

There was something heavier.

Something quieter.

The Fang estate had been alive with movement, every member of the family preparing for what was, to them, a sacred tradition.

Kriia had heard about The Culling countless times, had seen the way it weighed on Rexar, had even researched the ritualistic nature of it out of curiosity.

But knowing and witnessing were two entirely different things.

She’d never actually seen him leave for one before.

Never watched him stand among his family—ten siblings, mother, father, aunts, uncles, cousins, elders—each one of them primed for the hunt, their energy buzzing, their monstrous nature barely contained beneath their skin.

And Rexar?

Even through all his laughs, his jokes, his easygoing demeanor—

Kriia could see the shift in him.

The way his posture stiffened, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, the way he let his family’s excitement wash over him without really absorbing it.

This wasn’t something he did joyfully.

It was something he did because he had to.

She hadn’t realized she was staring until he turned, his gray-red eyes finding hers.

For a moment, everything else blurred.

The laughter. The conversation. The chaos.

There was only him.

Kriia rolled onto her side, watching him as he sat on the edge of the bed, tying his boots.

He had felt her staring.

“What?”

She hesitated.

Then—

“You okay?”

Rexar’s hands paused.

For just a second.

Then—

He smirked, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Worried about me, babygirl?”

Kriia huffed, shoving a pillow at him.

“Shut up.”

Rexar laughed, catching it easily, but his eyes were softer now.

He turned back, finishing the laces, rolling his shoulders.

Preparing.

Then—

He leaned down, pressing a slow, warm kiss to her forehead.

“Get some sleep, Princess. I love you more than anything.”

And before she could respond—

He was gone.

The night air was thick with anticipation as the Fang family gathered in the heart of the fog-laden hamlet, shrouded by towering, ancient trees. Wisps of mist curled between the gnarled roots and moss-draped branches, swallowing the lantern light and casting eerie, shifting shadows across the damp cobblestone streets. The scent of wet earth and woodsmoke clung to the cold breeze, a stark contrast to the simmering energy crackling between the assembled predators.

Beyond the hamlet’s outskirts, the dense forest stretched into the unknown, its depths cloaked in darkness, alive with the whisper of unseen things stirring in the undergrowth. The weight of ritual hung heavy in the air—the unspoken understanding that tonight, they would indulge the hunger coiled deep in their bones.

The silence was unnatural. Expectant.

It settled over the group like a second skin, pressing in with the weight of something inevitable.

Rexar stood among them, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders loose and easy despite the tension curling around them all. He knew what was coming. The moment they were all together, away from the house, away from Kriia—someone was bound to bring it up.

It didn’t take long.

“So, your girl’s been hiding all day,” Garrik said, voice light but pointed. “Thought she was supposed to be meeting everyone?”

Nyxara, ever the blunt one, snorted. “You sure she didn’t change her mind about us?”

“She’s been so different in person,” Elaris added, brow furrowed. “Quiet. She barely spoke at dinner.”

There were murmurs of agreement, a ripple of speculation moving through the group. Rexar caught the way Aunt Selka exchanged a glance with Aunt Erisen, the subtle crease in Zeraphine’s brow, the way Varos leaned in slightly, listening.

He let it go on for a second—just a second—before sighing dramatically, shaking his head.

“Oh, come on.”

The conversation stuttered. Eyes turned toward him.

Rexar smirked, crossing his arms. “You guys are acting like she’s avoiding you.”

Sylwen tilted her head. “…Isn’t she?”

“No,” Rexar scoffed. “She’s sick.”

That got their attention.

Zeraphine’s expression softened instantly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Yeah,” Rexar continued, grin still easy, but voice a little gentler now. “She’s been trying to hide it ‘cause she didn’t want you guys to hate her. Or worse, send her to the tunnels.”

That earned a collective groan.

“We would never send her to the tunnels,” Marwyn said, exasperated.

“That’s awful,” Aunt Calista added, shaking her head.

Runa, the youngest, tugged at Rexar’s sleeve, looking up at him with wide, worried eyes. “Is she okay?”

Rexar ruffled her hair. “She’ll be fine. She just needs rest.”

There was a brief pause—then, a wave of understanding.

His aunts, his sisters, even a few of his cousins let out soft, sympathetic sounds.

“She should’ve just told us,” Nyxara mused, frowning.

“We’ll have to make sure she’s comfortable tomorrow,” Zeraphine said firmly.

Rexar huffed a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes fondly. “Yeah, I figured this would happen.”

The teasing remarks about Kriia’s absence faded into something else entirely—concern, acceptance, understanding.

Rexar felt something loosen in his chest.

She had nothing to worry about.

His family had already claimed her as one of their own.

The Culling took hours.

Kriia had fallen asleep at some point, but when the sound of voices finally pulled her back to consciousness, it was different.

Louder.

Brighter.

The moment the front doors opened, the entire mansion came alive.

Laughter echoed through the halls, voices booming, the weight of the hunt still thrumming through the air like a second heartbeat.

Kriia sat up slowly, rubbing at her eyes.

The estate felt entirely different than it had earlier—like it had been recharged, revitalized.

Like a holiday feast had just ended, and the guests were still riding the high of indulgence.

And then—

There was Rexar.

She heard him before she saw him, his deep, lively voice cutting through the noise.

He sounded good. Energized.

For the first time in months, his hunger was gone.

And when he finally knocked at the door, his voice gentle, but teasing—

“Babygirl? You decent?”

Kriia couldn’t help but smile.

“Yeah, come in.”

The door clicked open, and when she saw him—

For a moment, she forgot she even felt like shit.

His features were alive in a way they hadn’t been in so long.

His cheeks flushed, his eyes bright, his usual lazy smirk tugging at his lips, the smoke drifting from his nose in thin streams.

But more than that—

There was something lighter about him.

Like a weight had been lifted.

Like he could finally breathe.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he beat her to it.

“You have a visitor. They have something for you.”

Kriia blinked.

Then, from behind him, a tiny, shy voice.

“…I made you tea… w-with honey.”

Kriia’s heart stopped.

There, peeking nervously from behind Rexar’s arm—was Runa.

His youngest sister.

She looked so small, barely seven years old, holding a delicate porcelain cup with both hands like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“Auntie Lilith helped,” Runa admitted quietly, her big red-gray eyes darting between Kriia and Rexar.

“But I—I hope you feel better.”

Kriia swallowed.

For the second time that night, she felt something warm bloom in her chest.

Slowly, carefully, she reached out and took the cup, her fingers brushing against Runa’s.

The last thing she had expected tonight was for anyone—let alone Rexar’s tiny, reserved little sister—to show up with something just for her.

The overwhelming warmth in her chest was almost too much.

“Oh, come here,” she murmured, reaching for her.

Runa hesitated for only a second before letting Kriia pull her into a hug, small arms wrapping lightly around her middle.

“Thank you, Runa, that’s so sweet of you…” Kriia said, her voice a little thick.

Runa just nodded against her before pulling away, cheeks slightly pink. She gave a tiny wave, then slipped back out of the room, leaving Kriia clutching the warm mug like it was the most precious thing she had ever received.

She swallowed, staring down at it for a moment, then glanced up at Rexar.

His expression was… sheepish.

“Sooo,” he drawled. “I might’ve mentioned to everyone that you were sick.”

Kriia blinked. “Rex.”

“Look, I had to! They were all wondering why you were hiding, and I wasn’t about to let them think you just didn’t like them.” He grinned, leaning in a little. “Besides, now they feel awful that you’ve been feeling like shit. So, uh. You should probably prepare yourself.”

She frowned. “For what?”

“For the whole Fang package,” Rexar said, wiggling his fingers dramatically. “And when I say my family goes overboard with the whole caretaking thing, I mean it. You are about to be aggressively babied.”

Kriia let out a hoarse, tired laugh, shaking her head.

And then—

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes before she could stop them.

Rexar’s grin faltered. “Princess?”

Kriia sniffled, scrubbing at her face with her sleeve. “Sorry,” she muttered, voice cracking slightly. “I just… I didn’t think they’d actually care this much. I thought I’d come here and feel like an outsider. I thought they’d be pissed that I wasn’t out there proving myself or whatever. But instead—” She let out a shaky breath. “They actually care...”

Rexar’s expression softened.

She cleared her throat, blinking quickly, but the words spilled out before she could stop them.

“You know I don’t really have family,” she murmured. “Not since my dad passed. And I know I joke about how obnoxious yours is, but—” Her voice wavered. “I think I get it now. You’re really lucky, Rex.”

His brows furrowed, something fond and unbearably warm settling behind his crimson-ringed gaze.

Slowly, he reached out, cupping the side of her face with a calloused hand. His thumb brushed gently under her eye, catching a stray tear before it could slip down her cheek.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I am.” Rexar's expression softened more, his usual cocky grin giving way to something quieter, something unbearably fond.

"But babydoll, of course they care," he continued, his usually sharp eyes filled to the brim with adoration for the woman in front of him. "You’re important to me. That means you’re important to them. That’s just how it works."

Kriia’s throat tightened. "I don’t even know how to handle that."

Rexar let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You don’t have to ‘handle’ anything, Krii. You just gotta let people give a shit about you."

Kriia huffed, rolling her eyes even as she sniffled. "That’s a lot harder than you make it sound."

"Yeah, I know," he said, pulling her closer, "but you’ll get used to it. Promise."

For the first time in days, Kriia let herself sink into his warmth, into the steady rise and fall of his chest, into the safety of knowing—really knowing—that she wasn’t alone in this.

That maybe, for the first time in a long time, she had a family again. And that made everything worth it.

To be continued… ✨

[valkyriexo]

Invasion of Privacy | Ep. 7 -Truth or Dare

ᑉ³SYNOPSIS; In the dazzling world of fame, you have it all—a beautiful home, devoted fans, and Chan, the love of your life. But when cryptic messages start arriving, the line between adoration and obsession blurs. With each note, you feel increasingly unsafe. Now, you're on a dangerous journey to uncover the truth before it's too late.

ᑉ³PAIRING; Chan x Idol! reader. Ft. Stray Kids

ᑉ³GENRE; Smau, FF , Angst, Hurt, Comfort, mystery

ᑉ³GENERAL WARNINGS ;Violence, Sasaeng (Stalker). Mentions of a knife, mentions of blood, Home invasion, cursing, Kissing, Pain, death, Implied female reader, Certain episodes may be Suggestive MDNI ᑉ³EPISODE WARNINGS : dirty talk, swearing, use of ' 'whore', 'Good girl' , 'Slut', unprotected P in V, teasing, fingering , oral ( f. receiving), begging, edging, Aftercare, Smut. SMUTTTY SMUT, minors do NOT interact. Smut is in between the -- if you wish to skip.

EPISODE WORD COUNT; 5.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE ; 1 more episodes left! Who's your guess?

If you enjoyed this episode, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Whether it's through comments, reblogs, or sending an ask, your feedback means the world to me. Remember, none of this is real. It is a story. It is fiction. You can choose not to read it if it will make you uncomfortable.

Master Post | Teaser | Suspect Cards

The night had been restless, filled with uneasy dreams and fragmented thoughts. You woke with a start, the early morning light filtering through the curtains. Sitting up slowly, you rubbed your eyes, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep as you considered your options.

Chan was gone, that much was true. The dorm room felt emptier without his presence, the air tinged with the echoes of your heated argument from the night before. Staying here alone felt daunting, but the idea of returning home filled you with a different kind of dread.

Glancing at your phone, half-expecting a message from him, there was nothing. The silence between you was loud, laden with unresolved emotions. Sighing softly, you swung your legs over the side of the bed and stood up.

The dorm was quiet, the usual sounds of morning routines absent. It was as if time had slowed down, allowing the weight of recent events to settle in. 

Deciding to freshen up, you made your way to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face. The coolness was refreshing, a brief respite from the turmoil swirling inside you. Staring at your reflection, you wondered how everything had spiraled so quickly. The award, the mysterious gifts, the confessions, and the loss—all seemed like an overwhelming blur.

All the events were reminders that trust was a luxury you couldn't afford right now.

After a quick shower and change of clothes, you decided to head out, feeling slightly more composed. Standing in the doorway, hesitating before locking up, your phone buzzed softly in your hand. It was a message from Aera, your assistant, whose concern warmed your heart amidst the chaos.

"Hey, how are you doing? Do you need anything done today?" Her message read.

You smiled faintly at her concern, typing out a quick reply. "I'm okay. I will let you know if anything comes up."

Leaving the dorm behind, you stepped out into the crisp morning air, the city awakening around you. People hurried past, lost in their own worlds, unaware of the turmoil churning inside you. You walked aimlessly for a while, seeking solace in the familiar streets of Seoul.

Seungmin remained in the hospital, his condition stable but unconscious. 

As you walked through the bustling streets of Seoul, you found yourself drawn towards the hospital where he lay, a silent figure in a sterile room.

Arriving at the hospital, you navigated the familiar halls with a heavy heart. Nurses bustled about, doctors exchanged quiet words, and families sat in waiting rooms, their faces etched with concern. The atmosphere was one of subdued tension, a stark contrast to the vibrant city outside.

Finding Seungmin's room, you paused at the doorway, hesitating before stepping inside. His pale form lay still on the hospital bed, machines softly beeping in the background. The sight of him like this, so vulnerable and fragile, brought a lump to your throat.

Pulling up a chair beside his bed, you took his hand gently in yours. It felt warm, reassuring in its familiarity. Memories of happier times flooded your mind – his infectious laughter, his unwavering support during difficult moments, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

"You're going to be okay," you whispered softly, more to reassure yourself than anything else.

As hours passed in the hospital room, you remained by Seungmin's side, lost in your thoughts. Aera's messages occasionally buzzed in your pocket, but you couldn't bring yourself to reply just yet.

The hospital had become a refuge of sorts, a place where time seemed suspended, allowing you to confront the whirlwind of emotions inside you.

Lost in your contemplation, a familiar voice broke through the quiet. Minho, stood in the doorway, his expression a mix of concern and reassurance.

"Hey," he said softly, stepping inside. "How are you holding up?"

You looked up, grateful for his presence but feeling a wave of awkwardness wash over you. Minho had always been a good friend, someone you could rely on, but the recent events had left everything feeling strained and uncertain.

"I... I don't know," you admitted quietly, your gaze drifting back to Seungmin. "It's just... a lot."

Minho nodded understandingly, pulling up a chair beside you. His usually easygoing demeanor seemed tempered with a sense of solemnity, acknowledging the gravity of the situation.

"Seungmin's doing okay. The doctors say he could be out soon," Minho offered, trying to provide some comfort.

"That's good to hear," you replied with a breath of relief, grateful for the positive update on Seungmin's condition.

After a moment of silence, Minho spoke again, his voice soft and hesitant. "I... heard about what happened between you and Chan."

Your breath caught in your throat, surprised. "You did?"

He nodded, briefly glancing at you before returning his gaze to Seungmin. "Yeah. He came to the hospital late last night. Looked like he hadn't slept."

Guilt washed over you, not knowing that your argument with Chan had affected him deeply. "I didn't mean for things to get so... heated."

Minho sighed softly, his expression sympathetic. "Chan... he cares about you a lot. Sometimes that passion can come out in ways that surprise us."

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words. "I know. I just... I didn't handle it well."

"He'll come around," Minho reassured, his voice gentle. "Give him some time."

"I hope so.."

Minho nodded understandingly, standing up and stretching slightly after hours spent in the hospital room.

"We've been here a while," he said, glancing back at you. "Changbin will be here soon to replace me. I can take you home, if you're ready."

"Yeah," you replied gratefully, giving Seungmin a final glance. "I think I'm ready."

Minho nodded, standing up and stretching slightly. "Let me grab a few things, and we can head out."

As you both gathered your things and prepared to leave, Minho glanced back at Seungmin, his expression softening with empathy.

Together, you walked through the quiet halls of the hospital. The city seemed to hold its breath, the usual chaos muted.

As he drove you home, the atmosphere inside the car was tinged with a somber calm. The streetlights flickered past, casting fleeting shadows across his face as he focused on the road ahead. The silence between you was companionable, yet heavy.

As the silence lingered, your thoughts drifted to the unease of returning home alone. The recent events had left you feeling vulnerable, the safety of your own space compromised. The idea of installing security cameras had crossed your mind more than once, a desperate attempt to regain a sense of control.

Chan had taken the initiative to install security cameras for you the day he found out, a gesture that had should have eased the anxiety of being alone at home. His thoughtful act had provided a layer of reassurance during times when the presence of 'Stay' seemed to infiltrate even your most private moments.

"You sure you're going to be okay here on your own?" Minho asked softly, his voice filled the quiet space.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. I have security cameras installed."

he glanced at you, his brow furrowing slightly. "Cameras?"

"Yeah," you continued, feeling a bit self-conscious. "With everything that's been happening... I just... I don't feel safe anymore."

He nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his expression. "I get that. But wouldn't that be a bit... paranoid?"

You shrugged, looking down at your hands. "Maybe. But... I don't know what else to do."

Lee Know sighed, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "It's your call. Just... be careful not to let fear consume you."

You nodded, grateful for his honesty, even if it wasn't the encouragement you had hoped for. "I'll think about it."

As you arrived at your house, he pulled up to the curb, the engine humming softly. You hesitated before stepping out, silently thanking him before making your way into your house.

The days had passed in a haze of tension and uncertainty since your argument with Chan. Despite the passage of time, his absence weighed heavily on your heart, the echoes of his words and your own lingering in the quiet corners of your mind. Each day felt like a struggle to maintain normalcy, the absence of his presence a constant reminder of the rift between you.

Each night, you find yourself waking with a start, heart racing from nightmares that seem all too real. Normally, Chan would be there to comfort you, to reassure you that you're safe. But now, with him gone and no word of his whereabouts, you feel different.

Alone.

The days blur together, filled with a mix of worry for Seungmin, guilt over Chan, and the unsettling presence of 'Stay' lingering in the background. You've tried to maintain a sense of normalcy, focusing on work and keeping up appearances, but the fear of being watched, of something lurking just out of sight, is ever-present.

One evening, as you sat alone in your living room, the soft glow of the security monitors casting flickering shadows on the walls, there came a hesitant knock at your door. Startled, you glanced at the clock

—late enough that unexpected visitors were unusual.

With cautious steps, you approached the door, heart racing with apprehension.

Opening it cautiously, you were met with Chan's familiar figure standing on your doorstep. His expression was a mix of apprehension, exhaustion, and remorse, his usual confidence replaced by vulnerability.

You stood there for a moment, stunned into silence as you processed the sight of Chan standing before you.

"Chan," you breathed, the name escaping your lips in a mix of relief and disbelief.

"Can we talk?" he asked quietly. You hesitated, unsure whether to let him in, but something in his eyes—perhaps a glimpse of the hurt you knew mirrored your own—changed your mind. Nodding silently, you stepped aside, allowing him to enter.

Chan stood awkwardly in the center of the room. You waited, arms folded defensively across your chest, unsure of what to expect.

"I'm sorry," he finally began, his voice barely above a whisper. "I shouldn't have left like that."

You sighed softly, feeling the weight of his words. "I don't blame you. But... I invaded Hyunjin's privacy."

Chan looked at you, his expression softening with understanding. "But you had your reasons. You felt unsafe. I can't be mad at you for that."

You nodded slowly, grateful for his understanding yet still grappling with the guilt of crossing that line. "I know, but it wasn't right."

"I know," Chan replied gently. "We all make mistakes, especially when we're scared."

"but I... I shouldn't have said those what I said to you." he continued. " I was... I was scared. Scared of losing you."

His admission took you aback, the raw honesty in his words catching you off guard. Despite your own hurt, you couldn't deny the sincerity in his voice.

"I was upset," you confessed softly, your gaze dropping to the floor. "When you left... it felt like you were abandoning me when I needed you the most."

Chan's expression softened further, regret shadowing his features. "I'm sorry," he whispered, the words heavy with remorse. "I never meant to make you feel that way."

You sighed, the weight of unspoken emotions hanging in the air between you. "I know you didn't... but it still hurt."

"I never meant to hurt you," he continued, his gaze pleading. "I just... I let my emotions get the better of me. And I know that's no excuse."

You watched him carefully, the walls around your heart beginning to soften in the face of his vulnerability. His apology was genuine, his regret palpable in the air between you.

"I don't expect you to forgive me right away," he continued, his voice cracking slightly. "But I want you to know... I'll do whatever it takes to make things right. I'll give you space if you need it. I'll... I'll grovel if that's what it takes. I want to be here for you, no matter what."

He took a deep breath. "Can we... move past this?" he asked hesitantly, searching your eyes for reassurance.

You searched his eyes, seeing the sincerity and determination etched in every line of his face. You took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his words and the weight of your own conflicting feelings. The road ahead seemed daunting, filled with uncertainties and the scars of recent wounds. But in Chan's earnest plea, you found a glimmer of possibility—a chance to rebuild what had been fractured.

"I want to," you admitted softly, your voice trembling with both fear and longing.

Chan's eyes softened with relief, his own hand finding yours, fingers intertwining in a silent promise. The air around you seemed to shift, charged and electric as you leaned in, hesitantly closing the gap between your lips.

The kiss was tender, tentative at first, a gentle exploration of shared forgiveness and connection. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer as if afraid to let go. For a moment, the world outside faded away, leaving only the both of you.

--

Chan's hands began to roam over your body, teasing and caressing you, pulling you even closer to him.

"God I love you so much." He said between kisses. You hands mad their wayt o his face, cupping his cheeks softly.

" Y/N.... I want you so bad," he growled.

 "Then take me," you replied, your lips never leaving his. "I'm all yours." 

Chan didn't need any further encouragement. He picked you up and carried you to your bed, kissing you all the way there as you straddled him, until he laid you down gently on the bed.

You removed your shirt and pants, laying before him in nothing but your cute red underwear, feeling vulnerable and exposed. Chan's eyes roamed over your body, a look of pure lust on his face. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. "God im so lucky."

You reached out and took off his shirt, eager to feel his muscular body against yours. He kissed you harder, more intensely, as his kisses slowly made his way down your neck and chest. 

His mouth found your nipple, and he began to suck and nibble on it. You moaned softly, your hands tangling in his hair as he teased and teased you with his tongue. As you writhed in pleasure, Chan's hand moved between your legs, his fingers gently rubbing your pussy through the fabric. You moaned louder, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Please, Chan," you begged, your voice ragged. "I need you."

Chan didn't reply. He simply smirked at you and began to remove your underwear, exposing your bare body to him.

"So wet.. And so pretty." he growled, his fingers sliding between your folds to find your clit. You cried out as he began to rub it in slow, teasing circles, his other hand gently massaging your breasts. You could feel your orgasm slowly building. 

Chan's fingers were working their magic on you, and you were close to cumming. But you wanted more, you wanted to feel his hard cock inside you.

"Chan..." You whined," Please fuck me." You gripped his hair tighter.

"Hmm? What was that?" he said. His fingers going faster in you, his breath warm against your skin.

"Fuck... Please… please Chan," You cry out. "Fuck me.... please. I need you," you say, whining to his touch.

Chan chuckled, a low, seductive sound that sent shivers down your spine. "What a whore… Look at you.. Whining for my cock. Are my fingers not enough for you?" He inserted another finger, the stretch becoming almost too much to bear.

"Fe-feel so good." You managed to say. You moaned as Chan pushed his fingers deeper into you, hitting your g spot.

"Oh-Oh my God, I'm so close, Chan.." You said, your voice a soft whisper. Your hips bucked against his hands.

"Not yet, baby. I want to taste you," he whispered, his voice filled with desire. "I want you to cum in my mouth instead."

His head found its way between your legs, his tongue finding your clit as his fingers plunged deeper and harder into your pussy. 

You were close, so close, and Chan's tongue and fingers were bringing you closer and closer to the edge. He hummed against your clit as your fingers tangled themselves into his hair.

"Chan, please...I'm going to... "

Chan smiled, as he continued his actions. His tongue teased your tight hole as you reached your orgasm and your cum oozed out of you and down your thigh.

"Good girl," he purred, cleaning you up with his tounge. He pressed sweet, soft kisses to your clit and you whined.

Chan's lips trailed back up your body, kissing and nibbling their way to your mouth. He finally kissed your lips and you could taste yourself on his tounge. Your hands found their way to his clothed cock and you rubbed his hard member.

He quickly grabbed your hand to stop you. "Tsk.. Tsk ..Tsk..." he said. "This is about you. I want to make you feel good."

"No.." You said, trying to stroke him. "I want to make you feel good too."

Chan groaned and his hands went to his pants, unbuttoning and removing them, along with his boxers.

"You do make me feel good.." he said as his hands gripped your hips, lifting you and teasing his cock at your entrance. You took this opportinity to surprise him by flipping you both over, putting yourself on top.

You began to grind against him, mixing your cum with his pre cum.

"Oh?" he purred, his hands cupping your ass. "My baby wants to be on top?"

You leaned down and kissed him, as you slowly sank down onto his cock. You gasped, his length filling you completely.

"Fuck," he moaned, his eyes closing and his face contorting in pleasure.

You started moving up and down, your hips grinding into his as his cock slid in and out of you. Chan's hands roamed over your body, caressing and teasing you as you rode him.

You saw the bulge of his cock in your stomach with every bounce. "Mmm. That's it baby. That-Thats it. Good girl. Good Fucking girl." He said as you bounced faster and faster on his cock.

You began to clench around him, a tell tale sign of your coming orgasm. Groans leave his lips, dick throbbing deep inside you. Chan cursed lowly under his breath as he watched you look down at him.

You continue to grind your hips down against him, loving the look of desperation on his fucked out face as his leaking tip twitched in your warmth.

“Fuck” he said, feeling you clench more and more around him. "Fuckkkk. Fuck.. oh-" He said as he closed his eyes. Chan's hands remained on your hips, holding you as you moved. 

Suddenly he presses his hands down on your waist forcing you to stop.

You whined from the sudden stop, on the edge of cumming. Chan was so thick. So big.

SO big.

Cockwarming him was almost painful. You wanted to keep moving, to keep feeling him hit your cervix over and over and over again.

"Get off" he said sharply. "Get-get… get off. Please" he whimpered. His hips bucked against you, contradicting what his words were saying. "Please.. I-I can't take it. I'm gonna cum if you dont- fuck.....If you dont get off i'll cum inside you."

"You don't wanna cum in me?" you purred, looking him straight in the eyes with a pout. He gulped and looked away, his breathing laboured.

"Tell me how bad you want to fill me up, Channie."

"Baby..please," he begged, his voice low and needy. "We have no protection and-"

"Cum inside Channie" you said, interrupting him. You slowly moved your hips, making sure he stayed deep inside you. And GOD did he feel good.

"Baby…Please," Chan said, his eyes pleading. "Please. You feel so good, and tight and warm and - arrgh.. If you keep going I won't be able to stop myself. "

He looked at you, his face filled with desperation. "You want me to cum inside you? Are- are you sure?"

"Please, Channie." You said, leaning forward and pressing a kiss against his lips and your hips moved a little faster. "I need you.." You begged him.

Chan moaned loudly and he pulled your hips onto his, his cock fully twitching inside you.

"Oka-Okay, baby." he said as he began to thruste up into you, harder than ever before, hitting your g-spot and cervix at the same time.

"Oh-oh-Ohhh.. oh my god" You said with every thrust.

"fuck, fuck, fuck." Chan cursed, his pace speeding up. "You're a slut you know that? wanting me to fill you up? Cum inside you huh? Such a fucking whore"

"yes! yes! YES!!" you scream, his dirty talk making you even more wet.

"You want it inside? Beg for it." He said, his voice strained.

"Channie..Please...I need your cum in me." you said, looking him straight in the eye.

Chan moaned loudly and his thrusts became erratic.

"Please" you whined, your walls clenching around him.

"Baby..Baby" he moaned, his hips snapping into yours.

Chan cursed again, his thrusts becoming erratic and wild, losing control.

"Chan.. I'm-I'm."

"I know baby. I can feel it. Cum with me." You came first, unable to fight it any longer. "That's it good girl.. good-mmh good fucking girl."

He followed quickly after, burying his cock inside you, his cum painting your walls..

"Fuuuucckkk" He whined. He kept pumping inside you, making sure you took every last drop. You collapsed on top of him, his cock still twitching inside you.

Chan's arms wrap around you, his hands caressing your back as you both try to catch your breath. Chan kissed the top of your head, his fingers gently running through your hair. "I love you," he whispered, his voice filled with emotion. "I love you so much."

"I love you more" you said, content.

Chan’s arms pulled you close against his chest. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, His breath slowing down. His hands moved slowly and soothingly up and down your back, each touch gentle and reassuring.

He nestled his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "I love you," he whispered again, his voice a soft murmur.

You sighed contentedly, feeling his fingers on your body. You both stayed like that for a while, the silence between you filled with unspoken words of comfort and love. Chan's hands continued their gentle caresses, tracing small, soothing circles on your back. His touch was tender, each movement conveying his care and affection.

Your legs tangled together under the covers, your bodies fitting perfectly against each other. You could feel the warmth radiating from him. He held you with a strength that was both protective and gentle, making you feel safe and cherished.

--

As you nuzzled closer, you felt his lips press a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"Let me get you some water and a snack," he said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his love enveloping you. "Thank you, baby."

He kissed your forehead again before carefully untangling himself from you. "I'll be right back," he assured you, his eyes lingering on yours for a moment longer before he got up and walked to the kitchen.

The quietness of the room was soothing, and you closed your eyes, allowing yourself to bask in the afterglow of the comforting moment you had just shared.

Suddenly, your phone dinged, breaking the tranquility. You furrowed your brow in confusion, reaching over to the bedside table to grab it. It was a notification from the new security cameras you had installed recently, informing you that there was someone at the door. Your heart skipped a beat as you read the alert. You weren’t expecting anyone.

Curiosity and a hint of anxiety swirled within you as you opened the app to check the live feed. The screen loaded, revealing the figure standing at your doorstep.

In the dim light, their silhouette seemed familiar. The person shifted slightly, adjusting their stance. You saw distinct features—strong jawline, and calm demeanor.

His profile was momentarily illuminated by a passing car’s headlights, casting a shadow across his face. He stood there, unaware of the camera, his expression unreadable in the ambient light. But as he shifted you could see his face.It was...

....Minho?

Your mind raced. Why was he here? What did he want? 

You watched intently as Minho lingered for a moment, then bent down to place something on the doorstep. You tried to zoom in on your phone hoping to provide a clearer picture.

It was a gift box, or at least you thought from what you could make out.

Without ringing the doorbell or making any attempt to announce his presence, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the night.

Confusion and curiosity mingled as you watched him leave. What could be in that box? Why didn't he want to speak to you directly? Why was he here at 2 am?

Your thoughts were interrupted by Chan's return with a glass of water and a plate of snacks, his face lighting up with a gentle smile as he approached. “Here you go,” he said, placing the items on the bedside table.

He noticed the change in your expression and the phone in your hand. “Is everything okay?”

You quickly composed yourself, hiding the unease. “Yeah, everything’s fine,” you replied, trying to sound casual as you placed your phone face down on the table.

Chan handed you the glass of water. “Drink up. You need to stay hydrated.”

You took the glass and sipped, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat. “Thanks, Channie.”

He sat down beside you, his eyes filled with concern. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, managing a smile. “Yes, just a little tired.”

He looked at you with a sleepy yet sincere smile. " Okay sweetheart." He said as he crawled into bed with you.

You nestled closer to Chan, feeling the familiar warmth of his presence. "I missed this," you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Chan pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his fingers gently stroking your hair. "Me too," he murmured. “I was thinking... how about we go on a date tomorrow? Just the two of us. We could use some time alone together.”

Your heart warmed at his suggestion, and you smiled back at him. “That sounds wonderful, Chan. Where do you want to go?”

" What about dinner? Just you and me, dressed up, enjoying a meal at that new French restaurant downtown."

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of an elegant evening together. "That sounds amazing, Chan. I'd love that."

He grinned, his fingers now gently caressing your cheek. "I thought you might." He pulled you closer, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I’ll take care of everything.”

Chan wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close. “Let’s get some rest yeah? We both need it.”

You leaned into him, grateful for his comforting presence.

In the quiet of the room, you let yourself relax fully for the first time in what felt like ages. His steady heartbeat beneath your ear was a steady rhythm that soothed your mind. You thought about tomorrow night's dinner, imagining the elegance of the French restaurant and the joy of sharing such an intimate moment with Chan.

A small smile played on your lips as you realized how much you trusted him, how much you leaned on him for support. Tonight, there were no nightmares, no fears—just the comfort of his presence, wrapping around you like a shield.

But as you settled back into the warmth of his embrace, your mind kept drifting back to the box at the door. You knew you would have to see what Minho left, but you decided to wait until Chan was asleep.

As the night wore on, you found yourself thinking more and more about the contents of the box, The image returning again and again to your mind. Finally, you decided to sneak out of bed, careful not to wake Chan. Quietly, you made your way back to the living room and to the front door.

The box sat on the floor in front of the door, its presence casting a silent, haunting aura. It was a simple but elegantly wrapped package, tied with a deep crimson ribbon.

The weight of its contents beckoned to you, stirring a mix of curiosity and apprehension within your heart. You picked up the box and brought it inside to the living room.

The lamplight cast shadows across the room, dancing around the edges of the box as you set it down on the coffee table. For a moment, you simply stood there, hands resting lightly on the lid, grappling with your thoughts.

You carefully untied the ribbon, setting it aside with deliberate care. The soft rustle of paper and the faint scent of memories stirred as you lifted the lid. Your eyes widened in surprise and awe at what lay nestled within its depths.

Resting on a bed of delicate tissue paper, you discovered a beautifully crafted dress made with a corset. The fabric was luxurious, and the design was intricate, a perfect blend of elegance and sophistication.

As you examined the corset, a sense of familiarity washed over you. You recognized the craftsmanship, but you couldn’t quite place where you had seen it before. The more you stared at it, the more confused you became.

Why would Minho drop this off?

Your mind raced, trying to piece together the puzzle.

Why now? Why in this way?

You sat back, the dress draped across your lap, and took a deep breath. This wasn’t just a random gesture. There had to be a reason, something you were missing. The corset felt like a key to a memory just out of reach.

You knew you needed to get some answers, but it was very late into the night. You carefully folded the dress back into the box and returned it to its place. With a final glance at the mysterious gift, you headed back to bed.

On your way back, your phone buzzed again, breaking the silence of the night. The screen lit up with a message from an unknown number:

...What?

Could Minho be the stalker? The thought was almost too much to bear, given your complicated history with him.

Confusion swirled within you. You had been so convinced it was Hyunjin—the unsettling letters, the feeling of being watched, the inexplicable incidents that seemed to point in his direction.

Wait.

Wait. Wait.

The letters. You never opened them. You hid them and ran out so quickly that you completely forgot about them.

They were still in your jacket pocket, where you had left them. With Quick steps, you returned to the front door and reached into the pocket and retrieved the unopened envelopes.

Sitting back down on the couch, you carefully unfolded the first letter. The handwriting was elegant and precise. But instead of being addressed to you…

it was addressed to someone else?

Hyunjin had feelings for you? You knew that but that was a long time ago.. right? Why was STAY bringing it up now.? Unless.....

Unless the feelings never left like he told you they did.

You had believed that Hyunjin's feelings for you were a fleeting crush, something that he had supposedly gotten over quickly, according to what he had told you.

The letter realved that it wasnt just a crush.

Hyunjin was in love with you, and Chan didnt know.

As you re-examined the letters and their ominous contents, a sinking feeling settled in your chest. Each letter not only threatened to expose Hyunjin's feelings but also outlined specific actions STAY wanted him to take to keep his secret hidden. Among them were references to Hyunjin's sketches, songs he's written about you, paintings, and selca's together, indicating that STAY had been leveraging these to coerce him into compliance. This oviously meant that this wasn't Hyunjin's doing. Why would he write such threatening letters to himself?

The realization hit you like a weight. The cameras and sketches found at the scenes were likely part of Hyunjin's desperate attempts to appease STAY, to protect his secret at any cost.

You felt a surge of empathy for Hyunjin, realizing the depth of his predicament. He wasn't the stalker you had feared; he was a victim, like you, ensnared by STAY's cruel machinations.

More important than ever. you needed to figure out who STAY was and put an end to their manipulative games. Not only were they messing with you but now with the boys as well. Who knew which others had also recived letters?

You carefully gathered the letters and placed them into the box, and put the box in the closet away from view.

Quietly, you made your way back to bed, slipping under the covers next to Chan. His presence brought you a sense of security, a reminder that you weren't alone. As you closed your eyes, you knew that tomorrow would bring difficult conversations and revelations, but for now, you allowed yourself a moment of peace.

Ep.8 if the shoe fits..

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[2stepadmiral]

So every year or two, I go through a period of reconnecting with my high school Trekkie interests, rewatching some Star Trek clips, episodes, and movies, and during this particular period, I have to voice my main criticism of the reboot films: namely, the treatment of the Enterprise.

To be clear, I think the reboot Enterprise had a nice redesign. She looked very clean and futuristic while capturing the original design in broad strokes. The lens glare is certainly annoying, and it doesn’t have the same heart and retro feel as the original, but I feel they generally did a fairly decent job with the design. I’m talking about how she is treated throughout the films, namely, how she’s treated effectively like just another ship.

In the original series, the Enterprise has a certain heart coming across almost like a character in of herself. You get a clear feel from the characters that they consider the enterprise almost to be home, and Kirk and Scotty in particular see her almost like an actual woman, one who they cherish and will protect at all costs. This sentiment is magnified in the first three movies, particularly in the motion picture and in the search for Spock. When Kirk first sees the refit Enterprise, you can see how much he loves the ship, and when the Enterprise is plunging to her final resting place, the mourning on all of their faces, especially Kirk, makes this moment particularly powerful and truly hammer home that the Enterprise was a character in and of herself. The original Enterprise felt like a character fans had grown up with, and her destruction felt almost like the loss of an old friend. And at the end of the voyage home, when the crew has that last-minute surprise reveal of the Enterprise-A, the triumph and homecoming feeling is so clear that even the audience shares the sentiment, almost as if the character has been reborn.

The enterprise in the reboots was never portrayed this way. She was treated like just a ship, one that might’ve been nicer and fancier and more advanced than the others, but not really all that special beyond that. In the first movie, that’s acceptable, as the focus is on bringing together the crew and getting them where they need to be for the start of their journeys. The second one focuses more on the captaincy, and what it means to really earn that seat, so it’s excusable that this one focused more on Kirk and how seriously he took his responsibilities, though they could’ve put more emphasis on the ship as part of that arc. Yes, the ship almost crashing was an emotional scene, but that had everything to do with the characters aboard and nothing to do with the ship beyond it being the place where the characters were and it’s damage being the reason that they were about to die.

And then in the third one, they just blow up the ship in the first 30 minutes and try to portray it with the same sentimental weight as the destruction of the Enterprise in the search for Spock. Which would’ve been fine, if it weren’t for the fact that they spent the last two movies treating the enterprise like just a thing, just another tool in the characters belt. She had no heart, no soul, no feeling that she was a home, or that she was the thing that brought the crew together, and kept them together, the thing that made them a family. She was basically just a big car, there to get them from point A to point B and occasionally shoot at some bad guys, and then, we’re supposed to feel devastated when she goes down for the final time.

The reveal of a reboot version of the Enterprise A was a nice surprise, but it lacked the emotional payoff of the original version, largely because of how ordinary the first Enterprise had been in this timeline. You can’t really celebrate the revival of a lost character when the character was never really there to begin with. They might as well have put the crew on an entirely new ship, like maybe a rebooted version of the Excelsior, and it would’ve had the same basic impact.

My point is that classic trek, as well as the next generation and DS9, did an excellent job of portraying the dynamic between captain and ship to the point where the ship felt almost like a real character. And that worked really well. It made the crash of the Enterprise D in generations a shocking scene, and it made her surprise return in season 3 of Picard a heartfelt and deeply nostalgic scene (Even if I wanted the Enterprise E, sorry but she’s my favorite). It made the loss of the Defiant in season seven of DS9 a powerful and emotional moment. I haven’t watched a lot of Voyager, so I can’t comment on that, but I can say with decent confidence that they couldn’t have done worse than they did in the reboots.

[mychoombatheroomba]

An Eye for An Eye

Between the Bones (Leon x GN! Reader) - Chapter 55

Leon and the squad grapple with the weight of their loss while you learn what you mysterious ally has given you.

(Cross-posted from Ao3)

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter Index

“You look like shit.”

Valeria had never been one to mince words. Whatever else had changed in the last week, that had remained the same. At least something had. 

Leon wasn’t sure he wanted the company. He had gone outside to escape the droning fluorescent lights and ever-present eyes inside the CIA facility. He’d gone out to be where his thoughts could have a quiet place to wage their war. His friends should have brought him comfort. 

He hated that they didn’t. 

“Don’t worry, I feel worse.” His response was dry as his friend leaned against the wall beside him, sliding down to sit at his level. She hummed what might have been a laugh, once. Now, the sound was muted. A gray tone where once there had been vibrant color. 

Leon could sympathize. 

“Good to know we’re all in the same boat.” Dina lowered herself onto the ground at Valeria’s side, the three of them looking out towards the dimming sky. 

The shorter of the two women scoffed, shaking her head. “Can’t fucking sleep. Every time I close my eyes, it’s just . . .” 

She didn’t need to say it. Leon knew. Maybe that was why they’d sought him out. Maybe they hoped he’d have some advice. Some secret to help them through it all. As if he hadn’t been cursed with this for months now. Just when he’d thought he might finally be free of it-

“You guys hear the official story?” 

Leon turned his head towards Dina, who looked up at the sky like she had a bone to pick with whoever was up there. He knew what she was talking about without having to ask. The base. How the Army would spin so many lives lost all at once. 

“They, uh . . . they’re saying it was a fire that got out of control. Someone smoking without authorization. Summer heat, dry brush . . . fwoosh .” She motioned with her hands, then let out an empty laugh. “Probably easier that way. Don’t have to send home any bodies if they’re all ash.”

A fire. The same excuse used for Dorne base. More lies. More deaths kept hidden. 

It was a bad joke.  

“You know, they put all this money into this,” Dina droned, shaking her head, “training us to fight monsters, teaching us to spy and shoot and whatever else. And then none of it fuckin’ matters.” 

“It’ll matter,” Leon shook his head, surprising himself. He sounded like you. Like you used to, before everything had crashed down around you all. He just wished he believed the words more. “It’s gotta mean something.” His life hadn’t been torn open and rearranged for no reason. You hadn’t been made to relive the worst night of your life for nothing. He had to believe that. 

“I don’t think any of this means anything,” Williams shook her head, digging her heels into the dirt and pushing her legs out in front of her. “I don’t think watching your friends kill each other has some greater purpose behind it.” 

“Dina,” Valeria spoke, her voice softer than Leon had ever heard it, “he wanted to go out on his own terms.” 

It didn’t matter how right she was, though. The words, the memory of you lowering that gun, of that look of nothingness in your eyes, and a pool of crimson framing Logan’s head . . .

“Shouldn’t have had to, though,” Dina shook her head. “He should be right here, telling us some stupid shit about tanks, or singing fuckin’ Journey.” 

The world blurred a bit, as tears stung at Leon’s eyes. He clenched his jaw tight. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let it out, or he’d crumble. These last few days, he’d learned very quickly in the solitude of his room that once he started down that path, there wasn’t much that could stop it. 

None of this should have happened. Leon almost spoke it aloud with a bitter laugh, feeling his heart beating at a faster pace. His mind running in desperate circles, trying to escape the thoughts that nipped at its heels. None of this should be like this. 

All the wishing in the world wouldn’t change it, though. 

“But he isn’t.” That was all Leon could manage to say. 

Dina shook her head, her mouth pressed in a thin line. “But he isn’t.” 

Silence blanketed them for a few long seconds, before the covers were torn off again. 

“Sarge said anything about it?” 

The question was meant for Leon. Who else? He was the one you spoke to most, before. If you would have said anything, it would have been to him. Should have been to him. As it was . . .

“No.” He couldn’t decide if he wished you had or not. 

Dina didn’t look like she could decide, either. She bit at the inside of her mouth, shaking her head. “I know why it had to happen . . .” she said, nodding like she was trying to convince herself of it even now; that you putting a bullet in her friend’s head was the right thing to do. That it was mercy. “I just . . .” she just couldn’t fathom it. 

Leon nodded in turn. “Yeah. I know.” 

There was only so much rationalizing one could do. Only so many times a person could tell themselves that it had to be done. Leon knew he would either be broken by that fact or become numb to it. He wasn’t sure which one he dreaded more. 

Nor was he able to dwell on it for long, before a figure approached, winding around the edge of the building. Leon and his companions looked up just in time to see a guard there, his face pulled into a tight expression. Leon didn’t even get to ask what brought him there before the guard spoke, gesturing for them all to stand. 

“Everyone needs to come with me. Now.” 

He didn’t hide it very well - the worry in his voice. The urgency. 

“What happened?” Valeria asked, her eyes suddenly sharpening as she picked up on the new energy brought to the moment. 

There was no real answer given, only a sense of looming dread as they were ushered back to their rooms. A sense of dread that was becoming all too familiar to Leon. 

⧫⧫⧫

Fate hadn’t given you many of the things that you’d hoped for. 

In fact, lately, it felt like life had been gorging itself on you, rather than practicing charity. What it had given, you found, had only led to hurt. Or it surely would. This would be no different. The gift you’d just been given would bring pain, but it was the kind you would gladly endure. You wouldn’t refuse something you craved with all your being - that you had paid for in blood and bruises and a breaking spirit. You gave in to a dark faith that now, finally, fate had thrown you a goddamn bone. 

Not all those around you shared that sentiment.

Including you, there were five in the room - a room that was completely sealed off from the rest of the world. Simmons watched the room from the edges of it, twisting the gold ring on his thumb while he focused. Hellman and Benford were more focused on the computer screen in front of them. As for the fifth . . . you could never remember feeling so much weight behind Major Krauser’s gaze. He’d done a poor job of hiding his concern when you and Hellman explained what had happened. That concern had so quickly turned to rage, and you had wished you could return to being blind to the cause of it all. Things had been less complicated, then. 

You wished a lot of things could go back to the way they had been. 

But with no way to go but forward, you set your focus to the information in front of you. A hound being given a scent. 

“I don’t like this.” Benford shook his head, the computer screen in front of him reflected in his glasses.  

The images on it, the text . . . 

Coordinates. Overhead images of an island - Kolguyev, it read. A sizable but mostly unoccupied piece of land in the Barents Sea. Russia. The island itself had a small town on one side, and on the other, a fenced perimeter. Four buildings were tucked in, surrounded by more open expanses of land. Ranges, you realized. You could see vehicles, even what looked like a tank, and well-carved pathways for them to use. It was a familiar layout even if you’d never seen the island before - you’d spent the last several months in places just like this, after all.

“It’s a training facility,” you breathed, your voice raspy. Crushed down to size by the man’s hand around your throat. A man who, it seemed, had given you a target. 

It was all but confirmed when Benford scrolled down, and names and faces you didn’t recognize passed the screen. Service records, you realized, though not for any one country’s military. No, they were unified under a different banner. 

𝚄𝚖𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚊 𝚂𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚎

𝙰𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝: 𝚁𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝙲𝚒𝚝𝚢

That was not surprising. Instead, what caught your eye was not who they served, but where they’d come from. 

𝙱𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙺𝚘𝚕𝚐𝚞𝚢𝚎𝚟 𝙵𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢

Benford leaned back in his chair, his mouth set in a thin line. 

His silence only served to fuel your anger. You weren’t alone in that. 

“You said Reed was heading to Russia?” Krauser sounded just as viciously pleased as you were. It only made the senior agent at the computer more uncomfortable. 

Benford nodded. Once. Reluctantly. “But there are Umbrella facilities all over the world. We don’t know-”

“We don’t have to know.” You straightened up, feeling something rise in you. Potential energy, the need to do something. And now, you’d been given a heading. “If this is a training facility, then we can start to level the playing field.” You could take from them what they’d taken from you: their future. And if Reed was there, then you could kill him. You could show him the failure of his cause as he died and-

“The risk is too high,” Benford shook his head. “Not when we have so little concrete information.”

“But you can get more information.” Krauser sounded almost as certain as you were, tearing open holes in Benford’s argument. 

He’d taught you to press the offensive, so you did. “You wanted to fight Umbrella. You trained us to do that, and now what? You’re too scared to use the weapons you built?” You met Benford’s eyes, and felt some little satisfaction when you saw him waver under your stare.  

His response was measured, even so. “It’s not that simple, Sergeant. It’s how we were given this information that concerns me.” 

“You mean the man who broke your perimeter like it was made of tissue paper?” Krauser’s words bit hard into their target, as they so often did. 

Benford just turned the attack into more ammunition. “Exactly. This man broke into our facility without issue. He overpowered you and Hellman both, and left just as easily. This kind of intel isn’t just given without motive.” 

“Umbrella has enemies besides us,” Simmons pointed out, finally entering the conversation with a cool voice. “Their facility on Rockfort Island was destroyed by a paramilitary organization a few months ago, was it not?” 

So Krauser hadn’t been given all the reports after all, because that name didn’t sound familiar to you. By his reaction now, it wasn’t because the Major had omitted any information when it came to you.

“It was,” Benford confirmed, “but I would argue that makes this more suspicious. Not less.” 

It was Hellman who spoke next, incredulous. “If Umbrella has an enemy in that man, why is he not the one storming Kolguyev?” There was something to that, you supposed. He’d crushed a knife blade in his hand. Lifted you off the ground like you were nothing, and moved with a speed you couldn’t hope to match. Even so, even with all that power, he was handing this off to the likes of you. “He wouldn’t let us take him in for a reason. He’s setting us up to be pawns.” 

“Does it matter?” you found yourself asking, the words not your own. Did it matter whose pawn you were, so long as Umbrella was dealt a blow? 

Benford turned to you, already-present frown lines deepening. “There’s a good chance that this is a trap. If this is a training outpost, there will be soldiers there-”

Fire rushed through you, your gaze turned to a branding iron. “I’m counting on it.” 

A laugh followed your declaration, and Simmons pushed off the wall. Satisfaction curled his lips into a smile. “ That right there. We need more soldiers like that if we’re to stand a chance against this corporation. Sometimes risks must be taken in a fight such as this one, and we need those who will do what it takes.” 

“So glad you approve,” Krauser snarled under his breath, but the conversation went on as if he’d said nothing.

Benford snapped his attention to his fellow agent, then. “Derek, we don’t have many people who know about this conflict left. If this operation goes wrong, we could lose all of them.” 

It was true. You knew it. This was enemy territory. No reinforcements, no solid intel, nothing to go on but what you held now. And it was worth it, for the exact reasons that Simmons spoke now. “And if this really is a training facility, if more records like these are available there and we got ahold of them,” he pointed his chin towards the screen, “then we could root out Umbrella’s personnel.” 

People like Reed. People like the man who’d driven a knife into your gut, and the team that had been with him. If there was a chance you could find them - track them down . . . 

“So send me.” The room turned towards Krauser, the Major pulling attention with his declaration. One forged in iron. One that embedded itself in your gut.

“By yourself, Major?” Simmons asked. The bastard had a talent for sounding patronizing, one that Krauser didn’t appreciate, if his biting tone was any indication. 

“Benford’s right. You’re down too many men to send them. I’m the most experienced soldier you have who knows about all of this. One man has a better chance of not being spotted than a team.” 

No. You felt a surge of something rise in you at the suggestion, because you knew how that would end. Whatever was happening with Krauser, whatever his feelings for you and however you felt in return, you knew that if he went out there alone, he would likely die. 

That was unacceptable. 

Even so, you stopped yourself from voicing that thought. You stopped yourself because all of the people in this room seemed to think that there was something between you and the Major. Something you couldn’t give credence to. You had to act as though you didn’t care, as though the man who’d saved your life, who’d given you so much, meant nothing to you. 

So, just like with Alenko, you dug deeper into the hollow of yourself. 

“So,” the Major went on, blue eyes boring into Benford’s own, “send me.” 

The most horrifying part was that the men around you considered it. You could see them making the mental calculations. Better to lose one man than an entire squad, that was the brutal calculus of it. One that you couldn’t exactly argue.

“No.” Your focus snapped elsewhere, and you never, ever thought you would be grateful to Hellman of all people. Still, the agent, wielding the guilt you’d buried in his gut, went on. “You’re a good soldier, no one can deny that, but this is about infiltration. Information retrieval. That’s what I’ve been trained for.” 

Krauser scoffed, somehow making a laugh sound dangerous. “You couldn’t even tell that your friend was an Umbrella plant.”

“Neither could you, Major,” Hellman reminded him. “Not until it was too late.”

“You watch your mouth-”

Hellman went on, undeterred. “I’m in the best position to make it right. I can scope things out and see what’s there.” It was an idea that sat with you no better than Krauser going alone. Not because you cared about Hellman’s safety, but because he didn’t deserve this vengeance, as far as you were concerned. 

“Noble of you,” Simmons nodded, still twisting the gold band on his thumb, “but that doesn’t solve the problem of one man not being enough to take down an entire base. A small team could assess the facility covertly and then infiltrate it if need be,” he went on, eyes sharp as he planned. 

“The Umbrella facilities we’re aware of thus far have always been more than they appear on the surface,” Benford pointed out. “There could be more than what’s depicted here. They would be on enemy territory, going in blind, fighting a force they’ve never faced before.” 

“How fortunate then,” Simmons just went on, his fingers twisting his ring while his lips were twisted into a smile to match, “that we have individuals with experience in such matters. Individuals who understand the value of knowing one’s enemy, and will stop at nothing to take the fight to them.” He looked at you, then, with the expression of a man who gambled and won more often than not. A man who didn't mind betting, especially when he wasn't the one who stood to lose. 

You didn’t mind that he was gambling with your life, though. Not so long as you got what you wanted. 

The only trouble was that Simmons wasn’t the only player in this game. 

“I don’t like the idea of sending just the two of them,” Benford said, another opinion added to the mix. One borne of mistrust - that much you could see plainly. You and Hellman were untrustworthy in his eyes, even now. You couldn’t blame him, you supposed; this mysterious man with too much information on Umbrella appeared out of nowhere and gifted you exactly what you needed. Anyone with a brain would find it suspicious. 

You understood that, you truly did. The only trouble was, what you knew was coming next. What you felt in your bones. 

“Kennedy has been inside Umbrella facilities before,” Benford went on, and it was clear to you then that fate had not, in fact, thought you’d paid the price for this gift. No, it demanded ever more. “And they worked well with Soto and Williams. That would keep the team small enough to avoid attention.” 

Your jaw tightened as he spoke their names, eyes going wide, showing off the red that had crept in when your air was cut off. 

But before you even had the chance to speak, Krauser huffed, incredulous. “Then I should go with them.” 

“I would be inclined to agree,” Simmons took a moment to formulate his counter, “but you and Hellman here are the only two instructors we have left with knowledge of bioweapons.”

“You can just tell someone else. They just destroyed an entire base, it’s not like it’s going to be a secret forever.” 

“The President has made it clear,” Benford said this time, “the fewer people know about all this, the better.” 

It was a losing argument. A fight not worth spilling blood over. That didn’t stop Krauser, though. “You’ve got to be joking,” the Major shook his head, looking between you and Simmons. “You wanna send a bunch of shell-shocked rookies out there? You’ll get them killed.” 

Simmons tilted his head to the side. “Many of these ‘rookies’ have service records before STRATCOM, Major. With the exception of Kennedy, I suppose. Though I would imagine his experience in Raccoon City makes up for that fact.” 

“They’re not ready-”

“Are you implying that your training of them was insufficient?” 

“Damn it, you’ve seen them!” He was talking about the entirety of your squad, but he looked at you. And in that moment, you had a realization: this wasn’t the Major you were used to seeing. In the last few months, he’d been a steadying force for you. A leader you could look to for guidance. Now, in this moment, all you saw was a scared man, clinging to whatever control he had left. Control that he’d given up the moment he gave you those reports. The second he admitted his guilt in doing so. “They’re afraid, and angry, and if you send people like that out there, they’re going to slip up. They’re going to get themselves killed.” 

He’d told you so many times to never show weakness. To never bear your scars and wounds. Now, here he was, doing it without meaning. 

A blunted blade would do them no good. Whether that was Krauser or Leon or you. 

So, no matter how much you wanted to insist that Leon be left behind, that he wasn’t suited to this mission, you knew how that would look. You knew that, to Simmons, that would be blood in the water for him to scent and salivate on. 

Not that it mattered what you or Krauser wanted, anyway. The decision was already being made, you could see it in Simmons’ eyes. 

Leon’s fate and yours, your friends . . . you were all tied together. At least you could spare one person you cared about. He’d saved your life once, after all. You hadn’t expected to return the favor this way. 

You hadn’t expected so many things. 

“You’re angry, sir,” you said, finding your voice again, however hollow it may be. You’d seen many expressions on Krauser’s face that you’d never thought to see, lately. The surprise you were greeted with now, almost like betrayal, was one of them. He wasn’t the only one that had a claim to that betrayal. Still, you carried on, reminding him of a fact he should have known well. “Your judgment would be just as compromised.” 

You’d never been on the receiving end of Major Krauser’s anger, really. Some part of you had hoped to never experience it. When faced with it now, though? You were surprised by how little it affected you. He’d taught you to face down worse though, hadn’t he? 

“My judgment?” He asked, stepping closer. “You want to talk about emotion clouding judgment? All you’ve ever done is let what you’re feeling control you. The only reason you’re here is revenge. That’s it. You want to kill the people who took your Captain. Your friends-” 

“Umbrella didn’t kill them,” you said, your expression blank as you stated the truth that had eaten away at you. The truth that had carved a well in you and taken up residence there. Because as much as Umbrella had turned your friends into monsters, as much as Reed and the man who’d driven a knife into you had done, they hadn’t pulled the trigger on Rain. 

Or Reynolds. 

Or Alenko. 

“I did.” 

Krauser, for once, looked disarmed. He stared at you - him and the other men in the room. Men who had either helped shape you into the dagger you were, or would wield you. 

“I did what I had to do. And I will keep doing that, until Umbrella is buried.” That had been your vow, all those months ago. As you lay in a hospital bed, clutching a dog tag that would be all that remained of the man you considered a father. You’d lost sight of that goal, and the world had reminded you of it now. So, you looked at the computer screen in front of you, at the image of the base there. Your chance, not to make it right, but to strike a blow. “That’s all that matters.” 

And to these men who would be your commanders, who would now dispatch you across the globe, hunting your targets, that was enough. 

⧫⧫⧫

Hours passed, and still there were no answers. No justifications for why everyone had been taken back to their rooms, but it was all too clear to Leon that something had happened. The guards - rigid even on a good day - had been tight-jawed and tense as they’d guided Leon and the others towards their rooms. Something was wrong, because it seemed like something was always wrong, now. 

The only question was: what?

That night, he was allowed to imagine just how wrong things were. By the time their cell doors were opened again, the worst possible scenarios had flooded his mind, memories amplified by a sudden and gruesome abundance of imagination. It didn’t amount to the horrors he feared. There was no attack. No undead. 

All Leon was greeted with was a pair of eyes framed by glasses, set in the aging face of the man who’d ruined his life. “Agent Kennedy, if you’ll come with me, please.” 

Agent Kennedy.

He was an agent now, wasn’t he? He’d passed his final test. He was theirs to send wherever they pleased. 

Him and you, it seemed, because you stood just behind the agent, and you weren’t alone. Hellman, Dina and Valeria were there too, each of them looking like the hangman had called their names. Not you, though. You were stone, as you so often were.

Even with a handprint bruised onto your throat. 

Leon felt sick to his stomach as he saw the mark, the skin on your throat turned a dark purple from the pressure of someone's grasp. He’d worn a bruise to match after Raccoon City, courtesy of the silent monster that had stalked him that night. That had come too close to killing him too many times. 

That handprint had been larger than a human’s hand, though. The one on your throat could have belonged to anyone. Who then? Who had hurt you? Who had done this to you? 

There were no answers to be found from Benford, who simply gestured for Leon to follow, before pausing a moment. “And if you may . . .” he held up his other hand, one that had been clenched at his side. One that, as his fingers uncurled, Leon realized held little plaques. Three sets of two, linked by chains, numbers and letters stamped into the metal. Three sets of two, and one chain that linked three plaques, the name REYNOLDS clear to Leon’s eye, just as your name was. 

Their dog tags. 

Benford was collecting them. 

For a moment, Leon felt fear surge through him. With the group gathered before him, he worried that the feelings present among the group had finally been laid bare. He worried that, at last, their luck had run out and their places in STRATCOM had been taken as punishment. 

As he hesitated, Benford spoke a clarification. One he sounded solemn about. “You’ll get them back when you return.” 

“Return from where?” Leon felt numb even asking the question. 

Benford didn’t look any more pleased as he took a breath in, but Leon saw your expression shift. You didn’t look up from the empty space you stared off into, but your eyes darkened all the same as the agent answered. “I’ll explain elsewhere, but . . . you have a target.”

A target. 

A mission. 

His first. 

And wherever you were all going, your identities couldn’t follow. 

He had little choice, so did as he was told and reached up to his neck. A moment later, his name was pressed down beside yours and those of his friends, hidden from view as Benford closed his fist around them. 

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[funsize-cenobites]

Mihawk-Brain-Eating-Syndrome has seized me.

The post that started this whole train of thought came from @manofbeskar who's Mihawk thoughts, Mishanks heartwrenchers, and absolutely gorgeous art are so inspiring I feel chewing-on-the-doorframe feral every time I check their blog.

Mihawk has a complicated relationship with vivre cards. Yet despite all efforts at keeping the world and everyone in it at Yoru length he still manages to keep collecting bits of them.

Not many nowadays, its a rather intimate affair after all; to have someone give you a literal piece of their life so that you may always find them no matter where in the wide seas you may be. Assuring that you'll be the first to know should they leave that world entirely.

Far too intimate. It feels too obvious, too heavy handed, too much like handing him your heart and asking him to carry it. Such a thing is heavier than any blade and all the bloody deeds he can never truly wipe from the steel.

Its gentle and vulnerable and human. All the things Mihawk is convinced he could play at but never truly be again. But... I imagine at the start of his journey, maybe he was a touch more open. Perhaps accepting his first from a mentor as a parting of ways though he didn't yet have one of his own to offer in return.

Strange how a simple piece of card in his palm could feel like an open door. Always there, inviting him home. Always there, until it wasn't.

Mihawk will never forget the first time he felt one burning away into nothing in his hands. It went up so quick.. He had no idea it could take less than a minute to burn a home.

Then perhaps he found a crew, a more tangible place to nest and he suddenly had more vivre cards than he could tuck away on his person in a timely manner. Perhaps it became a ritual of sorts each morning, a part of his routine to tuck each one away. The captain, vice captain, and the rest of the specialists lining the inner band of his hat while the rest of the crew were individually squirreled away. A meditation, grounding and quiet. He would use it to remind himself of his role as the crew's swordsman, as their protector.

How could he forget the sharp sear of each individual card burning away, stuck close to his skin by waterlogged clothing as he dragged himself ashore gasping and choking on sea and blood and smoke. Having been left by marines that assumed he would drown because- perhaps pointed out by one that had deceived him, made Mihawk believe they were his friend to be led back to his family:

"No freak like that could exist without having eaten the devil's fruit."

How could he forget the embers escaping, dancing in the evening gloam like fireflies swarming around him? There were so many.. now there are none and gods he's been so empty since. How could such a small piece of paper take so much of him? To kill a man with a blade, even butchering him inelegantly, would be a greater mercy so long as he was dead.

Nowadays Mihawk knows better. Knows better than to trust or be trusted. That blades might chip and tarnish but they dont burn, never completely.

Yoru hums and sings in his hands as he wields her and she does not feel like home.. but she feels solid and eternal and cold. She will never burn. Her weight is bearable.

Impersonal.

Professional.

Yoru makes death an art in his hands. She is the brush not the paper, spattering fireflies over a night sky.

. . .

For years after, he kept far from others. Deciding to never get so close to anyone ever again. Safe in the knowledge he would never feel the burning sting of loss nor the cold cut of betrayal so acutely. Trust was a double edged blade, perhaps the only one he truly couldn't handle.

He was no protector.. so he wouldn't try to be.

Instead Mihawk would hunt. Chasing the marines mercilessly. Cutting a bloody path through their ranks and burning their fucking fortresses to the ground. At first they spoke of him as an insane lone swordsman, then a one man army, then a monster, a demon. The relentless yellow eyed freak that stalked the seas and nightmares of future vice admirals.

He systematically killed all those that harmed him. A shadow over the shore, a rogue wave swallowing their ships, a curse of vengeance come to reap. He destroyed all the records of his crew that he could get his hands on. If he must be cursed to slowly forget them over time, then the world government didnt deserve their memory either.

And so on it went for a time. Long enough for the hunt to lose its luster. Slaughtering sheep by the herd in search of a rare wolf.

Mihawk had almost forcibly forgotten about Vivre cards as a concept. His own remained untouched, never moving from where he hid it. He had no friends, no family, no nakama. Only a dwindling list of worthy foes to test himself against.

Until the day the king of pirates died. Until their golden age truly began.

Until he met Shanks, who held out a hand and asked him to step out of the monochrome past and into a thousand possible vibrant futures. Ones of lush reds and glittering golds, of polished onyx black and the purest, deepest blue.

.

"Here," Shanks said suddenly one night, holding out a small scrap of paper. The both of them were perched atop the ruins of a high sea wall on some remote island, enjoying the cold breeze from the north after a hard fought duel.

Mihawk, for all his composure, blanched. "What is that?" He knew and he did not take it.

"What do you think it is? Its a piece of my card." He said it so simply. Like it barely occured to him how precious such a thing was. Shanks didn't drop his arm, even as the silence stretched out between them.

"No."

"Come on, Takanome- Dont be like that! We're nak--"

"Rivals." He cut the younger man off abruptly. His chest felt too hot and too tight, burning and burning and, "We are rivals, Akagami."

Shanks must've been pouting, he could hear it in his voice, "Even more reason for you to take it. We could duel every day if you could always find me~ Come on.. Please? I want you to have it."

"...."

Hawkeyes glanced at his best friend rival and immediately regretted it. Shank's face was always full of so much hope, so much faith in... something.. It made Mihawk's heart catch in his throat every time to see those big earnest eyes staring at him almost as if, for a moment, it was faith in him.

"I don't know if I can give you mine.." He murmured. Shanks smiled soft, a little sad, and infuriatingly understanding without needing to know anything.

"I dont need it. I know you'll always find me." He pressed his heart, his home the scrap into Mihawk's palm and closed the swordsman's fingers over it. "And if I need to find you.. I'll just ask the wind."

[stormyjinxblog]

My Journey To Mental Health

In July 2019, my life took an unexpected turn, and I found myself moving back to my hometown. I hadn’t realized just how much my mental health had been affected over the years until I made this move. Suddenly, emotions I’d buried for so long surfaced with an intensity I couldn’t ignore.

I had spent the previous five years building an independent life in a city I loved, creating a sense of freedom and identity that felt like mine alone. Losing that life felt like it was being torn from my grasp. During that same period, I’d also endured the loss of seven family members, some of whom I couldn’t return home to mourn. Grief, guilt, and other emotions quietly lingered just below the surface, and at the time, I didn’t feel ready to confront them.

Returning to my hometown was like being hit by a wave, a tsunami of emotions that I’d kept at bay for far too long. With each day, I felt the weight of grief, anxiety, and loss pressing down, reminding me that it was time to make a change. In August 2019, I took my first step toward healing by starting therapy, facing the emotions I’d avoided for years.

Now, two therapists, some transformative experiences, and the right medication later, I can finally say I’m making progress. I’m learning how to manage my anxiety and build a life that feels healthy and balanced. Sharing this journey feels like another step forward, and I hope to connect with others who may be navigating similar paths. Thank you for joining me as I continue to work on living with intention and resilience.

[rythms-of-synthax]

Let's get in shape! 🌟💪🍁

Before I dive into my autumn goals, I want to be real with you, loves.

Over the past month, I haven’t been eating healthy at all, and the only workout I’ve done is my dance classes. As you’d expect, I’ve gained some fat and lost muscle.

So, I’ve decided to start a "getting-fit" journey, beginning this Monday (September 9th). ❤

Before I explain what this journey is all about, let me be clear: I’m not doing this to lose weight, get skinny, or fit into a smaller size. What I truly want is to feel strong and healthy—to be in shape. And yes, reaching my goals means losing some fat, but I’m not going to sacrifice my mental health or harm my body just to drop a size. My body is my home, and it deserves respect.

On this journey, my focus will be on optimizing my nutrition and workout routine because I want this to be a lifestyle change, not just a short-term fix.

In terms of food:

Cut out ultra-processed foods.

Drink only lemonade, water, and tea—no juices (this one’s easy since I don’t like them anyway).

Sweets only on special occasions or when I’m out with friends or family.

Limit refined carbs. Potatoes (not fried) and rice are fine. Since I’m not in charge of cooking, there will be times when I’ll eat pasta or pizza. On those days, I’ll have half the usual portion and get back on track quickly.

Stick to simple, unprocessed dairy like cottage cheese, Greek yogurt, and butter. Milk is okay, but I don’t really like the taste.

Limit nuts.

Fruits, veggies, eggs, meat, and fish are unlimited—I can eat as much as I want.

No calorie counting! It messes with my mindset and makes me anxious.

That’s it. We’re starting on Monday, loves—are you with me?

Now, let’s talk about workouts. Since school is starting, I want to keep my workout schedule simple and easy to stick to because there’s no room for failure this year. I’m not even going to make failure an option.

Here’s the plan:

Monday: Dance class

Tuesday: Full-body dumbbell workout

Wednesday: Dance class

Thursday: Full-body dumbbell workout

Friday: Cardio (whatever feels good—running, dancing, walking)

Saturday: Full-body dumbbell workout

Sunday: Rest day

You might be wondering why I have three full-body sessions per week. When I was creating this plan, I asked ChatGPT for advice based on my goals, and it recommended full-body sessions for both fat loss and strength building—so that’s what I’m going with right now.

Note: Not all my dance classes are intense. I’ve had weeks where we focused on hand movements—so, you can imagine how "sweaty" that was. 😅

If you’re joining me on this journey, feel free to adjust anything that doesn’t work for you! If you prefer Pilates over weights, go for it. If cutting out sweets entirely doesn’t feel right, then don't! The most important part of this journey is not giving up—stick to your plan and prioritize your health over the results.

Keep going! 😎🏆 Rya

[girlprincess]

My It-Girl Health Journey 🍵⛅️🧘‍♀️🎧

Soooo… skinnytok got to me 😭 and I’m starting a weight loss journey. Basically what happened was I was talking to my friends about how people that are considered overweight or obese look very normal to me, and they started saying that because of the general culture of America, we’re conditioned to believe that being larger is normal and therefore ‘healthy.’ I’ve always thought of myself as a thin person, but after that conversation I started feeling insecure and I realized I’d like to try a fitness journey and see what kinds of progress I can make in my physical appearance, as well as my health :) It’s something that has weighed on my confidence for some time now, but that conversation made me realize I can make changes to feel more confident in the future!

────୨ৎ────

Everyone’s fitness and weight loss plan should look different based on their own body’s needs, and please either consult your doctor or do extensive research on your own Total Daily Energy Expenditure, caloric needs, and nutritional needs. That being said, here’s my plan:

• 1650-1750 Calories per day for a 0.5 to 1 pound per week weight loss

• 25-30 grams of fiber a day for regularity (lol), and 90-100 grams of protein a day for small gains in muscle

• Weight train 3 times a week

• Walk or jog 2 times a week

• At-home yoga or pilates 2 times a week

My plan was crafted with my primary care doctor and takes into account my TDEE as well as my eating habits, such as a protein intake which is slightly lower than what is usually recommended for muscle gain because I’m a vegetarian and would really struggle to get 130 grams a day :)

This plan would keep me in a small deficit based on my height and activity level, and would give me 2-3 active rest days per week! I want to dive into my fitness journey head first while still ensuring I build in sustainability so that I’m able to consistently work towards my goals.

My current weight is about 133 pounds, which is not considered overweight for my height, but is on the high end of what is considered normal. I would like to lose a bit of fat and gain a bit of muscle in order to look slightly more ‘toned,’ or muscular. My goal weight is 125 pounds! I also want to reduce my waist size from what it is now, around 29 to 30 inches, to my goal size of about 27 to 28 inches. In theory, this weight loss journey will take me between 8 and 16 weeks to get from my current weight to goal weight. I’m not sure if I will be able to reduce my waist size by 2 inches just by losing 8 pounds, but it would be cool if I could!

Because this account is like a personal diary for me, I’ll post one update every week on Sunday! I’ll also post things like recipes I’ve tried, different at-home workout videos I’ve watched, swaps I’m making, and so on :)

And just to preface this journey, this is absolutely not a ☕️🍽️🚬 kind of health journey! Please DNI pro ana or disordered eating accounts!