#NEITHER HAD A CHOICE AND IT BURDENS THEM NOW

[usualsworld]

A Dance of Thorns

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Reader ༊*·˚

Warnings: cheating; adultery; smut fight; makeup sex; slight dark Anthony Bridgerton; implied age gap; period-typical sexism.

Word Count: 6,000+

Inspired by gothicquill 

Trapped in a marriage of duty rather than love, the Viscountess Bridgerton finds herself locked in a silent war with her husband, Anthony. Once, there had been respect — now, only cold stares and cruel words remain. But when a late-night confrontation spirals into something far more dangerous, buried truths and unspoken desires begin to unravel.

Seated in the dimly lit bedroom, you feel the crushing weight of your title – Viscountess Bridgerton. Once, it had been an honor, a purpose. Now, it feels like a prison. The distance between you and Anthony has grown into an abyss, neither of you daring to bridge it. Nights stretch long and lonely, your marriage reduced to obligation and cold pleasantries.

The door swings open with force, the hinges protesting under Anthony’s impatience. He steps inside, the flickering candlelight casting harsh shadows across his face – tired, frustrated, yet unreadable in that way he has perfected.

"You’re still up?" His voice is clipped, edged with something dangerously close to disdain. He pulls off his gloves with slow, deliberate motions, his eyes never leaving yours. "One would think a Viscountess would have better sense than to waste her time waiting for a husband who clearly has enough burdens without adding to them. Or do you have something pressing to say? More grievances, perhaps?"

You lift your head from where it had been resting against your knees, your body still trembling from earlier sobs. But the sorrow fades as his words settle in. Too cold. Too cruel. Too much.

Anger replaces grief, sharp.

You push yourself to your feet, wiping at your face as if scrubbing away the last traces of vulnerability.

"Oh, forgive me, my lord," you bite out, the title twisted into something venomous. "Forgive me for wanting to lay eyes on my husband, if only for the briefest of moments before he disappears again into whatever… obligations keep him so very occupied."

Anthony stills, his expression impassive – but you know better. You see the flicker of tension in his shoulders, the minute clench of his jaw. He knows exactly what you mean.

Your marriage had never been one of love. That was no secret. It had been arranged, convenient, expected. But at the very least, there had been respect.

Once.

Now, there is nothing but silence, suspicion, and resentment.

Anthony exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Spare me the dramatics." He steps closer, slow and measured, like a predator sizing up prey. His gaze is unreadable – cold and calculating, yet laced with something far more dangerous.

"You knew what this was from the beginning," he says, his voice low but weighted. "Affection was never a requirement. Duty, however, is. Or have you suddenly forgotten the role you so readily accepted?"

The words cut deep, but you refuse to let him see it.

A bitter laugh escapes you, though there is no amusement in it. "Readily accepted?" you echo, incredulous. "I was a child, Anthony. A child promised to a man with power enough to shape my entire future before I could even dream of choosing it for myself."

His expression flickers, something shifting in his eyes. But it’s gone before you can name it, replaced by that same indifferent mask.

Your hands tremble, but you refuse to back down.

"You had a choice," you push, your voice rising. "You, with all your influence, all your control. If this arrangement was such an unbearable weight, you could have ended it. But you didn’t."

His jaw tightens, and you know you’ve struck a nerve.

"So don’t you dare stand there," you seethe, stepping closer now, "and act as if you are merely a victim of circumstance. You made your choices, Anthony."

Anthony’s jaw clenches tighter, his chest heaving with restrained emotion. The anger he felt moments ago shifts into something more complex, something he can’t quite identify. Your words sting, cutting through the layers of indifference he has built around himself.

He looks at you – really looks at you – and sees the exhaustion in your eyes, the frustration in your clenched fists. He sees the person he married, the one who stood by his side through the years, even when things were far from easy.

You lower your head as soon as the words leave your lips, your breath unsteady. But before you can retreat into yourself, his hand tilts your chin up once more.

Your gaze meets his, locking onto the dark depths of his eyes. Your own irises glisten, tears pooling but refusing to fall. They are born from too much – sadness, anger, exhaustion, frustration.

He watches you, his expression unreadable. There is no sharp retort, no immediate rebuttal. Just a steady, almost contemplative calm in his eyes, as if weighing something unspoken between you both.

You bite your lower lip, the silence stretching too long, too heavy. Waiting.

Waiting for him to say something. Anything.

Anthony’s fingers caress your chin, the touch surprisingly gentle, in contrast to the fire in your earlier exchange. He watches you intently, his gaze never leaving yours, and for a moment, just a moment, the intensity in his eyes falters.

Then, his thumb brushes the corner of your lip, smoothing over the indentation left by your teeth. The gesture is an unconscious one, born from something he doesn’t quite understand himself.

He opens his mouth, his throat feeling tight with emotion, and murmurs, "Why must you always challenge me?"

"You are the Viscount," you say plainly, your voice steady, unwavering. "If I don’t challenge you, no one else will have the courage to."

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down.

"I am simply fulfilling my role as a wife, husband," you say, your voice steady, almost matter-of-fact.

"So, that’s the only reason, then?" he asks, his thumb still tracing your lower lip with surprising tenderness. He seems almost in a trance, his gaze fixed intently on your mouth.

He leans imperceptibly closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Is it fun? Driving me up the wall? Testing my limits?"

"I manage the household. I tend to our guests. I handle the simpler matters. I build connections. And I…"– you tilt your head slightly, as if stating the most obvious fact in the world – "I challenge you."

Your words hang between you, deliberate, undeniable.

He freezes, his jaw tensing, his nostrils flaring. There it is, out in the open, his most shameful secret. His chest heaves, his body rigid, caught off guard by your unexpected mention of his indiscretions.

"If I didn’t, you would live comfortably on your pedestal of certainties. You would continue treating me like nothing. And you would keep spending your nights with whores."

You spit the last word like venom, sharp and cutting, daring him to deny it.

His hand falls from your chin, clenching into a tight fist by his side. For a moment, he doesn’t respond, the silence in the room palpable, charged with something he can’t quite name.

When he speaks, his voice is low, rough with barely controlled emotion. "What, did you think I was going to deny it?"

"Of course not. Why would you deny it?" you say, almost amused. "It’s the truth, and everyone knows it."

You shrug, feigning indifference – though you both know better.

"When I attend afternoon tea with the other ladies, Anthony, they all talk about it."

You tilt your head, watching him, watching for the flicker of something – guilt, irritation, anything. But he gives you nothing.

"Everyone knows the great Viscount Bridgerton works tirelessly, and when he isn’t working, he’s fucking whores."

The words are laced with mockery, punctuated by a humorless laugh.

"You think I don’t smell it? That I don’t see the marks on your neck?"

Before he can step away, you reach up, your fingers gripping his collar. In one swift motion, you yank it aside, forcing him to stumble – just slightly.

Even you are surprised by your own strength.

As his shirt is suddenly jerked to the side, Anthony stumbles forward, his body colliding against yours. He catches himself in the nick of time, his hands braced against the wall, trapping you between him and the stone. His chest rises and falls under your touch, his breathing labored and ragged.

"You seem awfully preoccupied with my…escapades," he bites out, his tone sharp, his eyes glittering with unsuppressed anger. "Are you jealous?"

"Me? Jealous?" You tilt your head slightly, your eyes darkening as a slow, knowing smile curls on your lips. "Don’t worry, husband… a mutual betrayal doesn’t hurt."

You bite your lower lip, watching him, daring him to react.

It’s a bluff, of course. But Anthony is barely home for more than five hours a day – how could he possibly know the truth?

Two can play this game.

His eyes flash darkly, your words hitting him square in the chest. "Mutual."

His gaze flickers down to your mouth, his own lip curling into a sardonic smile. He leans in closer, his body pressing against yours, pinning you between the wall and his unyielding frame.

"You expect me to believe that you’ve been unfaithful all these years?" he asks, his tone dripping with doubt.

His hands move to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, possessive and demanding. "Or are you just bluffing, wife?"

"However, husband…"

"I don’t expect you to believe anything," you say sweetly, tilting your head ever so slightly, your eyes wide, innocent – dove eyes. "You’re free to believe whatever you like."

Your voice is light, almost playful. But then –

Your expression shifts, the softness melting away like a mask slipping from your face. Your eyes narrow, sharp as a blade, the look of a woman who knows exactly where to strike.

"Before I was a Viscountess, I was a Marquess," you remind him, your tone softer now, but no less dangerous. "My family is wealthier than yours. And if there’s one thing I never run out of, it’s connections… and money."

The words spill from your lips like a secret shared between friends, a quiet whisper laced with something dark, something dangerous.

Then, you feel it – his grip tightening at your waist.

There it is. The seed of doubt, the tiniest crack in his unshakable confidence.

Your words echo in the silence, and he stiffens. No. He couldn’t possibly believe that you had taken a lover, could he? And yet, the image of you with another man – any other man – makes him see red.

He grips you tighter, his fingers bruising your skin, but he doesn’t care. That possessive part of him, the one he tries to keep contained, is rearing its ugly head. He hates the idea of another man with you, just as you hate the idea of him with any other woman.

The tension between you is like a taut wire, stretched thin, ready to snap. His chest heaves, his heart pounding with a mix of possessive anger and denial.

"Are you telling me you’ve been using your connections and money to… what exactly?" he growls, his voice low, barely above a whisper. "Is this your way of getting back at me? By paying someone to warm your bed while I’m away? By betraying me just as I have betrayed you?"

You merely shrug in response, offering nothing but a sharp, ironic smile. Then, without warning, you press your hands against his shoulders and shove.

He isn’t expecting it.

Anthony stumbles backward, the force sending him down onto the bed behind him. A rare moment of vulnerability – one you savor.

Now, you stand before him, tall, unyielding. But you don’t stay there for long.

Slowly, you lean down, lowering yourself to his level, your face inches from his.

"Let this be a reminder, husband," you murmur, your voice silk wrapped around steel. "If you are venom, I can be the very viper itself."

Your lips curve into something between a smirk and a warning.

"Don't test me."

The sudden shift in power dynamics leaves him reeling. He finds himself on the bed, pinned beneath your gaze, his breath catching in his throat as you hover over him, your face mere inches away.

He opens his mouth to retort, his usual sharp tongue ready with a scathing response, but your words silence him.

"Vixen," he mutters, his tone a mix of begrudging reverence and irritation.

He knows it. This woman, the woman he married, the woman he calls his wife, is a viper in disguise. Sharp. Dangerous.

"I’ll be sleeping in the other room," you say casually, as if the last few minutes hadn’t just been a battlefield.

Rising to your full height, you turn on your heel and stride toward the door. When you swing it open, you’re met with the wide-eyed stares of several servants – clearly caught in the act of eavesdropping.

Their eyes go wide in panic, and they immediately scatter, hurrying away as if they hadn’t been standing there, hanging on to every word. You watch them for a beat before letting out a short, amused laugh.

Still, a thought lingers at the back of your mind – Had you gone too far?

You had just all but confessed to adultery, a bold-faced lie, but one that Anthony doesn’t know is a lie. And knowing him, he will not let it rest. He will dig, search, turn the entire ton upside down in pursuit of this phantom lover.

Oh well. A problem for another day.

You lift a hand and beckon one of the maids forward with a single finger. The poor girl hesitates before approaching, eyes downcast, as if terrified of being caught in the crossfire.

"Prepare the guest room at the end of the hall for me," you order smoothly.

Meanwhile, Anthony feels a strange mixture of disbelief, irritation, and… something else. Something more primal, more possessive.

"Like hell you are." He gets to his feet, his gaze following you as you walk toward the door, his eyes dark and intent. He barely registers the scattered servants, too focused on you.

When you turn and order the servants to prepare the guest room, Anthony bristles. No. You aren’t doing this, not tonight. Not tonight after that conversation.

He stalks after you, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the hallway. "You’re not leaving this room." His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist. He whirls you around, your back colliding against the bedroom door. The force of it sends a sharp jolt up your arm, but it is nothing compared to the way your heart is racing now.

His grip is firm – borderline painful – and his expression is dark, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle twitching there. His body is close, too close, trapping you against the door, trapping you in him.

"Yes, I am leaving, Mr. Bridgerton," you say, your voice steady despite the shock flickering in your eyes.

Your heart stumbles over a beat – you hadn’t expected him to grab you. Let alone throw you back against the wall.

For a brief moment, you simply stare at him, processing the sudden shift.

"I’ve already asked Clara" – the maid you had summoned – "to prepare the room for me."

Your tone is cool, as if stating the obvious. As if his grip on your arm, the way his body towers over yours, is of no consequence. "There is nothing more for us to discuss tonight."

Anthony’s grip tightens, his free hand slamming down on the wall beside your head, effectively caging you in. His brown eyes are stormy, filled with a mix of anger, frustration, and something else, something dangerous. He leans in, his lips hovering dangerously close to your ear.

"Oh, there’s more to discuss," he growls, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine. "And we’re not finished until I say we are."

While Anthony continues his performance, Clara – poor Clara – remains frozen, eyes wide in fear. You neither move nor breathe, trapped between the two most relentless forces in this house.

The Viscount and the Viscountess.

Two worlds colliding.

You exhale sharply, throwing your head back in frustration before shooting a sharp look at the petrified maid.

"You may go. You’re dismissed for the night," you order, your voice rigid but controlled. No need to turn this into an even bigger spectacle.

Because by morning, the city will be buzzing – whispers of the scandalous Viscountess Bridgerton and her alleged affair, rumors of how her husband laid hands on her in a fit of rage.

Wonderful. Just wonderful.

The moment Clara disappears, your attention shifts back to Anthony. Your gaze is pure fire – dark, untamed – like a predator watching its prey.

His body becomes a barrier against yours, blocking any chance of escape.

"So tell me, husband," you taunt, your voice as cold as a sharpened blade. "What else is there to discuss?"

Anthony’s eyes burn, ignited by your provocation. Without hesitation, he steps forward, eliminating the last shred of space between you, pressing his body against yours. He can feel the frantic beat of your heart, can taste your resistance.

"You really want to know, wife?" His voice drops to a deep timbre, a low growl vibrating through you.

The hand that once braced against the wall slides up to your cheek, a surprisingly gentle touch, completely at odds with the fury in his eyes.

"Then let me make it very clear for you…"

His fingers trace a slow path down your neck, a touch so light, so careful it almost contradicts the fierce hunger in his gaze.

You bite your lip, swallowing the gasp that threatens to escape. No, you will not give him that satisfaction.

"You," he pauses, savoring the moment, watching the way your breath stutters, how your chest rises and falls unevenly, "are not sleeping in the guest room tonight."

His hand drifts to your waist, possessive, determined. His thumb grazes the sliver of exposed skin in your nightgown.

"You’ll be sleeping in my bed."

Your eyes narrow, laced with judgment as they meet his.

"Now, you want me." Your smirk lands like a sharp slap.

"Funny," you murmur, your voice laced with mockery. "Not too long ago, you wouldn’t even think of touching me. But now that you think another man has…"

You lean in, defiant, even with his grip restricting your movements.

"You’re pathetic, Viscount."

His fingers tighten on your hip – a silent warning to watch your words. He’s teetering on the edge, patience wearing thin, worn down by every sharp-edged provocation. He’s not used to this – not to being challenged, to being resisted. And, damn it, as much as it infuriates him… it also excites him.

A low, dangerous chuckle slips from his lips.

"Oh, pathetic, am I?" He leans in, his mouth hovering over yours. "Let’s see who’ll be pathetic tonight, wife."

His fingers slide to your chin, forcing you to look at him. His face dips, nose brushing along the side of your neck as he breathes you in, inhaling your scent like a drug.

"You think you can just accuse me, challenge me, and I’ll let you go?" His whisper brushes against your ear, hot, laced with a quiet threat.

"Oh no, darling." His voice drips with arrogance. "You won’t get rid of me that easily."

His fingers glide from your face to your hair, tangling in the soft strands before giving a sharp tug, forcing you to expose your throat.

Before you can react, his lips claim your skin – teeth grazing, bites marking, just enough to steal your breath.

He doesn’t stop.

His mouth carves a burning path, invisible marks seared into your skin, as if branding you with a single truth: Mine.

You bite your lower lip, fighting to keep any sound at bay. But it’s useless.

Because he knows.

He always knows.

He feels the way your body trembles, the way your breath shudders. A satisfied smile ghosts over his lips as he presses a kiss to the pulse point in your throat.

"You can pretend all you want, wife," he murmurs, voice thick with possession.

His lips trail along your skin, his hand slowly traveling up your body, a touch balancing between tenderness and dominance. "But I know the truth."

A gasp escapes you, involuntary, tangled with a whisper.

"I hate you…"

You breathe it out between ragged sighs, your eyes fluttering shut against the pleasure. Your hand moves to his right shoulder, fingers finding rigid, tense muscles beneath them.

And he laughs.

And then, without hesitation, you dig your nails in.

Low, rough.

Like a man who has already won.

A sharp, stifled hiss escapes Anthony's lips, the pain blending seamlessly with pleasure. Your nails, digging into his skin, only fuel his desire. His grip on your hair tightens, pulling just enough to make you gasp.

"Hate me? No, darling," he murmurs, his voice thick with need as his lips resume their slow, tormenting assault on your neck. "You can try, but you will fail. We both know you can't resist me any more than I can resist you."

The sharp pull on your scalp intensifies, the sting spreading like fire. The pain – blistering, exquisite – sends a jolt straight through you. A moan tumbles past your lips, raw and unbidden, your body betraying you.

He knows you. He knows you've always liked a little pain.

Your hips move instinctively, rolling forward, meeting his. The friction, the heat – it’s intoxicating. His body, firm and unyielding, presses against yours, and through the thin fabric of your nightgown, you feel everything.

Anthony exhales sharply, his grip on your waist turning possessive, his fingers sinking into your skin. His free hand slides up, resting just below your ribs, anchoring you to him. His forehead nearly brushes yours as his dark eyes, wild and smoldering, lock onto your own.

"You want me, don't you?" His voice is a low rasp, teasing, taunting. "You can deny it all you want, love, but your body betrays you."

"Oh, really?" His voice is still low, dark. "You actually think you just want me for pleasure?" His lips hover over yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You think I don’t see through you? Through this cold, detached façade you cling to so desperately?"

Your jaw clenches at the pet name, anger flashing in your eyes. "I want you the same way I want others." Your voice is sharp, cutting, meant to wound. "Only for my pleasure."

The words hit him like a challenge. His fingers flex against your hip, his grip tightening just enough to remind you of his strength.

The loose neckline of your nightgown shifts dangerously, fabric slipping, baring more than intended. You bite your lip, gaze locked onto his, refusing to let him see just how much this – he – is affecting you.

He moves swiftly. Before you can react, his hands capture your wrists, pushing them above your head, pinning them against the wall.

Your breath stutters.

His eyes flicker downward, darkening as they take in your disheveled hair, your flushed cheeks, the way your chest rises and falls unevenly. He drinks in the sight of you – vulnerable, defiant, completely at his mercy.

"What are you going to do now, Mr. Bridgerton?" You ask, your voice laced with defiance, deliberately refusing to call him husband, refusing to call him Anthony.

The way you say his name – or rather, the way you refuse to – sparks something dangerous inside him.

His jaw tics.

"Now?" he growls, his voice rough, thick with frustration and something deeper, something unspoken.

"Now, I'm going to remind you who you belong to."

Before you can respond, his hands leave your wrists only to seize your waist in an iron grip. In one swift movement, he lifts you, carrying you across the room with long, determined strides.

The door slams shut behind him with a forceful kick of his boot.

You barely have time to process before you feel your back collide with the mattress, the air leaving your lungs in a sharp gasp. The irony isn’t lost on you – look how the tables have turned.

You push yourself up onto your elbows, your breath uneven, your pulse wild. Your gaze meets his, and in that moment, nothing else exists.

His gaze is dark and unrelenting as he takes a lingering moment to drink her in – disheveled, flushed, sprawled out across their bed. The sight of her like this, breathless and defiant, only feeds something primal inside him, a hunger sharpened by the way she looks at him with both defiance and undeniable want.

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, his body taut with tension, every movement exuding dominance. "You think you’re in control, sweetheart?" His voice is a low growl, smooth and dangerous. "You’re not. Not here. Not in my bed."

His hands move with practiced ease, undoing his belt without ever breaking eye contact. The sharp sound of leather sliding free from the loops cuts through the air, a silent warning. He lets it drop to the floor carelessly before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing his forearms, his movements precise and methodical. His fingers work deftly at the buttons of his shirt, revealing golden skin and hard muscle beneath.

You shift, rubbing one thigh against the other, the sight of him – unraveling, controlled yet lethal – sending a rush of heat through you. He is effortlessly beautiful, intoxicating in the way only a man who knows his own power can be.

He steps to the edge of the bed, towering over his wife, looking every bit the predator you refuse to admit that you want. His voice is deep, unwavering.

You part your lips, dragging your teeth over your lower one as you exhale through your nose, your expression shifting into something smug, defiant. You want to obey, to let yourself sink into the moment, but the idea of handing him that victory so easily is unbearable.

"Lose the nightgown." It is not a request. It is a command.

"If you really think I –" A gasp rips from her throat, sharp and unbidden.

Anthony’s patience has never been his strong suit. He moves without warning, his fingers catching on the delicate fabric of your nightgown and tearing it apart as if it were paper, the sound of shredding fabric filling the air.

His eyes are feral, burning with possession as he discards the ruined silk, his body moving over you, his presence all-consuming. He leans down, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath mingling with your own.

"You were saying, love?" His voice is silk and steel, rough with amusement and something deeper.

You barely have time to react before he presses against you, forcing you down against the mattress, his warmth searing against your bare skin. The solid weight of him steals your breath, leaving you utterly trapped beneath him.

"You’re unbelievable," you breathe, your pulse hammering, your body betraying the irritation you try to hold onto. Even now, you can’t believe he had the audacity to rip your nightgown.

Anthony smirks, leaning in ever so slightly, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

"Oh, darling." His voice is velvet-wrapped sin, deep and knowing. "You haven’t seen anything yet."

"You love it," he growls, his mouth moving to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You love it when I’m like this – out of control, consumed with desire."

With deliberate slowness, he parts your legs, positioning himself between them, his movements filled with intent. You feel his hardness through the thin fabric between you, and despite yourself, a breathless sound escapes your lips.

He presses his body even more against yours, leaving no space between them. The feel of her skin against his is a delicious torture, only fueling the fire between them. His hand moves up your arm, his touch both possessive and tender.

Your fingers instinctively find their way to the back of his neck, gripping onto him like he's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.

"Fu– fuck..." you whisper, eyes fluttering closed.

A low chuckle rumbles from deep in his chest. "No need to hold back, sweetheart," he breathes against your ear. "I want to hear every little sound you make for me."

"You think you can fight this? Fight me?" His voice is dark, laced with amusement. His lips graze your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "But we both know the truth, don’t we?"

His lips return to your neck, teasing, biting – just enough to leave a mark. One hand holds yours above your head, effortlessly pinning you in place, while the other explores your body, tracing slow, burning lines down your sides.

You inhale sharply, refusing to give in, refusing to let him see just how much he's unraveling you. But Anthony is nothing if not relentless. He knows every tell, every weakness, every unspoken desire.

"Say it," he murmurs, his tone softer now but no less commanding. "Say what we both already know."

You still shake your head, refusing to answer. His hand then goes to your panties, wrapping his hand around them and giving a strong pull, ripping the fabric in one go.

Anthony’s eyes lock onto yours, his gaze dark and smoldering with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. He can see the desire burning within you, evident in the way your breath hitches and your chest rises and falls with each shallow inhale. But he doesn’t just want to see it – he wants to hear it. He needs you to admit it, to confess that you are his, completely and irrevocably.

He leans in closer, his warm breath brushing against the shell of your ear, sending a wave of heat through your body. His lips hover mere millimeters away, teasing, as his voice drops to a low, commanding growl. "Say it," he demands, his tone leaving no room for defiance. "Say you're mine."

Without warning, he guides himself inside you in one swift, confident motion, filling you completely. Your head falls back instinctively, a sharp cry of pleasure escaping your lips as he grips your hips, pulling you against him with a possessive urgency. Holy shit, you think, your mind spinning as the sensation overwhelms you.

Your eyes roll back, your body trembling under his touch. It had been too long since you’d last been together like this, too long since you’d felt this kind of raw, unbridled connection. The ache of his absence had been unbearable, and now, with him so close, so deep inside you, it’s as if every nerve in your body is alight with electricity.

Anthony is lost in you, his movements deliberate and rhythmic, a dance that is both familiar and exhilaratingly new. It’s been far too long since he’s felt this way, since he’s been able to lose himself in the warmth of your body, in the way you respond to him so perfectly. In this moment, there is no doubt – you are his, and he is yours, bound together in a way that transcends time.

His lips find your neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. His hands roam your body with a possessive hunger, mapping every curve, every inch of you, as if committing you to memory all over again.

"You're mine," he murmurs against your skin, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that reverberates through you. "Only mine. Always."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..." You repeat the words under your breath, your mind spinning, completely lost in the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body. You can’t think straight, can’t focus on anything but the way Anthony makes you feel – consumed, possessed, utterly his.

"I'm- I'm yours, Anthony," you manage to say, your voice trembling, your breath coming in ragged gasps. Beads of sweat trickle down your forehead, your body trembling from the intensity of it all. Even in this state of blissful delirium, you muster the strength to shoot him a defiant, accusatory look, as if daring him to deny it.

"And you are mine..." you whisper, your eyes locking with his, the intensity of your gaze mirroring the fire in his.

"Absolutely, love," he growls, his voice low and rough, his dark eyes burning with a desire that threatens to consume you both. His hands tighten on your hips, his touch possessive, his body responding to every movement, every breath you take.

"You're mine," he repeats, his voice deeper, more commanding than before. "And I'm yours. Completely and utterly."

He rolls you over effortlessly, pulling you on top of him. His hands grip your hips firmly, guiding your movements as if you weigh nothing more than a feather. Your legs feel weak, shaky from the pleasure coursing through you, but Anthony holds you steady, his strong hands keeping you in place. You know you’ll feel the marks of his touch tomorrow, and the thought sends a shiver down your spine.

Your body moves with his, your breasts rising and falling with each breath, each motion. Sweat glides down your neck, tracing a path along your collarbone and down your chest, leaving your skin glistening like a rare jewel under the dim light.

The two of you are close, so close to the edge, and Anthony’s hand slides down to your ass, gripping it tightly, pulling you even closer to him. He sets a relentless pace, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, guiding you in a rhythm you couldn’t possibly follow on your own.

Your body responds to his every touch, your skin flushed and hot, your moans escaping your lips unbidden. You’re at his mercy, completely under his control, and yet it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

He lifts you higher, bringing you closer to him, his eyes never leaving yours. The intensity of his gaze is almost too much to bear, but you can’t look away. He bites your lip, a sharp, possessive gesture that sends a jolt of pleasure through you.

"Say it again," he growls, his voice strained, his body taut like a coiled spring ready to snap. "Say I'm yours."

"You're mine, Anthony. Mine. And I'm yours..." you whisper, your voice weak, your eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure threatens to overwhelm you.

The moment the words leave your lips, he lets out a deep, guttural groan, and you cry out in ecstasy, your voices mingling as you both reach your peak together. Your head falls back, your body trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you breathless and spent.

You collapse against his chest, your ear pressed to his skin, listening to the rapid thud of his heartbeat. His arms wrap around you, holding you close as you both try to catch your breath. He’s still inside you, his body slowly relaxing, but the connection between you remains, unbroken and undeniable.

You can’t form words, can’t think of anything but the way his heart beats against your ear, steady and strong. In this moment, there’s nothing else – just you and Anthony, bound together in every way that matters.

He feels your body go limp on top of him, your head resting gently on his chest as both of your bodies slowly relax, the tension melting away. His arms encircle you, pulling you tightly against him, his heart still racing from the intensity of the moment. The warmth of your skin against his is intoxicating, and he can’t help but savor the way you fit perfectly in his embrace.

He looks down at you, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled hair, the soft flush that colors your cheeks, and the delicate sheen of sweat that glistens on your skin. You are a vision to him – utterly breathtaking, a beautiful mess that he can’t tear his eyes away from. His fingers brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch tender and reverent.

Gently, he lifts your chin, urging you to meet his eyes. His voice is soft but firm, filled with a possessiveness that sends a shiver down your spine. "You're mine," he repeats, his gaze never wavering from yours, as if he’s trying to imprint the words into your very soul.

You don’t respond immediately, letting the silence stretch between you for a few more moments. Then, unexpectedly, you begin to laugh – a soft, almost incredulous sound that grows louder, more unrestrained. It’s as if you can’t contain it, the laughter bubbling up from deep within you.

"I lied..." you confess, your laughter softening into a sly smile. Your voice is low, almost teasing, as you continue, "I don’t have a lover. I just wanted to make you mad." You bite your lip, a mix of shame and pride flickering across your face, as if you’re both embarrassed by your admission and delighted by the effect it had on him.

But then your expression shifts, the playfulness fading into something more serious. You raise your head higher, your eyes locking with his, and there’s a challenge in your gaze. "But if you keep looking for other women," you say, your voice steady and firm, "I won’t hesitate to do the same."

The room seems to grow quieter, the weight of your words hanging in the air between you. Anthony’s grip on you tightens almost imperceptibly, his jaw clenching as he processes what you’ve just said. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes – surprise, perhaps, or maybe even a hint of admiration for your boldness. But above all, there’s a fierce determination, as if your words have only solidified his resolve.

"You won’t have to," he murmurs, his voice low and intense. His hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a gesture that’s both possessive and tender. "Because now there’s no one else for me but you."

[hisfavegirl]

Eternal Flame - Aegon Targaryen x Niece!Reader.

Summary : Your love for Aegon is enough to make you a bridge between the differences of your family, you are also a valuable asset that your family has in this peace.

Aegon Masterlist.

You stood silently in front of your mother’s chambers, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. From within, you could hear the familiar sound of raised voices—your mother, Rhaenyra, and your father, Daemon, locked in yet another argument. It wasn’t the first time, and you doubted it would be the last. Their words were muffled by the thick wooden door, but you didn’t need to strain to know what they were fighting about.

The topic was you.

More specifically, your mother’s decision to marry you to Aegon—a decision you had agreed to without hesitation because, despite everything, you and Aegon loved each other. But your father did not see it that way. To him, it was a betrayal, a dangerous political move that tied you to the Hightowers—a family he had no trust or love for.

“Do you not see what you’ve done?” you heard your father’s voice, sharp and accusing. “Marrying her to him binds her to them, to Alicent, to everything that divides us!”

“She loves him,” your mother’s voice countered, firm and resolute. “And he loves her. I will not stand in the way of their happiness because of your hatred, Daemon.”

There was a pause, heavy and tense, and then your father’s voice cut through again, quieter but no less furious. “It is not hatred—it is survival. Do you think love will matter when war comes? When the Hightowers seek to take everything from us?”

You swallowed hard, your heart aching at his words. You knew your father’s concerns were not without merit. The tension between your family and the Hightowers had long before you're born. But your love for Aegon wasn’t about politics, about alliances or power plays. It was real, and it was yours.

Gathering your courage, you raised your hand and knocked on the door. The voices inside immediately went silent, and a moment later, your mother called out, “Come in.”

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. Both your parents turned to look at you, their expressions tense and conflicted.

“I can hear you from the hallway,” you said softly, meeting their gazes. “And I know what you’re arguing about.”

Rhaenyra’s face softened, guilt flickering in her eyes. “My love, I’m sorry—”

“No,” you interrupted gently but firmly. “You don’t need to apologize. I know why Father is angry, and I understand his reasons. But this is my choice. I love Aegon, and he loves me. That should be enough.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “Love is a fleeting thing, daughter. It cannot protect you from what is to come.”

“And neither can fear,” you replied, your voice steady. “I am not afraid of loving him, just as I am not afraid of standing by my family. I am a Targaryen, and I will not be divided by anyone.”

For a moment, the room was silent, the weight of your words hanging in the air. Then, slowly, Rhaenyra stepped forward and placed a hand on your shoulder.

“You are stronger than I ever was,” she said quietly, her voice filled with pride.

Daemon said nothing, but the flicker of approval in his gaze was enough. You knew he would never stop worrying, never stop protecting you in his own way. But for now, at least, the storm had passed.

You strolled through the garden, the soft rustle of leaves and the sweet scent of blooming flowers surrounding you. The tranquility of the moment was soothing, a brief escape from the weight of palace life. Yet, as you rounded a corner, the sound of familiar laughter reached your ears—a voice you knew better than your own.

Aegon.

Your heart skipped a beat, and you turned your head toward the source of the sound. There he was, leaning casually against a tree, his silver hair catching the sunlight like molten silver. He looked at ease, a rare sight for someone so often burdened by expectation and excess.

He hadn’t noticed you yet, lost in conversation with a servant or perhaps just musing aloud. But when his eyes finally met yours, his expression softened, a genuine smile curving his lips.

You couldn’t help but smile back, warmth spreading through you like a gentle flame. Despite everything—the politics, the whispers, the shadows that lingered over your family—he had always had this effect on you. He made the world feel smaller, simpler, as though nothing else mattered when he was near.

“Aegon,” you called softly, stepping closer.

His smile widened as he straightened, his arms opening slightly in an unspoken invitation. “Wandering the gardens alone, my love? Were you looking for me, or have I just been blessed with your presence by chance?”

You laughed quietly, shaking your head. “Perhaps a bit of both.”

Aegon chuckled, the sound rich and full of life. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, and his gaze held yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter.

“In a garden full of beauty, you are still the most captivating thing here,” he murmured, his tone teasing yet sincere.

You rolled your eyes at his dramatics but couldn’t suppress the blush that crept to your cheeks. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he quipped, his grin mischievous.

As the two of you stood there, surrounded by the vibrant colors of the garden, the world seemed to fade away. In that moment, it was just the two of you, and nothing else mattered.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting warm golden hues over the garden as you and Aegon shared quiet laughter. His jokes, though often ridiculous, always had a way of lightening your heart. It was moments like these—free from the weight of duty and expectation—that you cherished the most.

Now, the two of you sat beneath the shade of a sprawling tree, the soft grass cushioning your seat. Aegon had decided, in his typical fashion, to make himself comfortable by resting his head in your lap. His silver hair spilled across your dress like threads of moonlight, and he looked up at you with a lazy grin.

“You spoil me, you know,” he said, his voice light with amusement.

“And how exactly do I do that?” you asked, raising an eyebrow but smiling down at him.

“By letting me lie here,” he teased, closing his eyes briefly as if savoring the moment. “By laughing at my jokes, even when they’re terrible. By not scolding me when I steal too many sweets from the kitchens.”

You laughed, gently brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You’re impossible, Aegon.”

“And yet, you love me,” he replied, opening one eye to look at you.

You didn’t answer right away, instead letting your fingers trace absentmindedly through his hair. The truth of his words was unspoken but undeniable. Despite everything—the chaos, the complications—you loved him deeply.

“You’re right,” you admitted softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aegon’s grin softened into something more genuine, and he reached up to take your free hand in his, pressing a kiss to your palm. “I know I don’t deserve it,” he said after a moment, his tone quieter, more serious. “But I’ll do my best to be worthy of it.”

Your heart ached at his vulnerability, and you squeezed his hand gently. “You don’t have to be perfect, Aegon. You just have to be you.”

He closed his eyes again, a content sigh escaping him as he relaxed into your touch. The world around you seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you beneath the tree, wrapped in a moment of peace and love that felt as though it could last forever.

Your fingers continued to glide through Aegon’s silver hair, occasionally brushing against his cheek. His soft, relaxed expression made you smile—a rare sight from someone so often burdened by the expectations of his title and lineage.

He was calm, even content, as his head rested on your lap. You felt a sense of peace that you had been longing for amidst the chaos of your family’s complicated world. But that peace was shattered when you heard voices nearby.

You turned your head, your heart sinking as you recognized the approaching figures—your mother, Rhaenyra, and Aegon’s mother, Alicent. The two mother walked side by side, their expressions calm but tense. It was clear from their determined strides and hushed conversation that they were coming with a purpose.

Aegon, noticing your distraction, opened his eyes and followed your gaze. His relaxed demeanor shifted slightly, his lips curving into a faint smirk as he muttered, “And here come the dragons.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, though you quickly composed yourself as they approached. When they reached you, Alicent’s gaze flickered between you and Aegon, her expression disapproving but restrained. Rhaenyra, meanwhile, softened slightly when her eyes landed on you, though there was a firmness in her stance that told you this was no casual visit.

“Aegon,” Alicent said, her tone sharp but quiet, “is this how you choose to spend your time? Lounging in the gardens while matters of your marriage remain unresolved?”

Aegon sighed, sitting up but remaining close to you. “Mother,” he replied lazily, “can’t a man enjoy a moment of peace with his wife-to-be?”

“A moment, perhaps,” Rhaenyra interjected, her tone gentler than Alicent’s but no less serious. “But there are matters that must be addressed. The wedding is fast approaching, and there are arrangements to finalize.”

You exchanged a quick glance with Aegon, who rolled his eyes slightly before standing and helping you to your feet. “Very well,” he said, brushing off his tunic. “Let’s discuss this ‘urgent matter’ of a wedding that we’re already committed to.”

Alicent’s lips thinned, clearly unimpressed with his attitude, while Rhaenyra gave you a small, reassuring smile. You felt torn between the two women—your mother’s quiet encouragement and Alicent’s intense scrutiny—but you nodded and stepped forward.

“Shall we sit and discuss everything here in the garden?” you suggested, hoping to keep the conversation calm.

Rhaenyra nodded, gesturing for everyone to settle under the shade of the tree. As Aegon plopped back down beside you, his hand finding yours, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of anxiety. The two most formidable women in your life were about to negotiate the details of your future—a future you hoped would bring peace, not more division.

The four of you sat at the far end of the garden under the shade of a large tree. The servants moved swiftly and quietly, setting down trays of small pastries, fruits, steaming tea, and wine. The atmosphere was pleasant enough, though there was a certain tension lingering in the air.

Alicent was the first to speak, her voice steady and deliberate. “The gown,” she began, glancing at you briefly before shifting her gaze to Rhaenyra. “It must be fitting of her station. The finest Myrish silk, perhaps trimmed with gold or silver. Something elegant, yet modest.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow at the word “modest,” a faint smile tugging at her lips. “My daughter will shine on her wedding day,” she replied calmly. “Aegon deserves nothing less than a bride befitting a queen. If silver and gold are what you wish, then so be it. But I will ensure the gown captures her strength as well as her beauty.”

Aegon, lounging casually beside you, took a sip of his wine and murmured, “I think she looks perfect in anything.”

The comment made you smile, though Alicent shot him a quick, disapproving glance. Rhaenyra, on the other hand, seemed faintly amused.

“The gown can be decided later,” Rhaenyra said, waving her hand slightly. “Let us discuss the ceremony. I suggest the Great Sept—though I imagine you, Alicent, may have a different opinion.”

Alicent’s posture stiffened slightly, but she kept her tone measured. “The Great Sept is a fine choice, but the royal wedding of my son and your daughter must also honor the traditions of the Faith. The ceremony should reflect the values of both our houses.”

Aegon sighed dramatically, setting his goblet down. “The Faith, the dragons, the banners… Must we weigh down our wedding with every tradition imaginable?”

“You speak as though tradition is a burden,” Alicent said sharply, her gaze narrowing. “It is what binds us together as a people, Aegon.”

Rhaenyra interjected smoothly, her tone almost playful. “Perhaps we can find a compromise. A traditional ceremony in the Sept, but with elements that honor House Targaryen’s roots. Fire and blood, as they say.”

Alicent hesitated, clearly uneasy with the idea, but she gave a curt nod. “As long as it does not overshadow the sanctity of the Faith, I will agree.”

The conversation continued, moving from the guest list to the feast and even the matter of who would speak during the ceremony. You sat quietly for much of it, feeling like a spectator at times, though Aegon occasionally squeezed your hand under the table, a silent reassurance that you were in this together.

Despite the occasional clash of opinions, both Alicent and Rhaenyra seemed determined to ensure the wedding went smoothly. Their mutual efforts, however reluctant, gave you a glimmer of hope that this union might bring some measure of peace to your fractured family.

Aegon let out a low growl of frustration, setting his goblet down with a sharp clink against the table. His usually laid-back demeanor shifted as he straightened in his seat, his expression a mix of defiance and determination.

“If we are to discuss the ceremony yet again,” he said, his voice steady but carrying an edge of irritation, “then let me make one thing clear: I want our wedding to honor our heritage—Old Valyria. That is our blood, our legacy, and I won’t have it drowned in customs that mean little to us.”

The air grew tense, and Alicent’s eyes widened slightly as she regarded her son. “Aegon,” she began, her tone cautious but firm, “the traditions of Old Valyria are… not aligned with the Faith. Such a ceremony could be seen as—”

“Blasphemy?” Aegon interrupted, his voice rising slightly. “We are Targaryens, Mother. Our house was forged in fire and blood long before we ever set foot in Westeros. Why should we not honor that?”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into a faint smile, clearly intrigued by Aegon’s rare display of conviction. “I agree with Aegon,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “A union of fire and blood—a traditional Valyrian ceremony—would be fitting for our houses, wouldn’t you say, Alicent?”

Alicent’s hands tightened around her goblet, her lips pressing into a thin line. “The people of the realm will not understand such a ceremony,” she said carefully. “It will sow doubt and unease among those who already question the Targaryen legacy.”

“The people will understand what I tell them to understand,” Aegon retorted, his tone sharp. “I am their prince, am I not?”

You glanced at him, surprised by his sudden assertiveness, but there was a fire in his eyes that you rarely saw. He turned to you then, his expression softening.

“What do you think, my love?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “This is your wedding too. Would you stand with me beneath the fire of our ancestors, as it was always meant to be?”

All eyes turned to you, the weight of the decision suddenly resting on your shoulders. You hesitated, glancing between your mother and Alicent. Rhaenyra’s gaze was steady, encouraging, while Alicent’s held a flicker of concern.

Finally, you looked back at Aegon and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly but firmly. “A Valyrian ceremony. It feels… right.”

Aegon’s face lit up with a rare, genuine smile, and he reached for your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Then it’s decided,” he said, looking back at the two mothers. “Our wedding will honor the blood of the dragon.”

Alicent sighed deeply, clearly displeased but knowing she would not win this argument. Rhaenyra, on the other hand, looked almost triumphant, a glint of pride in her eyes as she raised her goblet.

“To fire and blood,” she said, her voice ringing with finality.

Alicent took a deep breath, her face calm but resolute as she placed her goblet gently on the table. “If this is how it must be,” she began, her voice even, though there was an edge of determination, “then I propose a compromise. You will have your Valyrian ceremony, Aegon. But there will also be a traditional ceremony under the Faith of the Seven. Two ceremonies, as a symbol of unity—between the past and the present, between our heritage and the realm.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened, his expression darkening at the suggestion. “Two ceremonies?” he repeated, his voice tinged with annoyance. “Why should we need to cater to the Faith when this is our wedding?”

“It is not just your wedding, Aegon,” Alicent countered sharply, her gaze unwavering. “You are the Prince. This union is as much about the realm as it is about the two of you. The lords and people will look to this wedding as a reflection of the crown commitment to the Faith.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the exchange. “Aegon is right, Alicent,” she said smoothly, the title slipping from her lips with faint sarcasm. “This is their day. Why weigh it down with obligations to the Faith?”

Alicent’s gaze flicked to Rhaenyra, her calm demeanor barely concealing her irritation. “Because the Faith holds great power in this realm, Rhaenyra. Alienating them by favoring Valyrian customs alone would be foolish.”

Aegon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to ward off a headache. Then he turned to you, his expression softening. “What do you think?” he asked, his tone gentler now. “Do you truly want two ceremonies?”

You hesitated, glancing between your husband-to-be, your mother, and Alicent. The weight of expectation pressed down on you, but you knew your decision could shape not just your wedding day but the fragile peace between these two powerful women.

“I think…” you began carefully, your voice steady but thoughtful. “If having two ceremonies will ease the tensions and unite both sides, then so be it. We can honor both our Valyrian heritage and the Faith of the Seven.”

Aegon’s brows furrowed, a trace of disappointment crossing his face, but he said nothing. Rhaenyra’s expression grew thoughtful, her lips pressing together in a thin line, while Alicent gave a small, satisfied nod.

“Then it is settled,” Alicent said firmly. “The first ceremony will take place under the Faith of the Seven, in the Great Sept. The second will be the Valyrian ceremony you both desire. A compromise.”

Aegon leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest. “A compromise,” he repeated with a hint of sarcasm. He turned to you, his lips curving into a faint smile. “As long as you’re happy, I’ll endure it.”

Your heart warmed at his words, and you reached out to take his hand, squeezing it gently. Though the path ahead seemed complicated, you knew that with Aegon by your side, you could face whatever challenges came your way.

The discussion about your wedding had finally come to an end, though traces of tension still lingered in the air. You stood, smoothing your dress as you exchanged a final glance with Aegon, his reassuring smile giving you a small sense of comfort. Your mother gestured for you to follow her, and together, you began walking toward her private solar.

The corridors of the Red Keep were quiet, save for the soft echo of your footsteps. Rhaenyra glanced at you occasionally, her expression thoughtful. She finally broke the silence as you neared the solar.

“You handled yourself well back there,” she said, her tone both proud and encouraging. “Navigating between Alicent and Aegon is no small feat. You showed strength and wisdom.”

“Thank you, Mother,” you replied, though a part of you felt the weight of the decisions that had been made.

When you entered her solar, the warm glow of the fireplace illuminated the familiar space. Your father, Daemon, was seated near the hearth, his ever-present smirk hinting at his mood. Your brothers, Jace and Luke, were standing nearby, their postures casual yet attentive.

Daemon’s sharp eyes flicked to you as you entered. “So,” he began, his voice low and edged with curiosity, “has the Queen finally finished her sermon about the Faith?”

“Father,” Jace murmured with a faint laugh, though his expression was still serious.

Rhaenyra shot her husband a warning look before addressing him. “The matter has been resolved. There will be two ceremonies—one for the Faith, and one for Old Valyria.”

Daemon’s smirk widened as he leaned back in his chair. “Two ceremonies? How… diplomatic of you.” His gaze shifted to you, his tone softening slightly. “And what do you think of all this, daughter?”

You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I think it’s the best way to honor both our traditions and keep the peace.”

Daemon’s expression darkened slightly, but he nodded. “Aegon is lucky you are the one keeping the peace for him. Without you, he’d likely stumble his way into chaos.”

Jace stepped forward, his brow furrowed. “Do you trust him?” he asked, concern evident in his voice. “Aegon, I mean.”

You looked at your brother, sensing his worry. “I do,” you said firmly, though the question lingered in your mind. “He has flaws, but I believe we understand each other.”

Luke grinned, trying to lighten the mood. “Let’s hope he doesn’t drink too much before either ceremony.”

Daemon chuckled at that, but Rhaenyra silenced him with a sharp look. “Enough,” she said firmly. “This is an important moment for our house. We must remain united.”

Her words carried weight, and you nodded, feeling a sense of purpose despite the challenges ahead. With your family’s support, you felt ready to face whatever lay before you.

The conversation shifted, the clinking of silverware and soft murmurs of your family creating a quiet hum in the room. Your mother’s gaze, which had often flickered to your younger brother, now settled on you, her expression contemplative. For a moment, she said nothing, merely observing you with an unreadable look.

Then, breaking the silence, Rhaenyra’s voice was soft but clear. “You know, after your wedding… I think you will be the one to carry on our house’s legacy,” she said, her gaze steady as she met your eyes. “Perhaps soon, you’ll give me a grandchild.”

Her words were gentle but direct, and they landed on you like a heavy weight. You felt a warmth rise to your cheeks, the thought of children so soon after marriage feeling overwhelming, yet somehow inevitable. The idea of becoming a mother was something you had imagined, but now that it was spoken aloud, it felt like the future was suddenly pressing in on you.

You flushed, unable to form an immediate response, unsure of how to handle the sudden shift in the conversation. Your mind raced with the thought of what marriage and the responsibility it would bring meant for you, for Aegon, and for your family.

But before you could gather your thoughts, the sound of Daemon’s voice cut through the moment. He had been sipping his wine, but the mention of grandchildren clearly took him by surprise. He sputtered slightly, quickly coughing and sitting up straighter in his chair, trying to regain composure. “Seven hells, Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice filled with a mix of disbelief and mild horror, “I do not want my daughter to be… used for such purposes so soon.”

His words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the warmth of the earlier conversation. Rhaenyra’s expression softened slightly, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes, as if she had expected such a reaction.

“You misunderstand, Daemon,” she said with a smile, but her voice was firm. “It’s natural, of course. Aegon will take care of her as his wife, and they will fulfill their duties. A grandchild would be a blessing, not something to fear.”

Daemon gave a dismissive grunt but did not argue further, though his disapproval was evident. His intense gaze shifted back to you, and there was a rare softness in his eyes. “Just… be careful, daughter,” he muttered, his voice a little more gravelly now. “Marriage is not all it seems. The world does not turn easily for women.”

You nodded slowly, feeling the weight of both your parents’ concerns. Your mother’s desire for grandchildren and your father’s protective instincts blended into something that left you feeling uncertain about your own desires. You were caught between these expectations and the life you were about to begin with Aegon—an uncertain future where love, responsibility, and family would collide.

For a brief moment, you found yourself lost in thought, the heavy gaze of both your parents weighing on you. You wondered what the future would truly hold, and if you were truly ready for it.

The day of your wedding finally arrived, and the preparations seemed endless. Your chambers were filled with the soft rustle of silk and the quiet murmurs of your mother’s attendants as they adjusted the delicate wedding gown that clung to your frame. The fabric was exquisite, crafted from the finest silk in Westeros, its ivory hue shimmering under the warm glow of the room’s candles.

You stood before the tall mirror, staring at your reflection. The gown hugged your figure perfectly, its intricate embroidery glinting like stars scattered across the heavens. You tilted your head slightly, taking in every detail—the flowing train, the delicate lace sleeves, and the silver-threaded accents that reflected your Targaryen heritage.

Your mother, Rhaenyra, stood behind you, her hands gently smoothing the fabric over your shoulders. Her eyes, filled with a rare softness, met yours in the mirror. “You look perfect,” she said quietly, her voice steady but filled with pride. “You carry our legacy with grace, my daughter. This day will mark the beginning of a new chapter for you.”

Before you could respond, the door to your chambers opened. The sudden sound drew your attention, and you turned to see Alicent standing in the doorway. Her green dress, elegant yet simple, contrasted sharply against the pale tones of your gown. Her expression was carefully composed, though there was a flicker of something—perhaps nostalgia or longing—in her eyes as she looked at you.

“You’ll be a vision,” Alicent said, stepping further into the room. “The Realm will marvel at you."

Her words, though kind, carried a weight that was hard to ignore. You felt the tension between your mother and Alicent rise, subtle but palpable, as they exchanged brief glances. Alicent’s gaze then softened as it shifted to you, and she took a step closer.

“You remind me of myself on my wedding day,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost wistful. “So full of hope and dreams for the future.”

Your mother, standing protectively by your side, raised her chin slightly. “My daughter is stronger than you think,” she said evenly, her tone calm but firm. “She will make her own way, just as I have.”

Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she said nothing more, choosing instead to step closer to examine the embroidery on your gown. “It’s a beautiful piece,” she remarked, her voice neutral once more. “It suits you.”

You nodded politely, feeling the subtle clash between the two women like a current in the air. Yet, in that moment, all you could focus on was the weight of the gown, the weight of their expectations, and the life that awaited you after this day.

As the attendants continued their careful adjustments to your gown, the door to your chambers opened once more. This time, it was your father, Daemon, who entered. His presence was commanding as always, though his expression was unusually soft. His violet eyes swept over you, taking in the sight of you in your wedding dress.

For a moment, he said nothing, simply standing there, his gaze lingering. Then, he stepped closer, his lips curling into a faint, bittersweet smile. “My little girl,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, but filled with emotion. “You’ve grown into a beautiful woman… and now, you’re about to marry.”

His words caught you off guard, and your heart tightened at the emotion behind them. Daemon was rarely one to openly express his feelings, but now, there was no mistaking the pride—and the melancholy—in his tone.

He approached slowly, his hands resting lightly on your shoulders as he looked at you in the mirror. “It feels like just yesterday you were running around the Red Keep, challenging everyone with your fiery spirit,” he continued, his voice laced with a touch of wistfulness. “And now… you stand here, ready to step into a new chapter of your life.”

You turned slightly to face him, the weight of his words settling in your chest. “Father…” you began, your voice soft.

Daemon shook his head gently, as if to stop you from saying anything that might break the fragile moment. “You’ll make a formidable wife,” he said, his tone shifting slightly, a hint of his usual confidence returning. “And gods help Aegon if he doesn’t realize how lucky he is to have you.”

Behind you, your mother, Rhaenyra, watched the exchange with a quiet smile, though there was a glimmer of emotion in her eyes. Even Alicent, standing nearby, seemed to sense the gravity of the moment, her hands clasped before her as she watched father and daughter.

Daemon leaned down slightly, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’ll always be my little girl,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with affection. “No matter how much the world changes.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away, nodding as you met his gaze. “Thank you, Father,” you said quietly.

He straightened, his usual composure returning, and he stepped back with a small, approving nod. “Now,” he said, his tone lighter, “let’s ensure the Realm remembers this wedding for years to come.”

His words brought a faint smile to your lips, and you turned back to the mirror, feeling a mix of emotions—love, pride, and the bittersweet realization that your life was about to change forever.

The final touches had been made. The maids carefully adjusted the veil cascading over your hair, ensuring every detail was perfect. The soft fabric framed your face beautifully, the delicate embroidery glinting faintly in the sunlight streaming through the window.

You took a steadying breath as you turned to the door. Standing there, waiting patiently, was your father, Daemon. His silver hair gleamed, and his expression was a mix of pride and bittersweet emotion.

As you stepped toward him, he took a moment to look at you, his violet eyes sweeping over your appearance. A rare, genuine smile curved his lips. “You look radiant,” he said quietly, his voice filled with warmth.

“Thank you, Father,” you replied softly, your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest.

Daemon extended his arm to you, and you slipped your hand into the crook of his elbow. His grip was reassuring, grounding you as you began the walk toward the front courtyard where the carriage awaited.

The sun was bright in the clear sky as you emerged into the open air, the sounds of the castle bustling with preparations. The ornate carriage stood ready, its silver and black accents bearing the unmistakable marks of House Targaryen. The dragons emblazoned on its side seemed to gleam in the sunlight.

Daemon paused before helping you into the carriage, his hand lingering on yours. “This is the beginning of a new chapter,” he said, his voice lower now, meant just for you. “But remember, no matter what lies ahead, you are a Targaryen. You are my daughter. And you are strong.”

His words filled you with a sense of purpose, and you nodded, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I won’t forget, Father.”

He smiled once more, helping you step into the carriage before following to take his seat beside you. The horses snorted, their hooves clattering against the cobblestones as the driver signaled for the procession to begin.

As the carriage began to roll toward the Great Sept, you felt the weight of the moment settle upon you. This was your wedding day, the day you would pledge yourself to Aegon in the sight of the Seven—and the beginning of a future you had long awaited.

The carriage came to a gentle stop, and the door was opened by one of the attendants. Your father stepped out first, his regal posture commanding attention as always. He turned to you, extending his hand to help you descend. His grip was firm yet tender as he steadied you.

The Great Sept loomed ahead, its grand arches and towering spires radiating sanctity and significance. The air was thick with the murmur of gathered nobles and the faint scent of incense.

Daemon tucked your hand securely into the crook of his arm, guiding you toward the altar. The grand doors of the Sept swung open, revealing the interior bathed in golden light from the towering stained glass windows. The faint melody of a harp accompanied your steps as you began your walk down the aisle.

Your heart raced as your gaze met Aegon’s. He stood at the altar, dressed in his finest, the golden crown of the Targaryens resting on his head. His expression was uncharacteristically solemn, though his eyes softened as they found yours.

The walk felt both eternal and fleeting, each step bringing you closer to him, to your future. When you reached the altar, Daemon paused, turning to face you fully.

With a rare gentleness, he lifted the veil from your face, letting it fall back over your shoulders. His violet eyes, so similar to your own, searched your face for a moment, and then he smiled—a small, genuine smile filled with pride and love.

Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering just a moment. “You’ll always be my little girl,” he murmured, his voice barely audible but carrying the weight of his emotion.

He stepped back, placing your hand in Aegon’s. His touch lingered for a brief moment, a silent reminder that no matter what, he would always be there for you.

Daemon gave Aegon a pointed look, a silent but clear warning: take care of her. Then, with a nod, he stepped aside, leaving you standing beside your soon-to-be husband as the ceremony began.

The Septon’s voice echoed through the grand hall, steady and solemn, as he began reciting the sacred vows of the Seven. The gathered lords and ladies fell silent, their gazes fixed on you and Aegon as the moment unfolded.

You stood across from Aegon, your hands joined as the Septon laid a length of braided ribbon across them, symbolizing the binding of your lives. The golden light streaming through the stained glass illuminated his face, softening the usual sharpness of his features.

As the Septon’s voice continued, you lifted your eyes to meet Aegon’s. His violet gaze held yours, filled with an unspoken mix of emotions—nervousness, tenderness, and something that resembled quiet determination.

The world seemed to fade away, the grandeur of the Sept and the weight of the audience blurring into the background. In that moment, it was just the two of you, bound by the vows you were about to take.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger..." your voices carried the weight of conviction and devotion.

"I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days," Aegon vowed, his voice filled with unwavering commitment.

"I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days," your voice echoed. your voices intertwined, your souls merging in that sacred space.

The ribbon was removed as the Septon pronounced the union blessed by the Seven. Aegon’s smile was small but genuine as he leaned closer, pressing a soft kiss to your lips to seal the vows.

The hall erupted into applause and cheers, but all you could hear was the soft echo of your heartbeat as you looked into his eyes, knowing this was the start of your shared journey.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was alive with music, laughter, and the clinking of goblets. The celebration of your marriage was in full swing, the lords and ladies of Westeros gathered to honor the union. The throne room had been transformed, the usual solemnity replaced with joy and grandeur.

You sat beside Aegon at the high table, your hand resting lightly on his arm. He leaned closer occasionally, his voice low as he murmured words only meant for you. You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips, though your attention was soon pulled away when your father, Daemon, stood from his seat.

His sharp, commanding presence drew the attention of the room. He stepped forward, his violet eyes locking onto you. A faint smirk played on his lips as he extended his hand toward you.

“Come, my daughter,” Daemon said, his voice smooth and confident, “Let us show them how a Targaryen dances.”

The room fell silent for a brief moment, anticipation crackling in the air. You glanced at Aegon, who gave you a small nod, and then you took your father’s hand. He helped you rise, leading you toward the center of the hall where the musicians struck up a lively tune.

Daemon’s hand settled on your waist as the two of you began to move, your steps graceful and in perfect sync with his. The rhythm of the music swirled around you, the eyes of the court watching in awe.

“You look radiant tonight,” Daemon said softly, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“Thank you, Father,” you replied, a touch of warmth in your tone.

As the music picked up, Daemon twirled you effortlessly, the hem of your gown sweeping across the polished floor. The crowd clapped in time with the music, their cheers rising as you moved with an elegance befitting a Targaryen princess.

When the dance came to an end, Daemon bowed to you with exaggerated flourish, drawing laughter from the crowd. You curtsied in return, your cheeks flushed from the exhilaration.

Daemon led you back to Aegon, placing your hand in his. “Your turn, boy,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eyes before retreating to the sidelines.

Aegon stood and took your hand, pulling you close as the music shifted to a softer melody. He leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “Shall we show them how it’s really done?”

With a smile, you nodded, letting him lead you onto the floor, the crowd parting to give you both space. Together, you danced, the bond between you growing with every step.

The music swirled around you, the rhythm pulsing through your body as Aegon led you across the floor. The eyes of the court were upon you, but in that moment, it felt as though the rest of the world had faded away. All that existed was you and him, dancing in perfect harmony. His smile, his eyes—there was a lightness in his gaze that made your heart flutter with every glance.

Aegon leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered playful words, his breath warm against your skin. Each whisper sent a thrill down your spine, and you couldn’t help but smile at the intimacy of the moment. The laughter from his jokes echoed softly in your mind as the music seemed to slow, the final notes drawing nearer.

As the music reached its peak, Aegon twirled you, the fabric of your gown swirling around you as he spun you gracefully. The world seemed to blur for a moment, the movement so fluid, so natural, until he pulled you back into his arms with a gentle yet firm grip. Your heart raced as his hands settled on your waist, and in that moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Aegon looked at you with a softness that contrasted the strength in his stance. The distance between you closed, and without a word, he kissed you—slow and deep, a kiss that carried the weight of the vows you had just made, of the journey ahead of you. The kiss lingered for a moment, soft yet filled with a promise of everything to come.

When you finally pulled away, breathless, the room erupted into applause, the cheers mingling with the fading notes of the music. But all you could hear, all you could feel, was Aegon’s presence, his touch, the steady beat of your hearts in sync.

The night was still young, and you knew that this was only the beginning.

As the music continued to fade, a loud voice rang out from one of the guests, calling for a bedding ceremony to be held. The declaration echoed through the hall, a moment of awkward silence hanging in the air. The traditional custom was infamous for its brazen display of intimacy, something that, under the wrong circumstances, could become a source of embarrassment rather than celebration.

Your heart sank at the mention of it, but before you could react, Daemon, stood tall and imposing, his voice cutting through the room. “That will not be happening,” he said, his tone firm and resolute, a hint of annoyance lacing his words. “My daughter is not an animal to be put on display for your amusement.”

There was a tense moment of stillness as the room waited for the next move. Aegon, standing beside you, immediately took your hand with a reassuring squeeze, his voice calm but equally firm. “I agree with Daemon,” he said, his eyes scanning the crowd, filled with a quiet, dangerous intensity. “The bedding ceremony is a disgrace, and it has no place at our wedding. You will not demand it here.”

The crowd fell silent, the tension palpable. It was clear that both Daemon and Aegon stood united in rejecting the idea, their authority and influence silencing any further protests. Aegon’s hand tightened around yours, the bond between you both growing stronger in the face of such a ridiculous demand.

Your father glanced at you, a silent gesture of protection in his eyes, and then turned to the rest of the guests with a final, imperious look. “The night is to celebrate their union, not to satisfy your vulgar curiosities,” he declared. The room, now aware of the boundaries being set, fell into a respectful quiet, some guests murmuring but ultimately understanding the stance.

The tension began to dissipate, and the focus shifted back to you and Aegon, your hands still joined. The weight of the moment lifted as you stood there together, united not just in vows, but also in defiance of the petty customs that had no place in your lives.

Aegon leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “Let them gossip,” he whispered with a grin. “We have each other, and that’s all that matters.”

The evening air was cool as you and Aegon walked back to your chambers, the sounds of the celebration fading behind you. You could still feel the warmth of the dance and the weight of the guests’ gaze, but now, with the room finally quiet, you could let the tension slip away.

As you entered your chamber, the door closing softly behind you, the two of you exchanged a glance. The weight of the upcoming journey to Dragonstone loomed, but there was a strange sense of peace now that the night’s events had passed. The quiet was a welcome respite before the next steps, before the second ceremony, which would take place with the traditions of Old Valyria, a world away from the pomp and ceremony you’d just endured.

Aegon moved to the window, looking out toward the horizon where the sun would soon set, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink. He turned to you, his gaze softer now, the earlier intensity replaced with something quieter. “I know you’ve had enough for today,” he said, his voice low, “But I think we both need to rest before we face what comes next.”

You nodded, your tired eyes meeting his. The day had been full of emotion, and there was something calming about being in this space, just the two of you. You moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed. Aegon joined you, his presence always warm and grounding.

For a moment, you both sat in silence, the peaceful stillness of your shared space allowing the chaos of the day to slowly fade away. The wedding on Dragonstone would be different, more intimate, yet filled with its own expectations. You would both face that challenge together, but for now, you could simply be.

Aegon reached out to gently take your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “After Dragonstone,” he murmured, “We will make this marriage our own. All the traditions, the customs… they won’t define us. Only what we choose to build together will.”

You squeezed his hand in return, a quiet agreement passing between you both. There would be more ceremonies, more battles with tradition, but what mattered most was the life you would create together—united by your love, not the expectations of others.

With a soft sigh, you leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the weight of the day finally begin to lift. The journey ahead was uncertain, but as long as you had Aegon by your side, you knew you could face whatever came next. And for now, that was enough.

The sea breeze carried the scent of salt and freedom as the ship gently docked at Dragonstone. The journey had felt swift, perhaps because your mind had been preoccupied with the thought of the second ceremony—the one that truly mattered to both you and Aegon. His hand remained firmly in yours as you stepped off the ship, the volcanic island’s jagged cliffs and ancient castle rising before you.

Aegon’s grip tightened slightly, a silent reassurance as you descended the gangplank. The two of you exchanged a brief smile, the bond between you strong and unspoken. Alicent was already waiting, her expression calm but watchful, while your mother, Rhaenyra, stood with a regal air beside her. The contrast between the two women was stark, but for once, they seemed united in purpose: ensuring the ceremony later that evening would be perfect.

“Come,” Rhaenyra said with a small smile, motioning for you to follow. “There is much to do before the sun sets.”

Alicent nodded, stepping forward. “We’ll have you ready in time,” she added, her tone softer than usual, though her hands betrayed her tension as they clasped tightly before her.

You glanced back at Aegon as your mother and Alicent ushered you toward the castle, his reassuring smile lingering even as the distance between you grew. The ancient halls of Dragonstone felt almost alive, the walls whispering secrets of the Targaryen legacy. It was fitting, you thought, that the Valyrian ceremony would take place here, surrounded by the echoes of your ancestors.

Inside the castle, you were taken to a chamber overlooking the sea. The sunlight streamed through the large windows, casting golden hues over the intricate gown that awaited you. The fabric shimmered like dragon scales, the traditional marital robes of Valyria which is a pale white with red dyed edges. The deep red of House Targaryen woven into the design. It was a stark contrast to the Seven Kingdoms’ traditional wedding attire but felt infinitely more like home.

As the maids began to help you prepare, your mother stood by, her gaze soft yet proud. “This is how it should be,” she said, her voice carrying a sense of finality. “A union bound not just by words, but by blood, fire, and history.”

Alicent, standing beside her, added, “It may not be my tradition, but I see its beauty. And I see how much this means to both of you.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with anticipation. This ceremony wasn’t just for tradition—it was for you and Aegon, a chance to start your lives together in a way that truly reflected who you were. As the preparations continued, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below seemed to echo your growing excitement.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, and you knew it wouldn’t be long before you stood with Aegon again, this time to pledge yourselves to each other in the ancient Valyrian way.

The cool wind of Dragonstone whipped around you as you stood on the edge of the cliff, the sea roaring below, a testament to the raw, untamed power of this sacred place. The setting sun cast hues of gold and crimson across the sky, mirroring the colors of House Targaryen, as you faced Aegon. His violet eyes met yours, filled with a mixture of reverence and love, a stark contrast to the usual playful smirk he wore.

Daemon, ever the keeper of tradition, had brought a septon who was well-versed in the ancient rites of Old Valyria. The man stood between you and Aegon, his presence almost dwarfed by the magnitude of the ceremony about to unfold. Around you, your family bore witness, their faces solemn and proud. Rhaenyra stood with Alicent, an unspoken truce in their shared pride. Your father’s piercing gaze watched every movement, while your siblings looked on, their expressions ranging from awe to curiosity.

The septon began to chant in High Valyrian, the ancient words flowing like a song. He held a chalice of Valyrian steel, filled with dragonbone ash and seawater, symbols of your shared heritage and the unbreakable bond you were about to forge.

Aegon stepped closer, his hand reaching for yours, steady and unwavering. The septon handed you both small daggers, their blades gleaming in the fading light. “With blood, we bind,” he intoned, his voice carrying over the waves.

You felt the weight of the dagger in your hand as you pressed the blade against your palm, mirroring Aegon. A sharp sting, and then the warmth of blood pooled in your hand. Aegon extended his hand to you, his blood mingling with yours as you clasped hands, sealing your union in the way of your ancestors.

The septon’s chant grew louder, his words resonating with the power of the old ways. “Fire and blood unite, unbroken by time, unyielding as stone.”

Aegon leaned in, his forehead resting against yours as he whispered, “From this moment, you are mine, as I am yours. Always.”

The flames from nearby torches danced in his eyes, and you could feel the truth in his words, the promise that bound you to him in body, mind, and soul.

The septon poured the ash and seawater mixture over your joined hands, finalizing the ritual. “May the blood of the dragon burn bright and eternal,” he declared, his voice a proclamation to the gods and the world.

As the ceremony concluded, Aegon cupped your face with his free hand, pulling you into a kiss that felt as fiery and unyielding as the bond you had just forged. The cheers of your family echoed around you, but in that moment, there was only the two of you, standing united against the world.

A year had passed since your union with Aegon, and the days had grown into a steady rhythm of love and understanding. The tension that once lingered in the air had dissolved, replaced by a calm happiness that surrounded you both like a warm embrace.

As you stood before the mirror in your chambers, your hand instinctively rested on your growing belly. The sight filled you with a sense of pride and anticipation. This was the fruit of your love, a child born not just of duty but of genuine affection. You smiled softly, feeling the faint flutter of movement beneath your hand, a gentle reminder that the little life inside you was almost ready to meet the world.

Behind you, Aegon approached, his reflection appearing in the mirror as he stepped closer. His hands slid around your waist, resting protectively over yours on your belly. “You look radiant,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe and adoration.

You turned your head slightly to meet his gaze, your smile widening. “And you look nervous,” you teased lightly, though you could see the excitement in his eyes.

“I am,” he admitted with a soft chuckle, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “But I’m also ready. I’ve been ready since the day you told me.”

The memory brought warmth to your chest. You had been hesitant to share the news at first, unsure of how he would react. But the way he had embraced you, his joy uncontainable, had reassured you in ways words never could.

Aegon gently turned you to face him, his hands still cradling your growing belly. “You’ve given me more than I could ever ask for,” he said softly. “This child, this family… You’ve made me better, stronger.”

You placed a hand on his cheek, your thumb brushing against his skin. “And you’ve given me a home, Aegon. A place where I belong, with you.”

The moment was interrupted by a knock at the door. One of the maids entered cautiously, bowing her head. “The Queen and Princess Rhaenyra have arrived to see you, Your Graces.”

You exchanged a glance with Aegon before nodding. “Let them in,” you said, your tone warm.

As the two women entered, Alicent’s expression softened at the sight of you, her eyes lingering on your belly. Rhaenyra, too, smiled, her gaze filled with a mixture of pride and nostalgia.

“It won’t be long now,” Alicent said gently, stepping closer. “How are you feeling?”

“Eager,” you admitted, glancing at Aegon. “We both are.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly. “The waiting is always the hardest part. But trust me, it’s worth it.”

As the four of you spoke, the weight of history and tradition seemed to fade into the background. In its place was a shared hope for the future, a future shaped by love, family, and the new life soon to join your world.

The warm sun bathed the gardens in golden light as you strolled alongside your mothers, Rhaenyra and Alicent. The cool breeze brought the scent of blooming flowers, a welcome reprieve from the walls of the Red Keep. Your hand rested lightly on your rounded belly, a small smile gracing your lips as you relished the freedom of walking on your own—something you had fought hard to reclaim.

Aegon walked just a step behind you, his protective gaze following your every move. Ever since the announcement of your pregnancy, he had taken it upon himself to ensure your safety at all costs. It was endearing, but at times, overwhelming. Your father, Daemon, had been no better, his fierce protectiveness rivaling even Aegon’s. Between the two of them, you had scarcely been allowed to lift a finger, let alone take a step without someone hovering nearby.

It had taken both Rhaenyra and Alicent to intervene on your behalf, convincing the men to allow you some independence. “She is carrying a child, not a dragon egg,” Rhaenyra had remarked with a smirk, while Alicent’s soothing words had managed to calm their protests.

“You see, I’m perfectly fine,” you said over your shoulder to Aegon, your tone teasing. “No need to hover.”

Aegon huffed, crossing his arms but unable to hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “You say that now, but if anything happens—”

“Nothing will happen,” Alicent interjected gently, placing a hand on Aegon’s arm. “Let her enjoy this moment. She deserves it.”

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, her arm looping through yours as she guided you toward a shaded bench beneath a sprawling tree. “You’ve been walking for all of five minutes, and he’s already ready to carry you back inside,” she teased, earning a glare from Aegon.

You laughed, shaking your head. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. Besides, it’s not as though I’m running laps around the courtyard.”

As you settled onto the bench, Aegon took a seat beside you, his hand instinctively finding yours. Despite his overprotectiveness, you couldn’t deny the comfort his presence brought.

“I just want you to be safe,” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“And I will be,” you reassured him, leaning your head against his shoulder. “But you have to let me breathe, Aegon. I’m not as fragile as you think.”

Rhaenyra and Alicent exchanged a knowing glance, their smiles soft. As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. For the first time in weeks, you were surrounded by the people who mattered most, their love and support enveloping you like a warm embrace.

The sound of your father’s voice calling your name startled you, drawing your attention toward him as he strode purposefully into the garden. His sharp eyes immediately fixed on you, narrowing as they took in your relaxed posture on the bench.

“Why are you out of your chambers?” Daemon asked, his tone a mix of exasperation and concern. His hand rested on the hilt of Dark Sister, as though he expected danger to leap out of the bushes at any moment.

You sighed deeply, feeling the weight of his protectiveness settle heavily over you once again. Turning your gaze to your mother, Rhaenyra, you silently pleaded with her to step in. She met your eyes with an amused smirk, clearly enjoying your predicament, but eventually, she relented.

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra began, her voice calm yet firm, “she’s perfectly fine. The maesters have assured us that walking is good for her and the child. Let her breathe, for the gods’ sake.”

Daemon’s lips thinned as he looked between the two of you. “I don’t trust maesters or their assurances,” he muttered. “She’s carrying my grandchild, and I won’t risk anything happening to either of them.”

Alicent, ever the diplomat, stepped forward with a soft smile. “Daemon, she’s surrounded by her family and has been careful. Surely, you can see there’s no harm in her enjoying the fresh air for a short while?”

Daemon huffed, crossing his arms but not arguing further. Instead, he turned his attention back to you. “If you feel even the slightest discomfort, you’re to return to your chambers immediately,” he said sternly.

You smiled at his concern, even if it was overbearing. “Yes, Father,” you replied, your tone laced with gentle amusement. “But I promise, I’m fine.”

Aegon, who had remained quiet until now, chuckled softly. “You see, my prince, your daughter is as stubborn as you are. There’s no point in arguing with her.”

Daemon shot him a pointed look but said nothing, instead walking over to place a protective hand on your shoulder. “I only want you safe,” he murmured, his voice softening.

“I know,” you replied, reaching up to squeeze his hand. “And I appreciate it more than you know.”

With that, the tension eased, and the conversation shifted once more, leaving you to enjoy the moment surrounded by those who cared for you deeply—even if they did have a tendency to hover.

As Daemon and Aegon engaged in conversation a few steps away, their tones alternating between casual remarks and the occasional chuckle, your mothers turned their attention fully to you.

Rhaenyra, seated beside you, gently ran her fingers through your hair, her touch soothing. “You’ve always been so strong,” she murmured, a soft smile gracing her lips. “Even now, you handle everything with such grace. I’m proud of you.”

You glanced up at her, warmth blooming in your chest. “Thank you, Mother,” you said softly. “It’s not always easy, but having all of you here makes it better.”

Meanwhile, Alicent busied herself with selecting a small plate of fruit from the table nearby. She handed it to you, her eyes filled with motherly concern. “You must eat, dear. The baby needs nourishment, and so do you,” she said, her voice gentle yet firm.

You accepted the plate with a grateful nod, plucking a piece of sweet melon and taking a bite. “Thank you, Mother,” you said with a smile.

Alicent returned your smile, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “You’re glowing,” she said softly. “This child will be blessed with so much love, I’m sure of it.”

Rhaenyra chuckled lightly, still running her fingers through your hair. “Blessed and spoiled, no doubt,” she teased, her gaze flickering toward Daemon and Aegon. “With those two vying for the title of most protective, this child will have an army of guardians.”

You laughed, nodding in agreement. “It’s already starting,” you said, glancing toward your husband and father.

As if sensing your gaze, Aegon turned his head, flashing you a smile that made your heart flutter. Daemon, too, glanced your way, his expression softening for a brief moment before he resumed his conversation with Aegon.

Surrounded by the love and care of your family, you felt a sense of peace settle over you. Though they could be overbearing at times, their presence was a constant reminder of how deeply they cared for you—and for the life growing within you.

Rhaenyra’s fingers stilled in your hair for a moment as she looked at you, her violet eyes filled with a deep, maternal pride. “You know,” she began softly, her voice steady and filled with emotion, “you’re the one who holds this family together. You’re our bridge, the reason we’ve found peace after so much strife.”

You blinked, caught off guard by her words. “Mother, I’m not sure that’s true…” you murmured, glancing down at your hands resting on your rounded belly.

Rhaenyra leaned closer, cupping your cheek with a hand warm and reassuring. “It is true,” she said firmly. “Without you, this would still be a house divided. You’ve brought us together, made us see what’s most important—family. You are the heart of this house.”

Alicent, seated nearby, nodded in agreement, her green eyes glistening. “She’s right,” Alicent said softly. “You’ve done what I thought was impossible. You’ve made us see past old wounds and find a way forward. And for that, I will always be grateful.”

Your chest tightened with emotion as their words sank in. You glanced toward Daemon and Aegon, who were deep in conversation, their differences seemingly forgotten in the shared joy of the life you were bringing into the world.

“I never set out to do that,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I just… wanted us to be a family.”

“And that’s exactly why it worked,” Rhaenyra said, her voice filled with warmth. “You remind us of what truly matters. You’ve shown us all that love and unity are stronger than any quarrel.”

Alicent placed a hand on your shoulder, her touch light yet filled with affection. “This child will be the symbol of that unity,” she said. “Born of love, surrounded by a family who, despite everything, has come together for you—for all of us.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but they weren’t from sadness. They were from the overwhelming gratitude and pride you felt to be part of something bigger, to know that, in your own way, you had helped mend the rifts that had once torn your family apart.

The golden hues of the setting sun were fading, replaced by the soft glow of torches lining the corridors of the Red Keep. The cool breeze of the evening whispered through the open windows as you walked alongside Aegon, your mothers following close behind.

Viserys’s summons had been clear—he wanted the family to dine together every night, starting from the day of your marriage. It was his way of fostering unity and ensuring the bonds between you all grew stronger.

When you arrived at his private solar, the door was opened by a servant, revealing a cozy and intimate dining space. The table was already set with a feast of roasted meats, fresh bread, and rich wines, the scents wafting invitingly through the room.

Seated at the table were Aemond and Helaena, both turning their heads as you entered. Aemond’s sharp gaze lingered on you briefly before shifting to Aegon, while Helaena offered you a warm smile, her ever-gentle demeanor bringing a sense of calm to the room.

At the head of the table sat Viserys himself, his frailty apparent in his thin frame and tired eyes, but his expression held a warmth reserved only for his family. “Ah, there you are,” he said, his voice rasping yet full of affection. “Come, sit. Let us enjoy this evening together.”

Aegon guided you to your seat beside him, pulling the chair out for you before settling in. Alicent and Rhaenyra took their places on either side of the table, their shared glances a quiet acknowledgment of the fragile peace between them.

As the servants poured wine and began to serve the meal, Viserys’s gaze swept over everyone, a glimmer of satisfaction lighting his weary face. “It brings me joy to see all of you here,” he said, his tone earnest. “This family has endured much, but tonight, let us set aside the past and simply enjoy one another’s company.”

You felt Aegon’s hand brush against yours under the table, a subtle gesture of reassurance. You glanced at him, and he smiled, his usual mischief replaced by something softer, more genuine.

As the evening unfolded, the conversation shifted from light banter to shared stories, laughter occasionally echoing through the room. For a moment, it felt as though the tensions that often loomed over the Targaryen family had dissipated, replaced by a fragile yet comforting sense of unity.

The sharp pangs in your abdomen stirred you from sleep, leaving you breathless for a moment. You instinctively placed a hand on your swollen belly, trying to calm the ache that radiated from within. The room was dimly lit by the faint glow of the moon, its light filtering through the window. Aegon lay beside you, his breathing deep and even, completely unaware of your discomfort.

You glanced toward the window, noting the darkness outside; dawn was still far off. Carefully, you swung your legs over the side of the bed, your bare feet touching the cool stone floor. Each movement was deliberate and quiet as you didn’t want to disturb Aegon.

Once you were standing, you exhaled slowly, pressing a hand against your lower back to ease the tension there. The pain wasn’t constant, but it came in waves, enough to make you restless. You paced the length of your chamber, hoping the movement would help.

As you walked, your mind raced. Was this it? Was the baby coming early? Or was it simply the usual discomfort of pregnancy? You weren’t sure, but you wanted to be certain before raising any alarm.

Leaning against the edge of a chair, you closed your eyes and focused on your breathing, counting each inhale and exhale. The pain subsided briefly, giving you a moment of relief, but it returned shortly after, sharper this time.

A soft groan escaped your lips, and you stifled it quickly, glancing toward Aegon to ensure he hadn’t woken. His form remained unmoving under the covers, his face peaceful in sleep. You hesitated, wondering if you should wake him or call for the midwives, but the thought of disturbing him unnecessarily held you back.

You clutched the armrest tightly, bracing yourself as another wave of pain hit. Something told you that tonight was going to be a long one.

The night had felt endless, your pacing a desperate attempt to endure the relentless waves of pain that coursed through you. Your breaths came in shallow gasps, and the weight of exhaustion pressed heavily upon you. Sweat dampened your hair, clinging to your skin as you continued to walk, unable to find relief.

As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, illuminating the room in a soft glow, you heard the faint rustle of movement from behind. Turning slightly, you saw Aegon stir, his sleepy eyes blinking against the light.

When his gaze landed on you—your disheveled appearance, the sweat on your brow, and the way you clutched your belly—concern instantly replaced the grogginess in his expression.

“Love,” he called out, his voice rough with sleep but heavy with worry. “What’s wrong?”

You paused, gripping the back of a chair to steady yourself, and tried to offer him a reassuring smile, though it faltered under the strain of another sharp pain. “It’s… nothing,” you managed to say between breaths, though the lie was thin.

Aegon was already out of bed, his worry growing as he closed the distance between you. His hands gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing away the strands of damp hair clinging to your forehead. “This isn’t nothing,” he said firmly, his voice laced with panic. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I didn’t want to—” you began, but another wave of pain cut you off, forcing you to clutch his arm for support.

“That’s it,” Aegon declared, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re calling the maester. Now.”

Before you could protest, Aegon was already moving, shouting orders to the guards outside the door. His protective nature had fully taken over, and for once, you were grateful for his assertiveness. As you sank into the nearest chair, your heart pounded not only from the pain but also from the realization that the moment you had been waiting for was finally here.

The door to your chamber burst open, and the maester entered first, followed closely by several midwives carrying linens and basins. Behind them, your mothers, Alicent and Rhaenyra, hurried in with expressions of alarm and worry etched across their faces. Their hair was slightly disheveled, and their gowns bore the telltale signs of haste, as though they had barely managed to dress before rushing to your side.

Aegon stepped aside to give them space but remained close, his hand gripping yours tightly as the maester approached. Rhaenyra’s gaze darted to you, taking in your pale face and the way you clutched your belly. She knelt beside you instantly, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead.

“My dear,” Rhaenyra murmured softly, her voice trembling with emotion. “You should have sent for us sooner. How long have you been enduring this pain?”

Alicent was not far behind, her sharp eyes scanning the room before settling on you. “You’ll be fine,” she said, though her voice carried a mix of reassurance and command, as if willing you to stay strong. “The maester and midwives are here now.”

The maester stepped forward, bowing his head respectfully before addressing you. “Princess, may I examine you?”

You nodded weakly, leaning back as the midwives helped you into a more comfortable position. Rhaenyra held one of your hands, her face pale but composed, while Alicent stood at your other side, her hand resting gently on your shoulder for support.

Aegon hovered nearby, his jaw tight and his eyes fixed on you. “Is she going to be alright?” he demanded, his voice taut with worry.

The maester glanced at Aegon briefly before focusing on his task. “The labor has begun, Your Grace. It’s progressing steadily, though it may take some time.”

Hearing those words, the tension in the room grew. Rhaenyra tightened her grip on your hand, and Alicent exchanged a glance with Aegon. Both women, despite their differences, seemed united in their concern for you.

“You’re strong,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice trembling slightly. “You’ll get through this, my sweet girl.”

Alicent added, her tone firm, “We’re here. You’re not alone.”

The labor had only just begun, but with your husband and both your mothers at your side, you felt a spark of courage amid the pain.

The door creaked open, and all eyes turned to see your father, Daemon, standing in the doorway. His usual composed and commanding demeanor was absent; instead, his face betrayed something you had never seen before—fear.

He stepped into the room slowly, his sharp eyes scanning the scene. The sight of you, pale and sweating, gripping your belly in pain, seemed to unnerve him in a way no battlefield ever could. For a moment, he hesitated, as though unsure whether to approach, before his gaze softened, and he took a step closer.

“Sweetling,” he said, his voice unusually quiet, almost tentative.

The room fell silent save for your labored breaths. Even Alicent and Rhaenyra glanced at each other, their rivalry momentarily forgotten in the presence of his uncharacteristic vulnerability.

Daemon knelt beside you, his hands trembling slightly as he reached out to brush the sweat-dampened hair from your face. “Why didn’t anyone wake me sooner?” he asked, his voice strained, barely masking the panic underneath.

You managed a faint smile despite the pain. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Worry me?” he repeated, his tone a mix of disbelief and frustration. “You’re my child. How could I not be worried?” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat to steady himself.

Aegon stood nearby, watching the exchange closely. He seemed surprised by the raw emotion in Daemon’s voice, as if he, too, had never seen this side of him.

Rhaenyra stepped forward and placed a hand on Daemon’s shoulder, grounding him. “She’s strong,” she said softly, glancing at you. “She’ll get through this, just as I did. You remember.”

Daemon exhaled deeply, his expression conflicted. He nodded, though his hand still lingered near yours, as if afraid to let go. “I’ll stay,” he said firmly, looking at the maester and midwives. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Aegon moved to your other side, taking your hand again. “Neither am I,” he said, his voice steady with determination.

Surrounded by the people who loved you most, you felt a small surge of comfort amidst the pain. Whatever lay ahead, you knew you would face it together.A sharp wave of pain tore through you, and the tears spilled freely down your cheeks. You shook your head, clutching at Aegon’s hand with trembling fingers. “I can’t… I can’t do this,” you gasped, your voice breaking as you tried to steady your breathing.

Aegon leaned closer, his other hand gently brushing your hair back. “Yes, you can,” he said softly, though his voice carried a firm conviction. “You’re the strongest person I know. You can do this.”

Rhaenyra knelt beside you, her hand resting over yours. “Listen to me, sweet girl,” she said, her voice steady and soothing. “I’ve been where you are now, and I know how it feels like it’s impossible, but you’re stronger than you know. Trust yourself.”

Alicent stood just behind her, her hands clasped tightly as if in silent prayer. When she spoke, her voice was gentle but full of encouragement. “You’ve come this far, and soon you’ll hold your child in your arms. Focus on that—on your strength and your love for them.”

Another contraction hit, and you cried out, your body tense with the effort. Daemon stepped closer, his face a mask of both worry and determination. He placed a firm hand on your shoulder, grounding you. “You are my daughter,” he said, his tone unyielding. “There is fire in your blood. You will see this through.”

Surrounded by their words of comfort and unwavering belief in you, something inside you began to shift. You took a deep, shaky breath, leaning into Aegon’s touch as you found a sliver of strength within the storm of pain.

“I’ll try,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute.

“And we’ll be right here with you,” Aegon promised, pressing a kiss to your forehead as another contraction built. Together, they steadied you, their love becoming the anchor you needed to face what was ahead.

The maester’s voice was calm yet firm as he instructed, “It’s time, princess. On the next contraction, you need to push with all your strength.”

You gripped Aegon’s hand tightly, your knuckles white as another wave of pain surged through you. With a deep breath, you pushed, every fiber of your being straining as you fought to bring your child into the world.

“That’s it,” Rhaenyra encouraged, her voice steady by your ear. “You’re doing so well, my love. Just a little more.”

Alicent stood near the maester, her hands clasped tightly together in silent support. “You can do this,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Stay strong, dear.”

Aegon’s other hand brushed the damp hair from your face as he whispered soothing words, his voice filled with both awe and worry. “I’m here, love. You’re doing amazing.”

Another contraction hit, and you cried out, the effort draining every ounce of strength from you. “I can’t… I can’t…” you gasped, shaking your head as exhaustion threatened to overwhelm you.

“Yes, you can,” Daemon said firmly from where he stood nearby, his eyes fierce yet glistening with emotion. “Keep going, my love. You’re almost there.”

With their encouragement surrounding you like a shield, you drew on reserves of strength you didn’t know you had. You pushed again, and the room filled with the maester’s voice. “I see the head! One more, Princess. One more push.”

Tears streamed down your face as you gave it everything you had, a guttural cry escaping your lips. And then, suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of a newborn’s first cry—a sound so pure and powerful that it seemed to silence everything else.

The maester held up the tiny, wriggling baby, a look of relief and joy on his face. “It’s a boy,” he announced.

Aegon’s breath caught, and his eyes filled with tears as he looked at his son. “You did it,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “You did it, love.”

The maester placed the baby in your arms, and all the pain, fear, and exhaustion faded away as you gazed down at him. His tiny fingers curled instinctively, and his cries softened as he felt the warmth of your skin.

Rhaenyra and Alicent both leaned closer, their faces shining with pride and joy. Daemon, for once, was silent, his eyes fixed on you and the child you held.

“He’s perfect,” you whispered, tears streaming as you looked at Aegon, who leaned down to press a kiss to both your forehead and the baby’s. “He’s perfect.”

The peace of holding your son in your arms was short-lived. A sharp, familiar pain tore through you once more, causing you to gasp. Your grip on the baby tightened briefly before Aegon gently took him from your arms, his face etched with concern.

“What is it?” Aegon asked, his voice trembling as he looked between you and the maester.

One of the midwives checked quickly, her hands moving with urgency. “There’s another,” she announced, her voice filled with both surprise and certainty. “There’s another baby.”

Gasps filled the room as the realization settled over everyone. Rhaenyra stepped closer, her hand gripping yours tightly. “Twins,” she whispered, a mixture of awe and worry in her voice.

“No, no,” you whimpered, shaking your head as the pain surged again. “I can’t… I don’t have anything left.”

“Yes, you do,” Alicent said firmly, her voice a soothing command. “You are stronger than this pain. You’ve already done it once—you can do it again.”

Aegon placed your firstborn into Rhaenyra’s arms before kneeling beside you, his face level with yours. “Look at me,” he said, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. “You’re not alone in this. You can do this. For them, for us.”

The maester’s voice broke through the moment. “The second child is positioned well, my lady. It’s time to push again.”

Summoning every ounce of strength left in your body, you bore down, the pain feeling unbearable, yet you knew you had no choice. Each push was harder than the last, the exhaustion threatening to overwhelm you.

“You’re almost there,” Rhaenyra said, her voice steady with determination. Alicent nodded beside her, offering her own quiet reassurances.

With a final, desperate push, the pain seemed to peak and then suddenly vanish, replaced by the sharp cry of another newborn.

“It’s a girl!” the maester declared, lifting the tiny baby for everyone to see.

Tears poured down your face as the midwife carefully placed your daughter in your arms. She was smaller than her brother but just as perfect, her cries softening as she felt your warmth.

Aegon let out a choked laugh, brushing the hair from your damp forehead. “Twins,” he whispered, his eyes filled with wonder. “Our family has doubled in one night.”

The room was filled with quiet awe as everyone looked down at the two newborns, now swaddled and safe in their parents’ arms. The pain and exhaustion faded into the background as you gazed at them, overwhelmed by the love and pride surging through you.

“They’re ours,” you whispered, looking at Aegon with a tired but radiant smile.

“They’re everything,” he replied, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips and then to each of his children.

The room had grown quieter after the whirlwind of events, leaving only you, Aegon, and your newborn twins basking in the stillness of the moment. Both babies rested peacefully in your arms, swaddled tightly in soft linens. Aegon sat beside you on the bed, his hand gently tracing the outline of his daughter’s tiny fingers as she grasped at him instinctively.

Your mothers and father had left moments ago, promising to return after freshening up for court, though they had each lingered with soft kisses to your forehead and whispered reassurances of their pride.

“They couldn’t stop fussing over us,” Aegon chuckled softly, his tone filled with warmth.

You gave him a tired smile, leaning back against the cushions for support. “I think they’ll be back the moment they’re presentable. They won’t be able to stay away from the twins.”

Aegon nodded, his eyes never leaving the twins. “And who could blame them?” He shifted closer to you, gently cradling your son from your arms. “Look at them. They’re perfect.”

You watched as Aegon studied your son, the softest smile playing on his lips. The little one stirred in his father’s arms but soon settled again, his tiny chest rising and falling steadily.

“They’ll have your courage,” Aegon murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “And your strength.”

“And your determination,” you added, reaching out to brush a strand of his hair from his face.

He laughed lightly. “Let’s hope they inherit the best of us both.”

The weight of exhaustion was still heavy on your body, but the love that filled the room was stronger. As you held your daughter close, Aegon leaned in to kiss her tiny forehead, then yours.

“Rest, love,” he said softly. “I’ll stay here and watch over all three of you.”

You nodded, your eyes growing heavy as you leaned into his shoulder. With your family surrounding you, the world outside could wait a little while longer.

The soft sound of Aegon’s laughter pulled you from your slumber. Slowly, you opened your eyes to find the room aglow with the presence of your family. The sight filled you with warmth: your husband was cradling your daughter in his arms, an expression of pure joy lighting up his face. He looked more at ease than you’d ever seen him, gently rocking her and whispering something only she could hear.

Turning your gaze, you saw your mother, Rhaenyra, tenderly holding your son. She looked down at the little bundle in her arms with such affection, her fingers brushing softly against his tiny silver curls. Her expression was one of pride and love, the same one she often reserved for you when you were younger.

Your room buzzed with quiet conversation and soft laughter. Alicent and Heleana stood nearby, exchanging words in hushed tones as they admired the twins. Daemon and Viserys were engaged in their own discussion, though their eyes kept wandering toward the babies with expressions of pride. Jace and Luke sat at the foot of your bed, eagerly leaning in to get a better look at their newest family members.

You turned back to Aegon, your heart swelling at the sight of him holding your daughter so naturally. He noticed you were awake and smiled down at you, his eyes softening. “Look who’s finally up,” he teased lightly. “I told them you’d need your rest, but no one could resist meeting these two.”

Rhaenyra walked over, carefully bringing your son closer to you. “You’ve given us two miracles,” she said softly, her voice brimming with pride. “They’re perfect.”

Aegon sat beside you, gently handing your daughter into your arms. As you held her close, you felt a surge of love so strong it brought tears to your eyes. “They’re everything,” you whispered, glancing between your children and your husband.

Aegon leaned in, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And you’re everything to us,” he murmured, his voice filled with emotion.

For a moment, the room seemed to fade away, leaving just the four of you in your own little world. It was a moment you knew you’d cherish forever—a moment that marked the beginning of your life as a family.

Tag list : @danytar @zaldritzosrose @julessworldd @hangmanscoming @yazzzmints @giirlinblack @callsignwidow

[claramelooo]

WOVEN FATES (17/20)

Hey!!! What's up??

Let's calm down a little? Haha I know how excited you are, but today chapter is to lighten my beloved ones who still had doubts about R being more than a source. She really is!

I really loved this chapter. So sad, but so beautiful...

And don't blame me, blame my pms! (mommy is needy 😢)

Warnings: angst chapter! Proceed with caution.

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Pairing: AgathaRio x Fem Reader

Summary: Agatha and Rio seek Lilia to give her answers.

Hey! Now I've a masterlist

Amélie

At the beginning, you were just a project.

A source of energy, young and vibrant, ready to be drained to the last drop. Until your skin paled, until your breath turned into a faint whisper, and your eyes closed forever.

They prepared you carefully for this.

The plan was simple: seduce you, shape you, enchant you, make you more and more vulnerable. Make you fall in love with the illusion, lose yourself in their touch, surrender without resistance. And then, at the right moment, they would take everything.

Agatha and Rio had handpicked you, they had felt you. Wanda and Lilia agreed without hesitation. They knew what to do. They knew your last breath of life would be the sweetest.

The purest.

Rio would be the last to drink from you.

The last to hold your soul in her arms and carry it with her forever. Because that was her destiny.

Death.

The last touch, the last kiss, the last goodbye. Rio had always been there, at the threshold between the end and the eternal.

But now…

That simply can’t happen anymore.

They can’t let you go.

Now, you are not a sacrifice.

Now, you are theirs.

Only theirs.

Rio’s studio used to be a sanctuary of chaos and solitude, where she externalized the rebellious waves of emotions that devoured her.

Vidal’s fate had always been complicated.

She hadn’t asked for it.

Carrying the souls of others on her shoulders, feeling their stories, their pain, their last words embedding into her… it was too much. But death never has a choice. Only duties.

And even if Rio tried to escape, pretend she was nothing but flesh and bone, just a woman with paint-stained fingers and eternal dark circles under her eyes, she knew the truth.

Every stroke, every brush, every color carried something beyond reality. Her paintings wept. Whispered. Shattered in sighs and sins that weren’t hers.

It was a burden. A destiny.

Until you.

Most nights, she arrived home at dawn, hands and clothes dirty with paint, eyes tired, chest heavy. Agatha would already be asleep—or pretending to be. Always one step ahead, always distant enough to never be attached to anything.

It didn’t matter. Neither of them needed more.

Until you.

Until Rio discovered what it was like to come home and hear hurried footsteps on the wooden floor, feel arms wrapping around her waist before she could even drop her bag. The warmth of your body against hers, the soft sound of your voice saying, "You were late today."

She didn’t know she needed that.

Didn’t know how good it was to have someone waiting for her.

Agatha, on the other hand, never saw herself as someone who belonged to another.

She had always belonged only to herself.

To her intelligence. To her ambition.

That was how she survived for centuries. That was how she built her empire, stone by stone, blood by blood.

Evanora made sure of that.

Her mother forged her like iron in fire, breaking any weakness before it could even form.

Love? Love was a distraction. Love was a chain, an anchor dragging fools deep enough to surrender to it.

And Agatha would never be a fool.

She watched her sisters burn, saw mercy being punished, saw how those who loved too much always ended up in ashes.

So she made herself strong. Made herself unbreakable. And for a long time, she believed that’s exactly what she was.

Until Rio.

Because Rio didn’t court her with promises or ambition. Didn’t try to conquer her with power plays or seduction.

Rio was free.

And Agatha hated that.

Hated the way the woman laughed without guilt, how she spoke nonsense without fear of looking ridiculous. How she looked at her without fear, without the desire to control or be controlled.

Hated the way, beside her, Evanora’s words didn’t feel so heavy.

At first, Agatha wanted her just to spite her mother. To provoke. But then, without realizing it, she found herself lost in those brown eyes and silly smiles. In the warmth of Rio’s arms, in the way she expected nothing more than what Agatha already was.

She fought it. For two decades, she fought. Because she wasn’t capable of love.

Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

And then came the truth.

Because the woman who enchanted her with easy laughter and casual touches…

Was death itself.

The shock was paralyzing.

Evanora would have laughed. Oh, how she would have laughed!

The brilliant, ambitious daughter, heir to her legacy, seduced not by power, but by the one force in the universe that even magic cannot contain.

Agatha saw her break.

Saw the sweet and calm Rio obliterate everything around her in an instant.

Not out of rage.

But out of pain.

The truth burned, and as much as Agatha wanted to deny it… she knew.

Agatha loved Rio.

Loved the chaos that came with her, and over time, grew to love what she represented.

So when you entered her life, Agatha thought it would be easy and sweet, like strawberry cake.

She knew what to do.

Knew how to manipulate, how to shape, how to take whatever she wanted from you without you noticing. That’s what she did. That’s what she had always done.

And then you relaxed into her arms and called her mommy.

And for the first time in centuries, Agatha hesitated.

You weren’t supposed to unsettle her, but you did.

You weren’t supposed to make her heart pound in her chest, but you did.

You weren’t supposed to make her want more than just possession, but you did.

She felt ridiculous for liking it, but she couldn’t help it. Couldn’t deny the way her voice softened when you said it, the way you fit so naturally in her lap, the way your eyes shone when she praised you.

She tried to deny it. Ignore it.

But every touch of yours was different. Every time you looked at her, without fear, without reverence, something inside her trembled.

Control slipped through her fingers like fine sand.

The first time you called her that, it was a slip.

The second, a test.

Now, it’s inevitable and completely natural.

Now, she doesn’t want to hear you call anyone else that.

Before you… they were empty.

Now, they are overflowing.

And that changed everything.

[...]

The bedroom lighting was dim, and they prowled around you like wolves. Anger exploding in their hearts. Agatha knew that your shabby little friend was a young witch.

Lilia had already warned her.

That’s why, when you asked for permission to go out with Alice after class, it felt like a punch to the stomach.

She could have said no.

You would have obeyed without question.

Because you were good. The good girl of your mommies.

But Agatha didn’t want to.

Something inside her weighed on her, something unsettling and unknown. You were young. You had the right to have a life beyond them. Beyond this.

So, she let you go.

And she never regretted a decision more in her entire existence.

In mere minutes, Agatha explained the situation to Rio, the unease burning in her mind like an omen. Something was wrong. Something had been building up for weeks.

Wanda, always watching, always questioning, always wanting to know why they were taking so long to “lend” you to her and Lilia.

Why the delay?

The answer was simple.

It wasn’t going to happen.

That’s why, that day, when Wanda appeared at the mansion, sniffing the air and saying how much you reeked of Agatha and Rio—it was enough.

Sharing you with Wanda was out of the question.

Rio went back to Los Angeles; she knew Agatha might be right. She had seen this happen once before. And it didn’t end well.

So they cornered you.

Cruel. Sensual.

"Go on, pet. What else did that little whore say about us?"

The touch was gentle, but the words were chosen to hurt.

You weren’t supposed to believe other people.

You weren’t even supposed to question them.

"She said… you only want to use me." Your voice trembled in a whisper. "That I’m just a source…"

The words cut through the air like a sharp blade.

For a moment, the world stopped.

No one moved.

No one even breathed.

Agatha blinked slowly, brows furrowed, head tilted.

Rio remained still, her expression unreadable, but a muscle in her jaw twitched.

The room seemed to fold around you, suffocating, heavy.

Alice was a young witch. Inexperienced. An insect compared to them.

And yet, Alice knew about the sources.

Alice.

Not Wanda.

Not Lilia.

Alice.

But Alice wasn’t supposed to know.

Because that truth existed only between the four of them.

Rio, who had never shared the burden of fate with anyone beyond them.

Agatha, who held her secrets with firm hands and a cruel smile.

Lilia, sarcastic like Agatha but level-headed.

Wanda, intense, ruthless, loyal… Or at least, that’s what they thought.

One of them had betrayed. And the puzzle that had remained intact for centuries shattered right then and there.

Rio was the first to move.

Her dark eyes glowed like a black hole about to consume everything. She stepped forward, the scent of a storm rising in the air.

"Which one was it?" Her voice was a sharp whisper. "Who opened their mouth?"

Agatha’s gaze slid to you, your exhausted figure on the bed, your body still marked by the traces of last night.

She massaged the places where the whip had passed, her hands light and warm, like those of an ancient witch.

She caressed each mark with reverent touch.

"My love," she murmured, spreading a little more ointment on the inside of your thighs. "We’ve seen Wanda do this once before."

Rio paced back and forth like a caged animal.

"But that was centuries ago!" She said, arms crossed over her chest. "And Lilia said she forgave her." Rio pondered, avoiding her wife’s gaze.

"Lilia is too sensible." Your mommy’s hands were on your back. Massaging, caressing, and she smiled when you let out a small sound at how relaxed you were. "She has never put herself or her own will above us."

Rolling her eyes, Rio huffed. "Love…"

She had always been against Agatha’s desire for immediacy. If she suspected someone in a situation, Agatha wouldn’t stop until she had proof. Even if the person was innocent.

Agatha sighed, pulling away from you. The warmth of her touch vanished in an instant, and she got up from the bed, crossing the room with the lethal calm only she possessed.

"I’ll talk to Wanda tomorrow," she announced, her voice as sharp as glass.

Rio let out a brief, incredulous laugh.

"Talk?" She tilted her head, her eyes burning with something close to hatred. "And you really think she’ll admit it?"

Agatha turned to face her. "If it was her, I’ll know."

Rio studied her for a moment. "And if it wasn’t?"

The witch smiled, slow and sharp. "Then someone will pay all the same."

Rio ran her tongue over her teeth, crossing her arms. Her throat was dry. "I’m not like Lilia, Agatha. I won’t forgive."

The subtext was there.

Cruel and clear.

The last time this happened, it almost destroyed them. Almost tore them apart.

Agatha stepped closer, aligning her body with Rio’s, the candlelight shadows dancing over them like silent witnesses.

"I know, love. And that’s why you’re perfect for me."

Their eyes met, and in that instant, an understanding was sealed between them.

They had played this game for centuries. Survived every blow, every ambush, every broken alliance.

But this time was different.

This time, you were at the center of the board.

[...]

The set was alive with the sound of cameras, directors, and extras in their proper places. But Agatha heard nothing. Saw nothing. Time had flattened into a single thought: Where the hell are you?

Minutes before the break ended, a subtle unease made her check her phone. A habit. You always answered. Always came to her. Always obeyed.

Message sent. No response.

Her fingers slid across the screen, calling your name from the contact list. The phone rang four times before going to voicemail.

Agatha waited. Took a deep breath. Called again.

Nothing.

Her jaw clenched, and a weight began to settle in her chest, dense as molten lead. Irritation burned her skin like a persistent fever, but there was something else beneath it—something deeper, darker, something she refused to name.

She felt the tension in her shoulders when an assistant rushed past her. Without thinking, her hand shot out, gripping the woman's arm firmly.

"Where is she?" Agatha’s voice was low, but there was a sharpness to it, something that made the assistant blink in alarm.

"Who?"

Agatha’s patience was a thread about to snap.

She inhaled through her nose, teeth grinding as her mind processed the absurdity of the question. "The intern." The title felt weak in her mouth. Inadequate. "I need to review the script. And she’s not here."

The assistant hesitated, discomfort plain on her face. "I... I haven’t seen her. But I can find Yelena to review—"

Agatha dismissed her with an impatient gesture, her hand moving to her temple as her jaw locked even tighter.

The break ended.

The cast returned.

The extras returned.

The director returned.

But you didn’t.

The unease crept into her bones, replacing anger with something heavier, more unbearable.

That was when her assistant approached.

An uncertain gaze, hesitation in her steps.

She extended her hand. In the center of her palm, cold and silent, was your phone.

"The security guard found this..."

Agatha tore her eyes from her own screen, where she had been trying to call you for the umpteenth time.

The world stopped.

Her gaze fixed on the device, and something inside her tensed like a trap ready to spring. Her fingers wrapped around the phone, gripping it as if she could squeeze answers out of it.

No.

It wasn’t possible.

A second. Two. Her heart stuttered in her chest, erratic.

Fear.

The recognition of the emotion made her nauseous.

She lifted her eyes suddenly, her voice sharp as an ice blade:

"Where is Wanda?"

The woman’s agent barely glanced up from his phone, his expression vaguely distracted. "She went out for lunch."

And in that instant, Agatha knew.

Tension shot down her spine, a distant thunder before the storm.

Her fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles turning white.

"Fuck."

The sound was nearly lost beneath the ringing in her ears.

Her eyes darkened.

"Cancel today's scenes." Her voice didn’t rise, but the weight in it was undeniable. "Everyone is dismissed."

She didn’t wait for a response.

She didn’t notice the confused stares around her as she turned on her heel and stormed out, her purple coat billowing behind her.

Her fingers flew to her phone.

Calling Rio.

Her car was parked just outside, but the keys felt heavy in her hands.

Her fingers trembled as she unlocked the door.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Agatha gripped the steering wheel tightly, her breath quickening.

"Pick up, damn it."

The call was finally answered.

"Agatha."

Rio’s voice was steady, but Agatha recognized that hint of concern, as if she had been expecting this all along.

"Meet me at Lilia’s house."

There was a brief silence on the other end. No questions. No hesitation.

"I’m on my way."

Agatha hung up without further explanation.

Her heart pounded, her chest tight with a mix of fury and dread.

If Wanda had anything to do with this, Agatha was going to kill her.

Lilia was sitting at her desk, glasses sliding slightly down the bridge of her nose as she graded her students’ exams. The tip of the red pen struck a firm line through an incorrect answer, and she sighed.

That was when the front door slammed violently.

The sound echoed through the house, rattling the windows.

Lilia closed her eyes for a moment, exhaling a slow breath before saying, without even turning around:

"That was a bit much, don’t you think?"

Rio’s boots echoed against the wooden floor, each step like thunder ready to crash.

"Where. Is. She?"

Rio’s voice was a low growl, something primal and dangerous.

Lilia pushed her glasses up, finally looking at the woman standing in front of her. Rio was tense, shoulders rigid, dark eyes burning, fists clenched at her sides as if holding back violence by a thread.

But Lilia didn’t look surprised. Or scared.

She merely tilted her head slightly, her gaze analytical.

"You’re breaking into my house for this?"

Rio’s jaw clenched. She stepped forward, her shadow swallowing Lilia whole.

"I’m not in the mood for games, Lilia." Her voice was quieter now, more lethal. "She’s missing."

Lilia blinked slowly.

"And you think I’m involved?"

Rio narrowed her eyes, moving in like a predator scenting its prey.

"I think… you know something."

Their eyes locked in a silent duel.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

"Rio," Agatha warned, urging her to step back.

She entered the apartment, noticing the broken door, but even so, she grabbed it and fit it back into place, using her magic to repair the damage her wife had caused.

"I didn’t know you were a carpenter as well as a witch," Lilia mocked, slipping out of Rio’s grasp to sit on the couch, irritated.

"I apologize for that. But you understand what’s happening here, don’t you?"

"Understand?" Lilia scoffed, lighting a cigarette with the lighter on the coffee table.

Long centuries and she had never managed to kick the habit.

"Understand that you two got more attached than you should have?" She pointed the cigarette at both women. "I understand. It’s happened before, hasn’t it?" Lilia let out a hollow laugh, something almost melancholic behind it.

Agatha and Rio both took deep breaths, sinking into the plush cushions.

"But you should know I have nothing to do with this."

"Lilia…" Agatha began. "Where is Wanda?" Her tone was patient, too calm. She knew yelling at Lilia would only slow things down.

Lilia took another drag of her cigarette before answering. The orange glow briefly illuminated her face before she exhaled the smoke slowly, eyes locked on Agatha.

Silence stretched.

Time pulled tight like a thread about to snap.

Rio moved first. Her body leaned forward, hands landing heavy on the coffee table with a dull thud. "Answer, Lilia." Her voice was low, carrying an unspoken threat.

The other woman merely raised an eyebrow, looking bored.

"And what if I don’t know?"

"You know." Rio growled.

The laugh Lilia let out was short, devoid of humor. Her gaze drifted briefly, landing on an invisible point in the room. As if she were seeing something the others could not.

It was Agatha who spoke first, not raising her tone, yet making it impossible to ignore: "I don’t want to play with you tonight."

Lilia finally looked at her.

Her eyes gleamed under the dim light of the room. "But you always know how to play, Agatha."

Her name, coming from Lilia’s lips, sounded like a sharp blade sliding against skin.

The air grew heavier.

Rio felt her shoulders tense. It wasn’t an explicit threat. Not yet. But the game was being set before them, and the scent of danger was palpable.

"Her phone was found on set." Agatha continued, ignoring the provocation. "And Wanda disappeared at the exact same time."

"Coincidence." Lilia murmured, tapping the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray’s edge.

"Coincidences don’t fucking exist." Rio shot back, her patience crumbling.

"You’re right." Agatha admitted, making Lilia and Rio stare at her in disbelief. "We got attached more than we should have. Honestly, I didn’t even know that could happen to women like us…" Agatha trailed off, her eyes lost in the ashtray on the coffee table, watching the gray smoke dance in the air.

"Yeah… it can." Lilia breathed, sadly.

Agatha lifted her gaze, her eyes now firm and unyielding. "I don’t want the same thing that happened to Amélie to happen to her."

Oh.

The name was a punch. A dry crack in the air. A weight settling in Lilia’s chest, constricting each heartbeat.

Her face changed completely. The closed expression, the mask of disdain she always wore, shattered in an instant.

"Don’t say her name." Lilia’s voice was cutting, but there was something fragile beneath it. Something even she couldn’t hide.

The silence that followed screamed. It filled the room, creeping between the three of them, suffocating like an invisible presence refusing to leave.

Amélie’s name wasn’t just a name. It was a specter. A painful memory that had never found rest.

Lilia ran her tongue over her teeth, impatient. She took another cigarette, lighting it with the tip of her fingers. The flame flickered before dying, but the name still echoed in the heavy silence.

Amélie.

Agatha noticed the tremor in her friend’s hands as she brought the cigarette to her lips. "You still feel it, don’t you?"

Her voice came low, almost soft.

Lilia exhaled the smoke slowly. "What?"

Rio crossed her arms, her expression hard. "The absence. The guilt."

Lilia laughed. But it was an empty sound, dry, devoid of humor. "Guilt?" She repeated, testing the word on her tongue, as if it were something bitter. "Every single day."

She closed her eyes for a second, allowing herself to feel. And then, the memory came.

The golden hair—half blonde, half brown. Lilia never really knew for sure.

The soft texture.

The scent of eucalyptus shampoo, a common aroma, but on her, it was different. Unmistakable.

The white veil pinned to her head.

White.

Pure.

Amélie was light.

And Lilia?

"But no amount of guilt I feel. No stupid regret for not fighting for her, for us… will bring her back."

Agatha didn’t reply immediately. Her gaze landed on Lilia’s cigarette, on the way she held it, as if it were a shield. But it was useless. The past always found a way to reach them.

"Did you forgive her?" Agatha asked.

Lilia laughed again, but this time, there was pain in the sound. "Did I have another choice?" She tilted her head back, staring at the ceiling. "I was the one in the wrong. I betrayed you all. My family."

Agatha leaned forward. "Is that really what you think?"

For a moment, only silence answered. Then, finally, Lilia spoke, and her voice was a rough whisper:

"Fuck... of course not. I loved Amélie."

Her throat tightened, her lips trembling, but she kept going:

"I loved her."

Tears streamed from Lilia’s tired eyes. She had seen so many things, met so many people. But no one, no one, had ever compared to her Amélie.

"Of course you did." Rio spoke, her voice mirroring something she understood all too well. "You were never the same again, Lilia."

Lilia shook her head, letting out a shaky sigh. "She was so young. It was unbelievable that someone like her would waste her years inside that damned church. But fuck that." She shut her eyes, a weak chuckle escaping at the memory of the girl and how devoted she was. "I’d give anything to have her here with me."

Agatha blinked slowly, absorbing every word. It was like looking into a mirror.

If she let Wanda destroy everything… she’d end up like Lilia.

Or worse.

Because this time, she would watch Rio fall apart along with her.

Agatha took a deep breath. "Lilia…"

It was a plea. A silent request.

The older woman sighed again, her chest still heavy, but something in her seemed different. Maybe it was the weight shared between sisters. Maybe it was the unspoken understanding that their support for each other was non-negotiable.

Lilia stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, watching the ember die.

"Wanda has too many dealings in WestView." She gave them an answer, but lifted her head to look at the women already at the door.

"Do you really think you can stop Wanda?"

Lilia studied the two women before her. The intensity in Agatha’s eyes. The ferocity in Rio’s.

The love and loyalty they shared, binding them in a way that neither time nor darkness could break.

For an instant, she saw something she thought had been lost long ago: hope.

Rio growled. "If she thinks she can touch her, she’ll have to go through me first."

Lilia smiled—a small, almost imperceptible smile, but genuine.

"Then good luck."

And with that, Agatha and Rio left, leaving behind the smoke of Lilia’s cigarette and the sweet memories of a name whispered in the air.

Amélie.

~*~

And who is Amélie? Well... I can tell you this story someday.

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @rosekjsses @3liyuh @indentity0018 @beggingonmykneesforher @reginassecretlover @trying-to-do-good @imjustvibingsworld @mbxoxo @jazzyxqzl @eternallyconfuzed @ctrlaltedits @sheriffhaughtearp @lesbiansweet @i-luv-w1men @htinha157 @syssmin @wandasslut3000 @fuzzygiantlamphorse @imaginaryblogger01 @aboutcustardcreams @upsidedowndanvers @starbucks-06 @absolute-memegarbage @trinity2k @greyella @angel-kitten-babygirl-u-choose @whitelotus00 @dandelions4us @creaturesaphique @warpdrive-witch @sweetmidnights @dingdongthetail @mommy-mommy-mommy-hi

[rainbowsky]

In all my years of being a GGDD fan, I don't think any year has ever been better than this last one.

In the past I have watched them struggle and face incredibly difficult situations, be forced to spend almost all of their time apart, and deal with scandals and setbacks.

2024 was a year I could never have dreamed of for both of them. Watching them both thrive so well, take charge of their careers and their lives to a degree never before seen, and to have so much time for their personal lives - it's all I've ever wanted for them.

And you can see how well they are thriving, how much happier they are, how much healthier they are, and how much of themselves is stamped on every single thing they do.

I frequently see fans spinning negative fantasies about them, and it makes me sad. As if there isn't enough pain in the world, why generate more in your own mind?

A lot of turtles tend to overly romanticize 2018 and 2019 because they were the years that The Untamed was filmed, promoted and aired, and that's where a lot of our favorite GGDD content was born. I think that's rather self-centered and shortsighted. If we take five seconds to remove our rose-colored glasses, surely we can see how difficult those years were for them.

Yes, they got to work together for a few months, they got to spend some fun time together promoting The Untamed and even got to be somewhat open about their affection for each other in front of a crowd, but outside of that summer dream, they were both in pretty precarious positions in their careers, and both of them faced a lot of really gruesome anti attacks. Neither of them had very much control over their careers or their choices, and their management situations were atrocious.

We don't even have to talk about 2020. That was an incredibly difficult year. GG was the focus of one of the worst cyberbullying and nearly career-ending scandals that's been seen in that industry. He was being threatened, the people connected to him and the brands that he dealt with were being threatened.

Any time he tried to do anything in his career, whether it was an appearance or an endorsement, antis would come out in droves and protest until it was shut down. There were active organized hate campaigns whose entire purpose was to destroy his life and his career. People were trying to infect him with COVID, and there were other threats upon his life. Multiple times online hate campaigns tried to spread the rumor that he had died.

He couldn't go anywhere without people following him and chanting hateful slogans at him and trying to infiltrate the hotels he was staying at. It was terrifying.

DD was constantly overworked, exhausted, always on the move with barely any time to come up for air.

They had to spend most of their time apart, including some of the quarantine time, when DD was isolated so that he could begin filming LOF, right when the worst of the scandal broke. GG's grandfather died, and he faced so many personal burdens.

They did get some fun times together of course, and there were some huge successes for both of them, including GG's spectacular comeback at the end of the year with his sea of red for Tencent All Star Night. Even turtles worked to help ensure he had his red sea.

And GG and DD got to clown around and be silly as well, and they made a real effort to show us that they were getting through fine, they would be okay and that they were still the same people, still able to be happy. We got so much candy that year, and so many great LRLG messages as well.

But that was just a sign of their character and strength. Make no mistake about it, that was a difficult year.

The intervening years between then and now have been a bit of a mixed bag. There were a lot of COVID frustrations (scheduling issues, Kafkaesque hoops to jump through, inability to travel outside the country, risk of ending up in a prolonged lockdown, inevitable health stress), they had to spend a lot of time apart and there were more and more crackdowns on the entertainment industry, on the queer community and on fandom culture, which made things feel positively dismal and oppressive - at times even scary.

However, it's undeniable that things have been gradually improving for them. They've both been building more and more autonomy and control in their careers, and building more respect from audiences and within the industry. They've both been prioritizing their personal lives more and more. And yes - they've BOTH been looking happier, more relaxed, more balanced.

I've talked about that a fair bit over the past couple of years. Most recently in this post.

Looking at 2024, they have had so much more free time in their lives, have been able to spend so much more time together in the same city, have spent time with each other wherever they were filming, and even got to travel and spend some fun downtime outside of China.

They are in such powerful positions compared to even a couple years ago. They have made great connections and worked on some amazing projects.

GG has been working with some of the top directors on some of the most anticipated projects in C-ent. He recorded an entire solo album and several music videos, and did all of that on his own time and on his own dime, and released it to critical acclaim and massive success with audiences.

He has been the talk of the globe in fashion circles and entertainment circles, and has been the global face behind some of the most successful and exciting campaigns for some of the most prestigious brands in the world.

He got to travel a lot outside of China, and build on some of the great connections he's made over the years. He got to spend time with his parents traveling Europe!

He's given us so much incredible content with his vlogs and photo sets. It's just mind-boggling how much he's given us over the past couple of years.

DD took initiative to propose and participate in a documentary series where he got to explore interesting locations and engage in some of the most extreme outdoor activities. What could possibly be more exciting for someone like him?

He got to work with a team of conservationists who are fighting to save pangolins, and filmed a documentary there as well. Knowing him, that has to be one of the most rewarding things he's ever done in his life.

Both documentaries were highly acclaimed and award-winning.

Speaking of awards, he debuted as a film star and has been nominated for all of the top awards in China both for his film work and his drama work!

He has signed a new contract with his management company that will certainly have put him in a very powerful position in the company as their top breadwinner. He has been exceptionally successful with endorsements, holding more endorsements than anyone else in C-ent.

He got to play tennis on the top of The Great Wall with one of the top players in the world (regardless of how much I despise Djokovic).

He got to be an Olympic torch bearer! He is the ambassador for multiple high profile organizations and projects.

He earned his auto racing license, joined a racing team and finished in first place in his first ever auto race!

Make no mistake about it, they are both now solidly calling the shots in their own lives and careers, they are living their best lives, and they are both happier than I have ever seen them in all of these years.

And much more healthy! Just take one look at them and you can see how much healthier they both are. They've been playing a lot of sports and doing a lot of active outdoor activities together, and it shows in how much happier and healthier they are.

Frankly anyone who can't see that has their head stuffed firmly in a moist dark place.

I urge everyone to center GG and DD in all of our fandom explorations, theories and interpretations. The reality is that the more that they get to focus on their own lives and careers and personal freedoms, the less candy and CPN we're likely to see. We should be happy for them rather than try to spin sad tales about it.

[literaleyekon]

✦ SOAKED L.R

“y/n is having some problems, Lara wants to help?”

pairing. [Lara Raj] x [fem!reader] gn! prns used (i forgot mb)

genre. [smut, NSFW]

wc. [1.4k]

notes. [I can’t write smut but oh well darlings don’t forget to keep both hands where i can see them.😉]

now playing. [Soaked] - shy smith

✦ “YOU GET ME SO SOAKED”

As Y/n arrived at Lara's cozy apartment, they were greeted with a warm smile. Lara's long, dark hair framed her soft features, and her gentle eyes sparkled with joy at the sight of her friend. The girls had planned a low-key evening, catching up on their favorite TV show and indulging in some junk food. It was a simple pleasure, but for these two, it was the perfect way to unwind.

"Hey, Y/n! Come on in," Lara said, her voice filled with enthusiasm. "I've got the snacks ready, and the new episode is about to start. It's gonna be a great night!"

Y/n stepped inside, feeling the familiar comfort of Lara's home. They dropped their overnight bag by the door and made their way to the living room, where a cozy setup awaited them. Pillows and blankets were scattered on the couch, creating a snug haven.

"This looks amazing, Lara. You always know how to make a sleepover special," Y/n said, plopping down on the soft cushions.

The girls settled in, chatting about their week while munching on chips and dipping into a bowl of creamy dip. As the episode began, they fell into a comfortable silence, engrossed in the onscreen drama.

But as the night wore on, Y/n's thoughts began to wander. They had been feeling a bit down lately, burdened by a secret they had never shared with anyone, not even Lara. Y/n was a virgin, and not by choice. They craved intimacy and the connection that came with it, but every attempt at dating had ended in disappointment.

"Hey, Lara," Y/n said, their voice laced with hesitation. "Can I talk to you about something personal?"

Lara paused the show, her eyes filled with concern. "Of course, Y/n. You know you can tell me anything."

Y/n took a deep breath, steeling themselves for the confession. "I... I've been feeling a bit down lately. I'm still a virgin, and it's not like I haven't tried dating. I just... I can't seem to find the right person. It's frustrating, you know?"

Lara's eyes widened, and she reached out to squeeze Y/n's hand. "Oh, honey, I had no idea. I'm so sorry you've been feeling this way. You know, I've always been here for you, and I want to help."

Y/n smiled gratefully, feeling a weight lift from their shoulders. "Thanks, Lara. I just needed to get it off my chest. I know it's silly, but it's been bothering me."

Lara's face softened, and she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It's not silly at all. And you know, I've always had a soft spot for you, Y/n. I'd love to help you explore your desires."

Her words sent a shiver down Y/n's spine. They had always been aware of the unspoken attraction between them, but neither had acted on it. Until now.

"Really? I mean, I've felt the same way, but I didn't want to ruin our friendship," Y/n admitted, their voice barely above a whisper.

Lara's eyes sparkled with mischief. "Who said anything about ruining our friendship? I think it's time we explored this attraction, don't you?"

As Lara leaned forward, Y/n's heart raced. They could feel the heat radiating from her body, and the scent of her perfume was intoxicating. Without a word, they closed the distance between them, their lips meeting in a soft, tentative kiss. It was a gentle exploration, a silent agreement to take things further.

The kiss deepened, and Y/n felt Lara's tongue brush against their lips, seeking entrance. They parted their lips willingly, and the sensation of Lara's warm, wet tongue dancing with their own sent a wave of pleasure through their body. Lara's hands cupped Y/n's face, holding them close as she kissed them with a passion that took their breath away.

As the kiss continued, Lara's hands began to wander, gently caressing Y/n's neck and shoulders. Y/n moaned softly into the kiss, their hands gripping Lara's hips, pulling her closer. The heat between them was palpable, and they could feel their desire building with every touch.

Breaking the kiss, Lara smiled, her eyes glistening with desire. "I've wanted to do that for so long, Y/n. And I want to do so much more."

Y/n's heart was pounding, and they nodded, unable to find the words to express their longing. Lara's fingers traced a path down Y/n's neck, pausing at the collar of their shirt. With a gentle tug, she began to unbutton it, her touch sending shivers down Y/n's spine.

"Let's take this slow, okay?" Lara whispered, her breath hot against Y/n's skin. "I want to savor every moment."

Y/n could only nod, their body on fire with anticipation. Lara's hands were gentle as she slid the shirt off Y/n's shoulders, revealing the lacy black bra beneath. She took her time, her fingers tracing the delicate lace, sending tingles down Y/n's body.

"You're so beautiful, Y/n," Lara murmured, her lips brushing against Y/n's collarbone. "I want to taste every inch of you."

With that, she lowered herself, her lips finding the sensitive skin just above Y/n's bra. She kissed and sucked gently, leaving a trail of kisses down to the swell of Y/n's breasts. Y/n arched their back, encouraging Lara to continue her exploration.

Lara's hands cupped Y/n's breasts, her thumbs brushing against the hardened nipples through the lace. Y/n gasped, their body trembling with pleasure. Lara's mouth found a nipple, and she sucked it gently through the fabric, causing Y/n to moan loudly.

"Please, Lara," Y/n pleaded, their voice hoarse with desire. "I need more."

Lara smiled against Y/n's breast, her breath hot and moist. "Oh, I plan to give you so much more, my sweet Y/n."

With that, she gently removed Y/n's bra, revealing their full, firm breasts. Lara's eyes darkened with desire as she took in the sight, her hands reaching out to cup and squeeze the soft flesh. Y/n's nipples stood erect, begging for attention.

Lara lowered her head, her lips capturing a taut nipple. She sucked and teased, her tongue swirling around the sensitive peak while her fingers gently pinched and rolled the other nipple. Y/n's hands were buried in Lara's hair, holding her close as waves of pleasure washed over them.

"Oh, God, Lara," Y/n panted. "Your mouth feels so good. Don't stop."

Lara's response was to increase the intensity, her mouth working feverishly. She sucked and nibbled, her tongue flicking and teasing, driving Y/n wild with desire. Y/n's hips bucked off the couch, their body desperate for more stimulation.

Sensing Y/n's need, Lara trailed kisses down Y/n's stomach, her hands gently caressing their inner thighs. She paused at the waistband of Y/n's jeans, her breath hot against the sensitive skin.

"I want to taste you, Y/n," Lara whispered, her voice husky with desire. "Let me pleasure you with my mouth."

Y/n's eyes widened, their heart racing at the thought. They had never experienced oral pleasure before, and the idea of Lara's skilled mouth on their most intimate place was almost too much to bear.

"Please, Lara," Y/n begged, their voice trembling. "I want to feel you there. I need it."

Lara smiled, her eyes filled with determination. She unbuttoned Y/n's jeans and slowly slid them down their legs, revealing the lacy black panties beneath. Y/n's breath caught in their throat as Lara's fingers gently stroked their inner thighs, edging closer to their core.

Lara's mouth replaced her fingers, her warm breath teasing Y/n's sensitive skin. She kissed and nibbled her way up Y/n's thighs, her hands gently holding them open, exposing their glistening pussy. Y/n's heart was pounding, their body on fire with anticipation.

"You're so wet, Y/n," Lara murmured, her voice a soft purr. "I can't wait to taste you."

With that, she lowered her head, her tongue extending to flick at Y/n's clit through the damp fabric of their panties. Y/n gasped, their body jerking at the sudden contact. Lara's tongue was relentless, circling and flicking, driving Y/n to the brink of ecstasy.

"Oh, God, Lara! Yes, right there," Y/n cried out, their hips thrusting upwards, seeking more contact.

Lara's hands gripped Y/n's thighs, holding them open as her mouth worked its magic. She pulled Y/n's panties to the side, exposing their swollen, glistening pussy. Her tongue delved deep, exploring every fold and crevice, sending Y/n into a frenzy of pleasure.

Y/n's hands gripped the couch cushions, their body writhing as Lara's tongue teased and pleasured them. She sucked on Y/n's clit, her fingers slipping inside their wetness, curling and stroking in perfect rhythm. Y/n's moans filled the room, their orgasm building to an intense peak.

"I'm gonna come, Lara! Oh, God, I'm so close!" Y/n cried out, their body trembling.

Lara's response was to increase her efforts, her tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony. She sucked and licked, her fingers thrusting deep, driving Y/n over the edge. Y/n's body convulsed, their orgasm ripping through them with an intensity they had never experienced before.

As the waves of pleasure subsided, Y/n lay panting, their body spent and satisfied. Lara crawled up their body, her lips finding Y/n's in a tender kiss.

"That was incredible, Y/n," Lara whispered, her eyes filled with adoration. "I've wanted to do that for so long. I hope it was everything you needed."

Y/n smiled, their heart overflowing with gratitude and desire. "It was perfect, Lara. I never knew it could be like this. I want to make you feel the same way."

Lara's eyes darkened with anticipation. "Oh, Y/n, I can't wait to feel your mouth on me. But first, let's take a moment to catch our breath. We have all night, and I plan to make the most of it."

With that, they snuggled close, their hearts still racing from the intensity of their first sexual encounter. The night was far from over, and both girls knew that the best was yet to come.

As they lay entwined, their bodies still buzzing with pleasure, Y/n realized that this sleepover had become something far more significant.

Little did they know, the night had only just begun...

[themeraldee]

Mark Me Yours

[Masterlist]

18+ Only | 4.6k | Homelander x fem!Reader | Biting. Established Relationship. Mild Pain Play. Cunnilingus. Fingering (with gloves on).

Written for cozy corner kinktober prompt #16: Biting

Amongst the buzz of some vague Halloween music and constant chatter, Homelander is impatiently looking around the room. As an annual treat, Vought organizes a Halloween-themed party for their shareholders, ambassadors and any and all influential people that get easily swayed by expensive champagne and an impressive catering spread. 

The one person not impressed is Homelander himself. 

He’s had his fill of schmoozing and brown-nosing at Madelyn’s behest. By now he’s just looking for an excuse to leave. He’s not one to indulge in partying like the rest of the Seven. Looking at the state of them leaves him with a bitter feeling. There they are being more rambunctious than ever while he’s the only one who’s trustworthy enough to actually get the job of upselling and marketing done right.

While it’s dressed as a fun party, Vought doesn’t do things for fun. It’s a thinly veiled attempt at getting all the powerful people in the room to spend more money and sign onto more superhero-led campaigns in their fields. Really, to Homelander it’s a waste of fucking time. There are so many better things he could be doing. But no. He’s stuck having to sweet talk every C-suite level person in the room.

And while part of him wishes he could just relax and kick back like the rest of them he just as much scoffs at the childish Halloween costumes the rest of his team came in. Before the party even broke out, Deep thought it would be funny to come dressed in one of those terribly cheap polyester Homelander costumes all the pathetic lowlifes wear on this day of the year.

Pfft. As if they could ever understand the burden that comes with wearing the suit. Neither, really, could Deep. That’s why one look was enough to get through even his thick and algae-infested skull that if he doesn’t change out of the suit there won’t be a body to dress up for the party. 

With an exasperated shake of his head he looks for you. He comes into these parties with decent energy, soaking up the applause and the adoring words but very quickly the praise turns sour when he feels just how empty and vapid each executive he talks to comes across as. They don’t actually care for his attention. They just want to wring him dry for more cash and fame. You’re the only one who’s managed to keep his usually soured high going. Your look doesn’t turn vacant, instead there’s a real person behind those eyes. One that’s his. One that adores him and is his to adore. 

So where the hell were you anyway? Your presence is what makes him tolerate the insipid crowds these days. Besides the fact that he gets to be with you and show you off to the world, he happily uses your name as an excuse to get out of conversations that just about manage to reach levels of stupidity and numbness that even his media-trained smiles and nods can’t keep him looking interested.

Fucking Halloween. What a stupid holiday, he thinks. Homelander slides his tongue over the fake plastic vampire fangs you insisted he wears throughout the night. As if he’s a child that has to partake in the “festivities”. As if it wasn’t enough that he’s gracing everyone here with his effervescent presence. Surrounded by cameras he has no choice but to keep up his flawless smile, now tainted with the silly prop.

And really at this point he’s getting less annoyed and more worried. You promised you’d show up. And while the party is in full effect you’re still nowhere to be seen. Homelander steps a little to the side, removing himself from as much of the chatter and music as he can, instead listening carefully, honing in on the familiar pitter patter of your heart. Only outpaced by the clicking of your heels as you rush across the stone flooring.

Tsk, late as always. 

Not even a minute later you make your way through the open door, immediately looking around for him. Homelander watches you try to calm down your rush as you finally settle your eyes on him. You’re smoothing down your dress and calming your breath. He leans against the wall, raising an eyebrow and with a lifted gloved finger he motions for you to come close.

Thank god you’re finally here. Just the sight of you is enough to release the tension in his shoulders. Relieved that there’s finally someone who he doesn’t have to pretend in front of. 

And what a sight you are. Dressed to the nines, a gorgeous classy black evening dress that fits your body perfectly.

He would know, it’s one of the many he handpicked for you. 

Looking at you now he can’t deny that he’s got impeccable taste. His keen eye is good when it comes to picking clothing that dresses your figure in a flattering way. Not just any dress would do, it always has to be perfect.

Until he actually notices the little band of cat ears across your head that has him recall the very long-winded argument—or an exchange of opinions as you liked to call it—about the importance of dressing up appropriately during any festivities you come to be a part of.

“Look who finally showed up. I was beginning to think you stood me up.” He flashes you a grin, letting the fangs exaggerate the sharpness of his smile. 

You stutter through your answer, caught off guard, and instead of defending your tardiness you change the conversation. Homelander watches as your eyes widen in surprise, locking on the way he slides his tongue over the pointy ends. The shiver that runs through you doesn’t escape him either. Well… isn’t that interesting. 

“Oh my god—I didn’t think— you’re actually wearing them!” Almost comically you put your hand over your mouth in shock and he takes the time to properly look you up and down. In your initial shock you let him in on not one, not two but three secrets. 

From the gasped breath and the excited shiver running down your body he deduces that your earlier adamant begging to have him dress up was for an entirely different indulgence. 

His second surprise upon checking you up and down was the lack of any undergarments. Not that he wouldn’t be able to look through the flimsy bits of fabric as well but the lack of them certainly inspires a mood. 

And the third secret your body lets him in on is just how much you enjoy the sight of his fanged grin. Your thighs rub together but with no fabric to soak into, your slick just squelches in between your legs. A sweet little symphony for his ears only. Maybe tonight won’t be so boring after all. 

If this was the kind of trick or treating he knew he’d be getting he’d have been onboard with the holiday a lot sooner. 

His mouth tugs into a smile but he stops himself, instead tutting and shaking his head.

“Unlike someone, I’m keeping my word.” He rolls his eyes. “After all that hounding you come out in this? So much for dressing up, Mrs Halloween spirit.” He makes a mocking gesture with his hands, waving dramatically over your Halloween costume, if one could call it that.  

“And sweetheart, although you look stunning, your little cat ears definitely don’t count as a costume.” Homelander relishes in the way you swoon under his compliments and attention.

At least someone here understands how valuable it is to have his attention. 

Homelander waves over a waiter, plucking a flute glass off the tray, passing it to you. This breaks you out of your trance and you finally get your words straight.

“Sorry, that’s why I’m late. I had a costume, I swear! Then Ashley needed help with something and then on my way here someone spilled red wine all over my costume, so I had to change. I know it’s not impressive but this was last minute!” 

“Oh, it’s very impressive. Just not very festive of you.” He quotes what you said earlier that evening about his reluctance to wear the stupid Dracula costume you prepared for him.

“If you wanted to come as Catwoman you could’ve worn some swanky latex at least.” 

“Oh no thank you. You’d be peeling me out of that at the end of the night.” And you look cute when you shake your head with that displeased look on your face.

“Who said I won’t be peeling you out of this?” He places his hand on your waist, his glove sliding across the silk of the dress.

“I’m hoping that’s gonna look a little more elegant than the latex suit would.” You lean in, whispering this little secret as if it was just the two of you in the room. You do always make him feel like he’s the only one in the room. Finally, he’s getting the respect he deserves.

“One way to find out.” He graces you with a show of his sharp fangs as he whips out another wide grin. 

It almost wins you over.

But you’re not that easily swayed. And you came here to celebrate Halloween with him. Clearly, he’s not gonna be able to use you as an excuse to leave just yet.

You say just that.

“You can’t leave yet!” You cover your flustered cheeks with a laugh.

Homelander doesn’t give up without a fight, but more importantly there’s nothing he loves more than having an upper hand. “Then why aren’t you wearing any underwear?”

He’s close to leaning you against the wall and boxing you in so you don’t have a chance to get away but he does have appearances to uphold. 

“I—um, I thought I’d keep you motivated to keep your energy up throughout the night.” You’re no stranger to keeping things exciting. Flirting with him is a must and comes naturally. Unless it’s outside the comfort of your home. Then you get all flustered and embarrassed. It’s cute, really. 

“You’re motivating me to leave.” He grumbles and dips his eyes back down your body, making it terribly obvious that he’s not just admiring your dress. 

On the other hand, he’s a better flirt in a crowd. He knows the power that comes with being surrounded by people that adore him and while it’s the comfort in between the two of you that allows that, he takes advantage of being the one who’s seemingly in control. 

“I've barely just arrived!” 

“That's your problem not mine, be punctual next time.”

 “Come on, just another hour. You can manage.”

He rolls his eyes, already beyond fed up with the party. However, he still has a job to do and you take the chance to make your way around the room to make your presence known to other attendees. 

As the time goes on, Homelander catches you looking around for him like a sixth sense tickling the back of his neck and everytime he meets your wandering eyes, giving you a dazzling smile showing off those fake fangs he still puts up with just for you. And each time you look away flustered and move out of his line of sight.

While everyone else is here to kick back, he’s still on duty, actively greasing deals, soft-launching Madelyn’s messaging and repeating the corporate-glazed talking points just to plant the seeds of Vought’s future plans in unsuspecting and mildly inebriated victims. 

The promised excruciating hour later he finally makes his way around the room back to you, pulling you out of the conversation with his media smile aimed at the group. “Sorry folks, you’ll need to excuse my date.” With a hand settling on your lower back, he takes you away into a quieter corner, plucking the empty glass out of your fingers, placing it at a nearby catering table.

“You have been avoiding me.”

“I have not! I just know how busy you are.”

“Right.” He spreads his lips into a wicked smile and he watches as your eyes quickly dart from his eyes to his teeth, not quickly enough for him to miss it. Neither does he miss the way your heart skips a beat.

It’s then he puts his hands on his hips shaking his head with a laugh. “I knew it, you’re into this.” He lifts one hand to wave a gloved finger in your face as if you’ve done something naughty.

“I’m not!” You’re a terrible liar. Homelander just places his hand on your chin as he uses it to tilt your head to one side.

While ignoring your protest he continues. “Is this some sort of Twilight fantasy you’ve got? Want me to bite you here?” 

“What—no!”

He raises his eyebrows, parting his lips as he glides his gloved fingers down your neck with his other hand. As if you were in a secluded bubble he has his eyes firmly set on you, focusing on the hurried beat of your heart. 

Unlike him you fluster. Unable to tune out the sound of the party and the presence of a crowd.

“Stop, you’re embarrassing me!” You squeak out like a little mouse, though your hushed voice makes no difference to Homelander’s keen ears.

While he doesn’t let the topic go, he does let go of your chin, allowing you to straighten up. 

“While I love you very much, I’m not covering myself with glitter.” He chuckles to himself, terribly amused at having found one of your guilty pleasures. “But I can be your super strong and fast vampire if you’d like that.” It’s his turn to turn all hushed and whispered. He talks in a way that he usually indulges in between the sheets yet he can’t resist to see your reaction.

Homelander doesn’t miss the way you shudder at his proposition. He almost melts away your stubborn exterior, but you snap out of the dazed vision and blink your fantasies away. This is not the place.

“Wait, how do you know so much about it? And no, no, it’s not a Twilight fantasy. It doesn’t matter. Does it really need an explanation?” Still continuing with the hushed outrage you pull him with you, backing out of the party hall.

Homelander grins at you widely, purposefully flashing the fangs while you drag him away from the party. You probably think you’re being subtle, trying to blend your bodies in between the incoming crowds. However, his cape alone is as dead giveaway as any. If anyone cared to get his attention at the party they were now keenly aware that he’s left. 

“Nope, not really. I just want to know what’s going on in that fucked up little head of yours.” The lightheartedness that comes with you two prodding one another is not only refreshing; it’s needed. To have someone he can feel like a lovesick teenager with is more important than he expected it to be. 

You act as if you were sneaking away from your parents’ house rather than seeking the quiet comfort of your home.

You secretly make your way down hallways, guiding Homelander behind you.

Even with his hand in yours you reluctantly turn around. The Eurydice to your Orpheus where one look would make him disappear forever. 

He understands the love shared between the two of you. Sometimes it’s so overwhelming it feels like its own living thing. Ever growing. Spreading like mold. Taking over everything that you both are. Be it good or bad. 

When he shuts the door behind the two of you it’s like the rest of the world goes quiet. He can’t stop himself from smiling widely at the sound of your pretty laugh when he spins you in place, clumsily dancing with you across the hardwood floor of his penthouse. 

He didn’t get the luxury of dancing with you during the party so he enjoys the feel of you carefree and against him in the comfort of his personal enclosure.

Neither of you need music to feel the intimate rhythm of your bodies. And really, the party has only just started. Each wrong step results in a giggle and another twirl with which Homelander brings you closer.

The warmth and love Homelander can feel from your laugh is so visceral he needs to taste it. He captures your lips. Simply pressing his against yours. Feeling the vibrations of your giggles against his pursed lips.

Just as he’s parting his lips to deepen the kiss you stop him, placing a hand on his chest. You don’t put any effort into pushing him off, it would be fruitless should you try anyway. 

“Take them out, they’ll get in the way.” You refer to the fangs you’ve been downright drooling over the whole night. Finally. Homelander takes out the prop fangs and tosses them to the side.

With no barriers in the way he devours your lips like he’s been starved for the taste of you all night. He’s drunk on the ease with which you let him take what he wants from you. 

He’s pulling out his best moves tonight. He’s always eager to impress, but tonight especially so. It’s not everyday he finds out about yet another depraved fantasy you’ve been keeping away from him. That alone is a reason to celebrate and pull out all the stops. So if a little innocent vampire roleplay is what you want, a vampire roleplay is what you’ll get. 

Nipping at your lips earns him a moan. His hands gliding up your body cause a shudder. He continues teasing you little by little until your body is begging him to take it further. Your tongue licks over the naturally pointy ends of his canines. His grin stretches wide, dissolving the haze of lust and instead reminding him of what he’s here to do.

He walks you back to the sofa, all the way until your calves hit the upholstering and your knees give in. With a gleeful giggle you fall onto the cushioning. Homelander follows after you, sprawling across your body, still kissing you.

"I can hear your pulse racing..." Homelander breathes out when he pulls away. His eyebrows pinched tight together, acting as if any second away from you causes him pain. 

It doesn’t. But being away from you might as well feel like he’s drowning.

“All that blood rushing…” In a breathy tone he continues. His hands push the straps of your dress over your shoulders. His hands tremble. Wanting to grip and squeeze and push and pull. But the power he’s capable of is always kept tightly locked up. But the desire and the pool of need inside him just begs for him to be inside you, feeling your supple warmth all around him.

But he wants to fulfill your fantasy. He wants to be good for you.

With a moan he drags his tongue starting from your collarbone up the line of your neck. Hungry for the faint taste of you he licks at the tender skin, sucking marks where you won’t be able to conceal them.

He laps his tongue over the junction of your neck and shoulder with the same eagerness he usually devours your cunt with. Now he’s preparing the soft delicate skin of your neck, akin to a surgeon before a procedure. Equally diligent in prepping your skin ready for the incision. Except Homelander wants you to feel the sharpness and warmth of his canines and incisors rather than the cold steel of a surgical scalpel. Your blood rushes to the surface where he’s sucked hickies all over your skin. The temptation to break skin and feel the warmth of your blood is tempting. But alas, he wants you lightheaded with pleasure, not blood loss.

He’s too sucked into his own world. Your blood is rushing loudly in his ears. He doesn’t even manage to slip out another zinger before sinking his teeth into your neck with a needy moan.

Should someone stumble upon you two, it wouldn’t be clear who asked for this roleplay in the first place. 

Homelander’s careful with the pressure he puts into the bite. Even without his super strength he could easily break through your fragile skin. Instead he’s leaving indents and bite marks over your neck that have you whimpering right into each lap of his tongue over the wounded skin.

Attuned to your body’s responses he can feel the way you’re getting off on the contrast of the sharp bites and the dull ache of his languid tongue.

When he’s done with your neck, Homelander pulls away. Eyes hazy with lust. Hands trembling. His heartbeat is so loud it overpowers yours. He slides his tongue over his teeth as if he was licking off your blood. He looks up to meet your eyes and if the sight of you isn’t something out of a dream.

Just as hazed with the thick lust in the air. The smattering of bites is exquisite on a canvas as perfect as you. Your body rises and collapses with each shuddered breath and Homelander wants nothing more than to finish painting your body with his love.

And he does. Tearing and sliding the silk fabric off your body he leaves you bare in front of him. Your choice to omit your underwear gets you rewarded faster. He’s already sucking and biting all over your chest. Swapping for soft kisses anytime you yelp out of painful sensitivity.

Homelander bites wherever his teeth allow to sink into your flesh. Giving them the same soothing treatment with his tongue like he’s done on your neck.

The bites he descends upon your sides make you burst into giggles, temporarily breaking the bubble of the heated tension. With a smile he nuzzles his head into your belly, kissing you with affection all over the exposed skin. While the love he exudes is just as intoxicating, you push his head further down.

“Greedy.” He teases, but he happily slides off the couch, kneeling on the ground right in front of your gloriously spread legs. “Want me to bite you here too?” He easily slides back into his breathy tone as his mouth waters at the smell of your arousal.

After all this time he’s spent getting you worked up with bites and kisses you’re leaking over the couch.

He doesn’t wait for your answer, if you were coherent enough to give it anyway, and instead he licks up your inner thigh. Narrowly avoiding your sopping wet cunt. And while the hypnotizing rhythm of your throbbing clit nearly sucks him in, there’s still plenty of supple flesh he’s yet to sink his teeth into.

Homelander treats your inner thighs with the same respect he’s given your neck. Even though you wiggle underneath his tongue he holds you down. His arm easily pinning your middle down, while his shoulders keep your legs open enough for him to continue.

Here the sensation makes you both whimper from the stinging bites and giggle from the tickling motions of his tongue. Your body continues to serve as a canvas as he litters marks in between your thighs. He lets a few bruises join the mix as he grips your thighs with too much enthusiasm when he dips his head lower to bite another mark higher up the sensitive skin. 

You don’t shy away from the pain either. The contrasting shades of pain he paints across your skin just make your breath stutter, your heart race and your core ache for more.

Homelander is just as strung out. His cock is heavy and aching uncomfortably in the tight confines of his pants but he’s not about to relieve himself. Not when you’re served in front of him like a meal. 

Finally he buries his head into your lap. He licks up a line from your weeping hole to your clit, slurping up as much slick as his tongue can gather. He goes through expressions of content, where he’s eagerly sucking on your clit, and need, where he pinches his eyebrows together, whimpering into your cunt at the feeling of you quivering around his tongue.

And really, he could spend hours in between your legs. Getting handfuls of your ass he pulls you even closer, his tongue now closely and precisely rolling around your clit in a rhythm that has your toes curling and heart pounding. He’s come to know your body as intimately as it gets. The changes in pace are part of his plan. The slow teasing to a fast build-up, letting the feeling of your encroaching orgasm climb up and up your spine until he slows down, dropping the meter down again, wanting to prolong your pleasure.

With the occasional pull to the side where he nips more bites into your inner thighs he has you strung tight, and he’s playing you like a violin. When your moans turn into near sobs at the constant edge he keeps you balanced on, Homelander takes pity on you.

Gathering the slick and saliva, he pushes two thick gloved fingers into you. The drag of the leather glove is not familiar enough to you and you whine at the contact, clenching down on his fingers. Tight enough to nearly stop the glide.

With soft kisses he descends upon your clit, he lets you relax. When your cunt is no longer squeezing his fingers for dear life he drags them in and out while amping up the pressure. The obscene display of you bare to the world and him still dressed in his uniform has you both vocal and shameless.

While he’s already done a fantastic job of licking you open and needy, making you into an even bigger mess than you were before; he’s now fucking you wide open, preparing you for what’s inevitably going to be his cock in a round or two filling out all the space his fingers can’t reach. 

“C’mon, keep fucking me. Harder. Harder. Ye-yes. Yes!” You groan out, your voice all cracked and strained from moaning for so long. 

You grind yourself down on his fingers as much as the space allows. Your fingers pull at his hair while you ride both his face and his fingers to completion. It’s a hard finish, with downright growled words of praise as you chase the high he’s providing you with.

“That’s it, that’s it, that’s it. Fffuuck. Such a good boy, letting me ride your face like that.” You pant in between words, just as eager to give out praise as he is to receive it. 

With an obscene squelch, Homelander pulls his fingers out of you, sucking the leather clean, adding to the already rich taste of you on his tongue. You slide down the couch and lean down to kiss him, and he indulges you in letting you taste yourself on his lips.

Pulling away, you only allow the minimum space apart in between each other. Just like him, you act as if being apart caused you harm. 

“Take me to bed. I want to ride your cock next. Aaand maybe bite you myself.” With a giggle you wrap your hands around his neck. 

“You know you can’t bite me.” With a tilt of his head he kisses the bite marks he’s left behind. Each kiss brings back a little spark of pain making you twitch. 

“I love a challenge.”

“Well I’d certainly love to see you try.” He effortlessly lifts you up from the couch, already carrying you over to the bedroom.

After all the treating he’s done, he’s definitely excited to see some tricks.

So maybe the Halloween celebrations are not so stupid after all.

Taglist (you can add yourself to be tagged anytime I publish a new Homelander fic):

@rafecamsgirlll @hom3landr @mrsdesade @littlegaaby @jokesonyoupup

@nommingonfood @infinetlyforgotten @nervoussystemss

[fioredeciliego]

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝟏

𝐖𝐂: 𝟓.𝟑𝐊

ℑ 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲, '𝔱𝔦𝔩 𝔎𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔡𝔬𝔪 ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔢

The sky hung heavy with the weight of dusk, streaks of crimson and violet bleeding into the horizon like spilled ink on silk. Beyond the castle walls, the world stretched vast and untamed, but within them—within the grandeur of polished marble and whispered promises—fate was being sealed with quiet certainty.

Seated across from each other in the gilded chamber, Queen Taeyeon and Queen Irene exchanged glances over the candlelit table, the flickering flames carving shadows across their faces. Between them, their wives—Tiffany and Seulgi—sat with softer expressions, their hands resting gently on their laps. The air smelled of aged parchment, spiced wine, and the quiet tension of kingdoms threading their futures together.

“The rivalry has lasted too long,” Taeyeon murmured, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her goblet. She was regal yet relaxed, her voice measured, like a ruler accustomed to commanding but weary of wielding her power unnecessarily. “Our ancestors built walls between us. We should be the ones to tear them down.”

Seulgi nodded, her gaze steady. “We’ve spent generations locked in this conflict, yet neither kingdom has truly won. A ceasefire is not enough; we need something lasting. Something binding.”

Tiffany exhaled slowly, her expression thoughtful as she reached for Taeyeon’s hand, grounding her in the moment. “A union.”

The word lingered, folding itself into the candlelight, into the fabric of the evening, into the fate of two yet-unaware souls.

Irene, quiet until now, finally spoke. “A marriage.”

She was calm, but there was an unspoken weight in her voice, the gravity of a mother setting the course of her child’s life with a single decree. Her fingers curled around the stem of her glass, knuckles paling as she swallowed the moment whole. “My daughter and yours.”

A silence followed, not of hesitation, but of consideration. It was not the first time such an idea had been proposed in the name of diplomacy, yet something about it felt different now. Perhaps because it wasn’t a contract signed in ink, but in the laughter and stubborn defiance of two little girls who did not yet understand what it meant to belong to history.

Taeyeon let out a breath, tilting her head slightly as she regarded Irene. “Minjeong and Y/N.”

The names tasted unfamiliar in this context, as though speaking them aloud was the first step in reshaping their meanings. Not just daughters. Not just princesses. Future. Destiny. A delicate thread weaving through time, connecting what had once been separate.

Seulgi leaned forward, her voice softer now. “Do you think they will hate us for this?”

A quiet chuckle left Tiffany’s lips. “Oh, undoubtedly.”

A moment of levity, but it did not dissolve the weight of the decision being made.

Irene’s fingers pressed together, her nails biting into her palm. “They will grow together. Learn from each other. And perhaps, one day, they will understand.”

Taeyeon’s lips curled slightly, though there was something unreadable in her expression. “Or they will burn everything to the ground in protest.”

Tiffany smiled at that, squeezing her hand. “Either way, they will be unforgettable.”

The candlelight flickered as though it, too, felt the weight of the conversation. A servant entered the chamber in silence, refilling goblets with deep red wine, the scent of crushed berries thick in the air. No one spoke. The gravity of the decision had settled upon them like a heavy cloak, and even the opulence of their surroundings could not lift it.

Seulgi broke the silence first, her voice measured, yet carrying an undercurrent of something deeper—concern, perhaps. “We are asking them to shoulder the burdens of generations past. Shouldn’t we at least give them the choice?”

Tiffany’s gaze softened, but her resolve did not waver. “Would you have chosen this life, Seulgi? If given the choice?”

Seulgi hesitated, lips parting as if to respond, but the words did not come immediately. Instead, she let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass. “No. But I learned to accept it.”

“And perhaps they will too,” Taeyeon said, swirling the wine in her goblet. “Perhaps, in time, it will be more than duty. Perhaps it will be love.”

Irene glanced toward the high-arched windows, the glass reflecting the fire’s glow. “And if it isn’t?”

The question lingered between them, a specter of doubt threading its way through the certainty they had tried so hard to build. It was a risk. A gamble with their daughters’ futures as the stakes.

Tiffany, always the one to find light even in shadows, reached across the table, her hand resting lightly over Irene’s. “Then at least they will have each other.”

Outside, the wind howled against the stained-glass windows, as if bearing witness to the promise whispered between monarchs. A fate sealed not with love, not yet, but with expectation and duty.

And somewhere, in separate chambers of their respective castles, two little girls slept soundly, unaware that their names had just been bound together in a history far greater than themselves.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The grand hall was alive with the glow of chandeliers and the hum of whispered conversations, yet to Minjeong, it was suffocating. She tugged at the high collar of her formal tunic, the fabric stiff against her neck, the weight of expectation draped over her shoulders heavier than the cloak fastened with an ornate clasp at her chest.

A prince in everything but title and gender—that’s what they called her. And in moments like this, where she was paraded before foreign nobles, where the sharp gaze of her mother, Queen Taeyeon, reminded her of the importance of appearances, Minjeong wondered if she had ever been given a choice in the matter. At seven years old, she had already mastered the art of keeping her thoughts hidden behind a carefully schooled expression.

Her boots echoed against the polished marble as she took a calculated step forward, standing by her parents’ side. The hall was filled with courtiers and envoys, yet her gaze landed on only one figure—small, delicate, adorned in soft pastels that glowed under the candlelight.

Princess Y/N. She was five years old, two years younger than Minjeong, yet she carried herself with a poise beyond her years.

She was impossibly still, hands clasped in front of her, every bit the image of a perfect princess. But as Minjeong took a step closer, she caught the slight downturn of Y/N’s lips, the quiet defiance in the way her chin tilted up ever so slightly.

Minjeong almost smirked. Almost.

Instead, she extended a hand. “Princess.”

Y/N’s gaze flickered to her before she hesitantly placed her small hand in Minjeong’s. The contrast was striking—Minjeong’s fingers, calloused from swordplay, against Y/N’s, untouched by battle. Yet there was a firmness in Y/N’s grip that surprised her.

“You don’t look very happy,” Minjeong remarked, voice low enough that only Y/N could hear.

Y/N’s eyes snapped to hers, sharp and assessing. “Neither do you.”

Minjeong let out a short breath of laughter, stepping back slightly but not letting go of her hand just yet. “Then perhaps we are already more alike than we thought.”

Y/N’s lips parted, but before she could speak, Queen Irene’s voice rang out, addressing the gathered nobles. “Tonight marks the beginning of an era of peace, bound by the union of our daughters.”

Minjeong felt Y/N tense beside her. And though she didn’t know why, her grip tightened, just slightly, as if to anchor them both.

The future had been decided for them long before they even knew what it meant. And for the first time, Minjeong wondered if fate had been kind or if it had simply played a cruel joke.

The evening stretched long, filled with ceremonial toasts and hushed conversations behind gilded fans. Minjeong sat at the head table, her plate barely touched, while her eyes flickered towards Y/N, who was seated beside her. She noticed how Y/N pushed her food around, her small fingers curling around the silver fork with reluctant grace.

Minjeong nudged her plate forward slightly. “You’re supposed to eat it, not play with it.”

Y/N shot her a glare before stabbing a small piece of fruit with her fork. “Why do you act like that?”

Minjeong tilted her head. “Like what?”

Y/N frowned, cheeks puffing slightly. “Like a boy.”

Minjeong blinked, then let out a short breath of amusement. “I don’t act like a boy. I act like me.”

Y/N scrunched her nose. “You’re weird.”

Minjeong leaned in slightly, smirking. “And you’re spoiled.”

Y/N gasped, scandalized, but before she could retaliate, an older noblewoman leaned down to look at them both, her jewelry clinking as she moved. “Such a lovely pair,” she cooed. “You two are the future of our kingdoms. A perfect match.”

Minjeong forced a polite smile. Y/N, on the other hand, merely blinked, offering no words in return.

The noblewoman’s smile faltered before she straightened. “Well, I am sure you two will learn to adore each other in time.”

Minjeong watched as Y/N’s fingers curled into the silk of her dress, her knuckles paling.

“Are you all right?” Minjeong asked after the woman left.

Y/N’s gaze dropped to her lap. “I don’t want to adore you just because they tell me to.”

Minjeong tilted her head, intrigued by the quiet resistance in her words. “Then don’t.”

Y/N finally looked at her, a trace of surprise in her expression. “What?”

Minjeong leaned in just slightly, lowering her voice. “You don’t have to adore me. And I don’t have to adore you. Let them think whatever they want.”

For the first time that night, Y/N’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. “You’re still weird.”

Minjeong smirked, leaning back. “And you’re still spoiled.”

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The moon had risen high above the castle, casting a pale glow over the sprawling courtyards and endless stone corridors. The grand hall had long since emptied, save for a few lingering servants clearing away remnants of the evening’s feast. Somewhere in the west wing, music still played faintly—distant and dreamlike—but here, tucked away near the royal chambers, it was quieter.

Minjeong had managed to slip away from the watchful eyes of the guards and the persistent clutches of the nobles who wanted to fawn over the ‘handsome little prince.’ She didn’t want their attention, nor their praise. She wanted freedom.

And, apparently, so did Y/N.

She spotted the younger princess sitting near the base of a large window, her small frame framed by the moonlight. Y/N’s elaborate dress pooled around her in soft waves of silk and lace, but her posture was anything but composed. Her arms were crossed, her brows furrowed, and her tiny slippered foot tapped impatiently against the marble floor.

Minjeong approached with an easy confidence, hands slipping into the pockets of her tailored tunic. "You look upset, princess. Did one of the noble ladies call you adorable again?"

Y/N’s head snapped up, her glare sharp as a blade. "Go away."

Minjeong grinned. "That’s no way to speak to your future spouse."

Y/N huffed and turned her gaze back to the window. "You’re annoying."

Minjeong plopped down beside her, ignoring the princess’s exaggerated sigh. "You keep saying that, but I’m starting to think you don’t actually mean it."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of conversation from the other side of the castle. Y/N’s hands fidgeted with the lace of her sleeves before she finally muttered, "They keep telling me I have to marry you. That I have to spend my whole life with you."

Minjeong watched her closely. "And you don’t like that?"

Y/N turned to face her, eyes filled with something too complex for a five-year-old to fully understand—something tangled between frustration and uncertainty. "You act like a boy. You’re loud and stubborn and you don’t care about rules."

Minjeong smirked. "And?"

Y/N’s scowl deepened. "And I don’t like it."

Minjeong chuckled, leaning back against the stone wall. "Then I guess you’re stuck with me anyway."

Y/N groaned dramatically, burying her face in her hands. "I wish they’d picked someone else."

Minjeong merely shrugged. "I think they picked me because I’m the only one who won’t let you boss me around."

Y/N peeked at her from behind her fingers. "That’s exactly why it’s terrible."

Minjeong laughed, a genuine, carefree sound that filled the empty hallway. "Don’t worry, princess. You don’t have to like me. You just have to survive me."

Y/N groaned again, but this time, Minjeong caught the small, reluctant twitch at the corner of her lips. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the distant music and the faint sounds of servants moving about. The castle at night felt different—less grand, less intimidating. It was almost peaceful.

Y/N finally broke the silence. "I don’t want to spend my whole life doing what they tell me to."

Minjeong tilted her head, studying her. "Then don’t."

Y/N frowned. "That’s easy for you to say. You do whatever you want."

Minjeong smirked, leaning back on her hands. "And what if I do? You could too, if you stopped worrying so much about rules."

Y/N let out a small sigh, playing with the folds of her dress. "I just… I don’t know what I want. I just know I don’t want this."

Minjeong softened slightly. "Well, we have time to figure that out."

Y/N gave her a sideways glance, hesitant but curious. "Do you really think so?"

Minjeong nodded. "Yeah. Who knows? Maybe by the time we’re older, you’ll actually like me."

Y/N wrinkled her nose. "Unlikely."

Minjeong laughed. "We’ll see."

Y/N, despite herself, smiled just a little. "Maybe."

And for now, that was enough.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The castle gardens were vast, a maze of neatly trimmed hedges and fountains that sparkled under the early morning sun. It was one of Y/N’s favorite places, a rare escape from the weight of expectations. Here, she could pretend she wasn’t bound to duty, to marriage, to the ever-watchful eyes of the court. But today, the tranquility was short-lived.

Minjeong stood across from her, arms crossed over her chest, an infuriating smirk tugging at her lips. "You’re just mad because I beat you."

Y/N scowled, clutching the hem of her dress tightly. "You cheated."

"I didn’t cheat. I just run faster than you." Minjeong tilted her head, clearly enjoying Y/N’s frustration. "Not my fault you wear those ridiculous shoes."

Y/N gasped, eyes narrowing. "They are not ridiculous! They’re made for a princess."

Minjeong snickered. "Yeah, a very slow princess."

That was it. Y/N stomped her foot, cheeks burning as she huffed. "You’re insufferable! I don’t know why they want me to marry you."

Minjeong grinned, shrugging. "Maybe they think you’ll make me more refined. I doubt it, though."

Y/N turned on her heel, determined to ignore her for the rest of the day. But as she stalked off, Minjeong’s playful nature got the better of her. She reached down, spotting something lurking near the fountain. A large, many-legged creature—a spider, its dark form lurking against the stone. Minjeong’s lips curled mischievously.

She knew Y/N hated bugs.

"Princess," Minjeong called sweetly.

Y/N barely turned her head before Minjeong held out the spider, its legs twitching in the air. "For you."

The scream that followed could be heard from the castle towers.

Y/N stumbled back, tripping over the hem of her dress and landing unceremoniously on the grass. Her eyes were wide, horrified, as she stared at the creature Minjeong still held. "N-No! Get it away!"

Minjeong laughed, holding the spider closer. "Oh, come on, princess. It’s just a tiny little thing. See? It won’t hurt you."

Y/N whimpered, scrambling backward, her breaths coming faster. "Minjeong! I said get it away!"

Minjeong, still grinning, wiggled the spider closer. "What’s wrong? It likes you. Maybe you should keep it as a pet."

Y/N let out a sob, hands flying up to shield her face. "Stop! Please!"

That was when Minjeong’s amusement finally wavered.

The genuine terror in Y/N’s voice sent an uncomfortable jolt through her. She blinked, stepping back, her fingers twitching. "Hey… I was just messing around. It’s just a—"

"I don’t care!" Y/N yelled, her voice breaking. "Just throw it away!"

Minjeong quickly tossed the spider into the grass, suddenly feeling much less triumphant. "It’s gone, okay? It’s gone."

But Y/N wasn’t looking at her. She was curled up, knees drawn to her chest, her breaths erratic, eyes squeezed shut. Her small frame trembled violently.

Minjeong swallowed, guilt settling heavily in her chest. She crouched beside Y/N hesitantly. "I… I didn’t know you were that scared."

Y/N sniffled, refusing to look at her. "Of course you didn’t. You don’t care. You just think everything is a joke."

Minjeong frowned. "That’s not true. I—"

"Go away," Y/N mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. She stood up and ran away from Minjeong.

Minjeong hesitated, fingers clenching against her tunic, but didn’t run after her. For the first time, she didn’t have a clever response, didn’t have a teasing remark to brush off the moment. She had never seen Y/N like this.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered to no one.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The grand ballroom was alive with the shimmer of golden chandeliers, the polished marble reflecting the glow of candlelight and the swirl of flowing silks. Lords and ladies danced in practiced circles, their laughter mingling with the soft melody of the musicians stationed at the far end of the hall. Tonight was another of the many royal gatherings that Y/N had long since grown tired of—another night of polite smiles, measured steps, and suffocating expectations.

But tonight, she had a plan.

Minjeong stood near the center of the room, dressed in the finest formal tunic, a deep navy trimmed with gold embroidery. She looked proud, confident, the perfect image of her parents’ expectations. Y/N watched from the sidelines, eyes narrowing as she recalled the humiliation Minjeong had caused her in the garden days before. That moment—her fear, her tears—had lingered in her mind, and if Minjeong thought she could get away with it unscathed, she was sorely mistaken.

She moved carefully, weaving through the gathered guests, her expression composed, her steps deliberate. In her hand, hidden beneath the folds of her gown, was a goblet filled with the richest red wine. She had taken it from a passing servant’s tray, and now it rested precariously in her grasp, waiting for the perfect moment.

Minjeong, oblivious to her impending doom, was speaking with a group of noblemen. She laughed at something one of them said, a bright, carefree sound that only made Y/N more determined. The memory of Minjeong’s smirk, the way she had dangled that awful spider in front of her, replayed in her mind.

Y/N took a deep breath, then feigned a misstep.

The goblet tilted. The deep red liquid surged forward.

A gasp rippled through the ballroom as the wine splashed across Minjeong’s pristine tunic, staining the fine fabric in an instant. The laughter died, replaced by a heavy silence as all eyes turned toward the scene.

Minjeong blinked, looking down at the spreading crimson stain. It took her a moment to register what had happened, to piece together the innocent, wide-eyed look Y/N gave her and the telltale twitch of amusement at the corner of her lips.

Y/N gasped dramatically. “Oh no! I’m so clumsy.”

Minjeong’s eye twitched.

Y/N stepped back, hands clasped before her in an almost angelic display of innocence. “I really must be more careful. My sincerest apologies, Minjeong. That must be terribly uncomfortable.”

Minjeong exhaled through her nose, jaw tightening as she forced a smile. “It’s nothing,” she said evenly, though her grip on her sleeves suggested otherwise. “Accidents happen.”

Y/N could practically see the gears turning in Minjeong’s head, the restrained fury hidden behind her ever-composed demeanor. This was war, and Y/N had just declared the next battle.

The room was still watching, whispers starting to weave between the nobles, waiting to see how Minjeong would react. But Minjeong, ever the master of self-control, simply smiled through gritted teeth and took a step closer.

“Very clumsy indeed,” Minjeong murmured, low enough that only Y/N could hear. “Let’s hope you don’t make a habit of it.”

Y/N tilted her head, the picture of innocence. “Oh, of course not. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Minjeong’s lips curled at the edges, her eyes glinting with something unreadable. “Good.”

The tension between them crackled like fire, unnoticed by the rest of the gathering as the music resumed and the nobles resumed their conversations. But between them, the battle lines had been drawn, and Y/N knew this wasn’t over—not by a long shot.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

It started with a single throw.

Minjeong, having grown bored of sitting through another tedious lesson on royal etiquette, picked up a plush velvet pillow and hurled it straight at Y/N’s head.

The impact was immediate—Y/N wobbled, her tiny frame nearly toppling over as the pillow knocked her delicate crown askew.

“Minjeong!” Y/N shrieked, scrambling to grab a pillow of her own. “You absolute menace!”

Minjeong smirked. “You look like a baby bird.”

That was it. Y/N launched herself at her, pillow in hand. What followed was a whirlwind of flying cushions, laughter, and very undignified battle cries.

The door burst open, revealing a very unimpressed Queen Taeyeon and Queen Irene.

Taeyeon sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Again?”

Irene, arms crossed, watched as Y/N attempted to tackle Minjeong—who was holding Y/N back simply by placing a hand on her forehead.

“Minjeong, stop holding her like that,” Irene said, exasperated.

Minjeong grinned. “But it’s so easy.”

“Let me go, you overgrown tree!” Y/N yelled, flailing.

Seulgi, sipping tea nearby, hummed. “You know, this is actually quite entertaining.”

Tiffany grinned. “I’m starting to think they’ll either get married on their own accord or they’ll kill r each other.”

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

The royal kitchens were off-limits. That much had been made clear.

And yet, here they were—two tiny figures crouched behind a long wooden counter, their eyes locked onto a golden tray of freshly baked cookies.

Minjeong glanced at Y/N. “You cause a distraction, I grab the cookies.”

Y/N looked up at her. “Why do I have to be the distraction?”

“Because you’re small and cute. People believe you.”

Y/N huffed. “Fine. But if I get caught, I’m telling them it was your idea.”

She marched out into the open, putting on her best “helpless princess” expression. “Oh dear, I seem to have lost my way…”

As the kitchen staff turned to her in concern, Minjeong moved like a shadow, swiping the tray with precision—until her taller-than-average self smacked her head on a hanging pan.

CLANG.

The entire kitchen froze.

Minjeong groaned, gripping her forehead. Y/N, eyes wide, slowly pointed at her. “It was all her idea.”

Taeyeon, having just entered, sighed. “Minjeong. Again?”

Minjeong, still holding the tray of cookies, grinned up at her mother. “Want one?”

Taeyeon sighed, rubbing her temples. “Tiffany, your daughter is a bad influence.”

Tiffany smirked. “I think she’s a genius.”

✠✠✠✠✠✠✠

Minjeong always teased Y/N about her shoes. “How do you run in those?” she’d say, watching Y/N struggle to keep up with her longer strides.

So, Y/N devised a plan.

The next morning, Minjeong woke up to find her boots had mysteriously vanished. In their place were delicate, lace-trimmed, pearl-studded slippers.

“Y/N,” Minjeong called, her voice dangerously calm. “Where. Are. My. Boots?”

Y/N, seated elegantly at breakfast, sipped her juice. “Oh dear, did they go missing? What a shame.”

Minjeong glared at her before stomping into the dining hall—wearing the dainty slippers.

Tiffany choked on her tea.

Taeyeon cleared her throat. “You look… lovely, dear.”

Seulgi, barely containing her laughter, nodded. “Very regal.”

Irene simply turned to Y/N. “You’re grounded.”

Y/N pouted. “But she deserved it!”

Minjeong smirked. “This means war.”

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The sun hung high above the castle courtyard, casting a warm glow over the stone paths and neatly trimmed hedges. It was supposed to be a peaceful afternoon. Instead, it had turned into yet another royal catastrophe.

Minjeong and Y/N sat on opposite ends of a wooden bench, arms crossed, expressions set in deep scowls. Their dresses were slightly disheveled from their earlier scuffle—Minjeong’s tunic had traces of grass stains, and Y/N’s carefully arranged hair was now slightly askew. Their parents stood in front of them, unimpressed.

"Enough," Taeyeon said, her voice carrying the finality of a queen who had run out of patience. "You two will spend the afternoon together, and you will not fight."

"But she started it!" Y/N and Minjeong said in unison, pointing accusing fingers at each other.

Irene exhaled sharply. "It doesn’t matter who started it. What matters is that you two need to learn how to get along."

Seulgi, standing beside her, smirked. "Or at least tolerate each other without trying to start a war."

Tiffany clapped her hands together. "So, here’s what’s going to happen. You are both going to spend time together—just the two of you. No guards, no attendants. Just an afternoon of peaceful bonding."

Minjeong groaned. "I’d rather wrestle a bear."

Y/N huffed. "I’d rather be kidnapped."

"Careful what you wish for," Seulgi muttered under her breath.

With no further arguments allowed, their parents left them alone in the courtyard, watching from a distance as their children sat in stubborn silence.

Minutes passed. Then more minutes. Neither of them spoke.

Finally, Minjeong sighed dramatically and leaned back against the bench. "Well? Say something."

Y/N scoffed. "Why should I? I have nothing to say to you."

Minjeong rolled her eyes. "Fine. Then I’ll talk." She tilted her head back, staring at the sky. "I bet you’ve never climbed a tree before."

Y/N frowned. "Why would I climb a tree? That’s ridiculous."

"It’s not ridiculous. It’s fun," Minjeong said, stretching her arms. "But you probably don’t know anything about fun, do you, princess?"

Y/N’s eye twitched. "I know plenty about fun."

"Oh really?" Minjeong smirked. "Prove it."

Before Y/N could protest, Minjeong hopped off the bench and ran toward the large oak tree standing tall at the edge of the courtyard. She grabbed the lowest branch and hoisted herself up with practiced ease.

Y/N remained seated, watching with mild disinterest. "You look ridiculous."

Minjeong grinned down at her. "And you look scared."

Y/N bristled. "I am not scared."

"Then climb up here."

Y/N hesitated. She had never actually climbed a tree before, and the thought of getting her dress caught on the branches or falling in front of Minjeong made her stomach twist. But the smug look on Minjeong’s face was unbearable.

With a huff, she marched toward the tree and grabbed onto the lowest branch. Minjeong watched with interest as Y/N struggled, her arms too short, her shoes slipping against the bark.

"Need help?" Minjeong offered, grinning.

Y/N glared up at her. "I don’t need your help."

After several frustrating attempts—and Minjeong laughing at every failed one—Y/N finally managed to get herself onto the first branch. She clung to it tightly, eyes wide as she realized how high up she felt.

"Not so bad, right?" Minjeong teased, sitting comfortably on a higher branch.

"Shut up," Y/N muttered, gripping the tree trunk.

For a moment, they sat there in silence, the breeze rustling through the leaves. Minjeong looked down at Y/N, her smirk softening. "You know… You’re not that bad when you’re not whining."

Y/N scoffed but didn’t snap back immediately. Instead, she looked out at the castle grounds, the view surprisingly nice from up here.

"Maybe this isn’t the worst afternoon ever," she admitted quietly.

Minjeong grinned. "See? Told you."

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

The sun had long since set, leaving the castle halls illuminated only by the soft glow of torches flickering against the stone walls. The air was cooler now, carrying the distant hum of the wind through the open windows. The once lively energy of the palace had quieted, save for the occasional murmur of servants finishing their evening duties.

Minjeong hadn’t meant to be wandering the halls so late, but she couldn’t sleep. Her argument with Y/N earlier had replayed in her mind too many times, each insult and sharp word echoing louder than the last. They had fought before—countless times, really. But tonight, it had been different.

She hadn’t expected Y/N to cry.

Minjeong stopped near one of the grand staircases, drawn to the sound of muffled sniffles coming from a secluded alcove. Carefully, she peeked around the stone column, and there she was—Y/N, curled up on a cushioned bench, her small frame hunched as she wiped at her cheeks.

Minjeong frowned. Y/N never cried, not since the spider incident. She always yelled, pouted, stomped her feet, but she never cried. Seeing her like this… It made an uncomfortable twist in Minjeong’s chest.

She hesitated before stepping forward. "Hey."

Y/N stiffened at the sound of her voice, quickly turning her head away. "Go away."

Minjeong didn’t move. She leaned against the column instead, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way her stomach twisted at the sight of Y/N’s red-rimmed eyes. "You know, if you want me to leave, you should at least yell at me properly."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, refusing to look at her. "I don’t feel like yelling."

Minjeong shifted her weight. "Why?" The question came out before she could stop herself.

Y/N sniffled, pressing her sleeve to her face. "Because it won’t change anything."

Minjeong frowned. "Change what?"

Y/N hesitated before whispering, "That I don’t want to be stuck with you forever."

Minjeong’s jaw clenched. She had heard Y/N say things like that before, but this time, it didn’t feel like an insult—it sounded like something heavier, something she truly believed. And for some reason, Minjeong hated hearing it.

She looked away, suddenly feeling restless. "Well, I don’t want to be stuck with you either."

Y/N let out a dry laugh, though it lacked any real amusement. "Then I guess we both lose."

Silence settled between them, thick and suffocating. Minjeong had no idea what to say, no idea why this moment felt different from all their other fights. All she knew was that she didn’t like seeing Y/N like this. She didn’t like the tears, the quiet resignation in her voice. It didn’t suit her.

With an awkward sigh, Minjeong reached into her pocket, pulling out a small handkerchief—embroidered with her family’s crest. She hesitated only a second before holding it out to Y/N.

"Here."

Y/N blinked at it, then at Minjeong. "What’s that for?"

Minjeong rolled her eyes. "You’re crying, idiot."

Y/N glared at her, but it was weaker than usual. Still, after a pause, she reached out and took the handkerchief, gripping it tightly in her small hands.

Minjeong cleared her throat, shifting on her feet. "I… uh, I’ll let you be now."

She turned to leave, but before she could take a step, Y/N spoke. "Minjeong?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "Yeah?"

Y/N was looking down at the handkerchief in her lap, her fingers brushing over the embroidery. She swallowed before whispering, "Thanks."

Minjeong didn’t know why her heart skipped a beat. And she really didn’t like that it did.

☦☦☦☦☦☦☦☦

𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 ; 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭

𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[burr-ell]

Bell's Hells gets compared to the Mighty Nein a lot, both in terms of narrative and party comp, but honestly, I think it makes more sense to compare them to Vox Machina. Back in Campaign 1, the deck was stacked against VM for several reasons in succession: the players had to port over from Pathfinder and learn 5e; Beastmaster Ranger sucks absolute ass; their cleric left in the middle of the campaign and was only available sporadically; and then their sorcerer left permanently. But they were able to build their characters to compensate! Scanlan took on the burden of arcane casting, and he, Keyleth, Vex, and later Vax all pulled their weight as healers. Keyleth was a Circle of the Moon druid, which is just a great subclass, and Percy not only had a great build but also took an ASI to give the party a higher INT score to better help with nerd shit. Vex multiclassed to play to more of her strengths when it became clear ranger wasn't going to do much more for her, and Vax's multiclass to paladin made for a formidable combination. It might have been nice if they'd had a wizard or if Pike had been available more often, but they still managed to find ways to work around it, and ultimately Vox Machina is still a really powerful and effective party.

Bell's Hells just...aren't doing any of that. Their party comp is ultimately just the sum of its parts, and not a particularly impressive one. They have a druid and two sorcerers and yet nobody has Teleport or Transport Via Plants (the Staff of Dark Odyssey needs charges and inflicts damage on the user for each charge expended). It was clear from early on that this campaign was going to have a lot of intrigue and conspiracy, but none of the characters had any reason to be invested in the worldbuilding or politics, so instead the party just followed breadcrumbs from lore dump to lore dump. Chetney didn't even get Grim Psychometry until level 10, and neither that nor Orym's knowledge of (mostly Vox Machina's) history were enough to make up for the fact that neither character had a real connection to what they were learning to give any of it real weight, and nobody else tried to make up the difference. Fearne and Laudna's multiclasses are both mechanically kind of a mess—it's not that they're not useful, it's that they're really not getting the kind of use out of their levels that they should be. (Is uncanny dodge worth being level 15 and not having any higher-level druid spells? Is it worth being a mostly-sorcerer multiclass when there's already a full sorcerer in the party?)

It's not that Bell's Hells can't accomplish anything; they very obviously can. It's that the players are making the kinds of choices that they were pretty deftly able to avoid ten years ago with fewer resources and years of experience than they have now, and it makes most of what the Hells do feel pretty designated and phoned-in at the end of the day. And frankly we saw that in last night's episode—they mostly just stumbled into their current party comp, and they mostly just stumbled into one of the dumbest decisions any CR party has ever made.

[evanescewriting]

"i can see all the colors"

above me they are shining and finally, I can see all the colors that surround me.

CONTENT: Vague descriptions of injury, descriptions of character death, potentially disturbing sensory (rotting corpse smell mentioned, etc.) comforting character death (for Curly), regret (for Anya’s situation), j***y is not named (🖕) SYNOPSIS: Captain Curly gets a glimpse of the universe outside the foamed up walls of the drifting Tulpar. AUTHOR'S NOTE: mouthwashing folks how are we feeling about that ending

In the end,

no one came.

No one came to free him from the cryopod. No one came to free the bodies scattered around the ship - no one to bring them home. Or for that one, dead, rotting pixel he had no choice but to now see - no one to throw him out into the endless universe like trash.

It was just him.

The bodies.

The tulpar.

And the cryopod he wasn’t meant for.

God, if one could hear him this far from Earth, he would give anything, anything, to be a captain worthy of that honor. Anything to go back in time, pick up the pieces of his sense he let fall to his feet, shattering and cutting him and all that once stood around and with him. And how they bled. How they bled so much that he thought, perhaps, the crimson beneath his feet was a red carpet that marked his glory. His leadership.

Perhaps this was punishment.

To want to give everything to go back as you freeze in a pod, slowly, slowly dying with no one to come save you.

A captain always goes down with his ship.

He wishes he could close his eyes - burning from dryness, and the cold. Perhaps this was punishment too. For not seeing. Now, all he could do was see. He felt as if he had been stripped away of everything. Gone were the skin and limbs. Leaving only behind the most vulnerable, most human mechanisms in his body. To see. To hear. To create sounds of pain, sadness, and desperation. He was a canvas of red - a tiny splotch of blue amongst the various crimson shades. Scaled small on the canvas, but within it so much knowledge. So many things that had finally been seen.

Time stretches by so slowly.

It rakes its nails across him and his ship. Chipping away at resolve and cleaning the remnants of sanity from his mind.

And still,

no one comes.

His ship is failing. His body is failing. What was it, that saying he had thought of not long ago as he considered his punishment? Ah- a captain always goes down with his ship. Well, Captain Curly was going down with his ship.

And his crew.

They are rotting. He is rotting.

And how long had it been, counting his time through the days, hours, and seconds that had gone by since he was.. not this. He felt that he had become something more. Something different. But truly - he was still himself, wasn’t he? The crash had changed him, of course, but isn’t that similar to the process of a sudden metamorphosis? It felt more burden than butterfly - but what if there were still the remnants of the caterpillar in him? Would it be somehow possible to call upon them? To use the skills from the past and translate them to something he could do now?

Yes - yes he thinks perhaps he could. He could call upon them. Use the strength of this form to deliver the most powerful something of all. Do something so very caterpillar (human) while being so butterfly (in his view, not human).

In this freezing, empty chrysalis, he reverts back to his roots, opening his jaw with pain - but that was a familiar thing already - and wheezing out something that only reverberates within the chamber. Echoing down the long hallway of his punishment, lost on the ears of the dead.

“S-S - orry.”

And then no one came.

And then he could not close his eyes.

And then, just before the end, he realized he was neither caterpillar, nor butterfly, nor human, nor anything more or less than that - but maybe, just maybe - he was forgiven.

And then he went down with his ship.

The metal walls and layers of the Tulpar had unraveled itself. All that remained was the exoskeleton of a ship - bones and ribs and skull - drifting through space. One, singular pod still connected to it. Two long dead bodies bound in their infinite voyage.

But maybe that wasn’t true.

Because he feels himself, somehow, come out from the pod - standing just on the edge of the peeling metal. Feet planted impossibly confidently with the absence of gravity.

Beyond death - Captain Curly can still see.

There are so many colors.

Purple, blue, orange, red - a cornucopia of color beyond imagination. Hues and shades the human mind could not even digest. He can see them all before him.

“I think my favorite might be the blues.” There is a voice behind him - sounding different when it lacks timidness.

“Guess mine!” Cheery, useless ray of sunshine that beams so far away from the sun.

“Green.” Straight to the point. But Curly knows that underneath the tone is a fondness for the two.

He can feel them behind him. Eyes turned to the mass of color above.

“Close! It’s pink, Swansea. Me and Anya’s colors make purple.” Daisuke says, and he just knows that maybe he is putting his hands on his hips in a ‘see how greatly that works out?’ motion.

For a moment, silence passes. Comfortable. Peaceful.

“What about you, Captain? What’s your favorite?”

And then he turns - and they are before them.

The crew. The three he should have saved. The three he could not save. The three he failed.

Whatever form he takes now - they stare at him with indifference. Passive curiosity on the simplicity of his favorite enveloped in the beautiful mass, far away from life.

He feels, somewhere within, the feeling of a held in cry or scream that only comes out as a freeing-

“Maybe the yellow. But the pink is nice - so is the blue.”

“Yellow is the best choice.” Swansea voices his agreement as he looks back above him.

“Yeah. Yellow is a good choice, Captain.” And of course, Daisuke’s eyes follow his mentors, even here. Even now.

“Blue is the best choice, though.” Anya says as she joins their gazes lifting back up.

He wants to ask them: was this always just right outside those walls? All these colors he could never see? All these ideas and concepts? All that pain and suffering?

But he knows that they’ll tell him yes, it was. And only now can you see it, Captain.

Only now can you see all the freedom, the relief, the joy, the stars and their colors.

And tell us - tell us when you come to that conclusion, too.

Tell us if you think it is beautiful.

[darkstar225]

Sick Spider-Girl ft Wanda Maximoff and Natasha Romanoff

The Avengers Tower was bathed in a soft, dim light as the sun dipped below the New York skyline. In one of the rooms, Y/N Parker lay in bed, a silhouette against the pale glow. The room was quiet, except for the occasional muted sounds of the city below.

Y/N, known as Spider-Girl, was usually full of energy and vitality. However, tonight was different. The fever that had gripped her was relentless, leaving her feeling weak and achy. She curled under the blankets, shivering despite the warmth in the room. Her thoughts were foggy, and every move she made seemed to take a monumental effort.

Down the hall, in the living room, the air was thick with tension. Wanda Maximoff and Natasha Romanoff, two powerful and formidable women, were locked in a silent battle of wills. It was a fight that neither seemed willing to concede, even for the sake of the person lying sick in the other room.

Y/N had sensed the tension earlier, and it hurt more than any fever. The strained glances, the clipped words, it was all too familiar. The three of them were a makeshift family, brought together by circumstance and choice. Y/N, Wanda, and Natasha had shared laughter, tears, and battles, but tonight, the air was heavy with unspoken words.

In the quiet of her room, Y/N tossed and turned. She wasn't just sick physically, the emotional toll was equally overwhelming. She wished she could intervene, and smooth things over between Wanda and Natasha, but her body refused to cooperate.

The distant murmur of their voices reached her ears, the rise and fall of argument that she couldn't quite make out. Y/N groaned, a pitiful sound muffled by the pillow. She wanted them to stop, to come in and check on her, but pride held her back.

As the verbal skirmish escalated in the living room, Y/N's stubbornness kicked in. She couldn't stand being a burden, especially in their current state of discord. Ignoring the protesting ache in her body, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

The floor felt unsteady beneath her feet as she stood. The younger girl clutched the edge of the dresser, trying to steady herself. Her vision blurred, and she wobbled, but she pressed on. She couldn't let them see her weakness, not now.

The argument in the living room had reached a crescendo when Y/N, determined but frail, stumbled out of her room. She moved silently down the corridor, hoping they wouldn't notice her. Yet, every step felt like an eternity, and the distance between her and the living room seemed insurmountable.

Just as Y/N reached the threshold of the living room, the door swung open, revealing the formidable figures of Wanda and Natasha. Their eyes widened in surprise as they took in Y/N's pale, feverish form.

Natasha - Y/N!  What are you doing out of bed?

Natasha's voice was a mix of concern and irritation.

Y/N - I'm fine. Just needed some air.

Y/N replied, her voice shaky but defiant. 

Wanda's eyes, however, were sharp. She stepped forward, reaching out to steady Y/N, but the teenage girl brushed her off. 

Y/N - I can take care of myself.

The tension in the room thickened. Y/N's stubbornness clashed with Wanda and Natasha's concern. The air crackled with unresolved emotions. Unbeknownst to all, the atmosphere held a combustible mixture that would soon explode.

Ignoring their worried glances, Y/N shuffled toward the living room door. The distant sound of the city seemed to call her. She needed space, a moment away from the suffocating presence of the people she cared about most.

As Y/N stepped into the living room, a sudden wave of dizziness swept over her. The world tilted, and for a moment, she felt weightless. Panic set in, but before she could react, everything went dark.

In the living room, Wanda and Natasha froze. The silence after Y/N's thud on the floor was deafening. Fear gripped them as they rushed to her side. Wanda's hands glowed with scarlet energy, ready to assess the situation.

Natasha - Y/N! 

Natasha's voice trembled as she tried to wake the fallen hero. Wanda's magic gently probed for signs of life.

A groan escaped Y/N's lips as consciousness flickered back. Wanda and Natasha sighed in relief, their earlier conflict momentarily forgotten. Y/N's eyes fluttered open, confusion and vulnerability shining in them.

Y/N - What happened? 

She mumbled, disoriented.

Wanda - You fainted. 

Wanda answered, her voice a mix of worry and relief.

Natasha brushed a strand of hair from Y/N's forehead. 

Natasha - You scared us, honey.

A sheepish smile played on Y/N's lips. 

Y/N - Guess I'm not as invincible as I thought.

Wanda and Natasha shared a glance, the unspoken tension still lingering. But at that moment, the priority was clear: taking care of Y/N. Wanda conjured a damp cloth, gently placing it on Y/N's forehead.

Natasha - You need to rest. 

Natasha said, her sternness softened by concern.

Y/N nodded with a rare vulnerability in her eyes. 

Y/N - Yeah, I guess I do.

As Wanda and Natasha helped Y/N back to bed, a silent understanding passed between them. The fight, the unspoken words, it could wait. Right now, they had a sick family member to take care of, and that took priority over everything else.

In the quiet of the room, as Y/N drifted into a restless sleep, the weight of their makeshift family hung in the air. There would be time for conversations and resolutions, but for now, they would stand together, united by the unbreakable bond forged through battles, laughter, and, most importantly, shared concern for one another.

[oh-no-its-bird]

I need. A fic. Where. Kakashi and Rin from the timeline established in "Ming Fan ends up in Naruto and massively derails the plot" end up in canon. And just kinda fucks around and gives us fun reactions n stuff

As a refresher, that timeline looks like this:

Izuna was first Hokage, Tobirama second Hokage, and Kagami the third

Sakumo was appointed 4th instead of Minato since Ming Fan interfered with his mission gone wrong

Kannabi bridge went unfortunately similar to canon, and Obito fell into Madara's hands.

With Sakumo still alive at the time, Kakashi was able to recover from this without the major personality shift, and due to a combination of Sakumo and Ming Fan's additional training, when it was Rin's turn on the chopping block, she instead survived and now continues to live as the Konoha's second jinchuriki

Obito attacked Konoha with the intention of releasing the kyuubi, and at the time Kushina and Minato were in the Senju compound for the birth

Mito got in his way, delaying him long enough for Sakumo to also arrive

In the fight, both Mito and Sakumo died (fucking thanks, Obito. I don't know if Kakashi's gonna be able to forgive u for that one this time around) but Kushina and Minato survived, and Naruto was born healthy and without the fox sealed into him

Kakashi is understandable devastated, and as recovery efforts begin, he's taken in by Minato and Kushina. He offers little fight against this.

With Sakumo's death, Kagami was once again appointed as the Hokage. After only a year or two of stabilizing Konoha + preparing his successor, he quickly gives Minato the hat, and retreats once again to retirement.

Minato makes Kakashi and Rin both ANBU, expressing his desire to have them by his side (at least this time they're slightly older, with Kakashi at 15 and Rin at 17) and puts them on home guard, specifically as Naruto's ANBU guards. It's an easy job, and helps Kakashi in particular to heal some, even if he gets even more rigid about things like rules and formalities

With Izuna as the first Hokage and Kagami as the third (and technical 5th) Uchiha-village relations were actually very good! Thanks to this, the Uchiha massacre was avoided entirely

Kakashi is raised pretty much as Naruto's very protective older brother, with Rin in a similar boat but she still has her own family so there isnt quite so much trauma fueled dependency from her end.

Naruto grows up to be alarmingly talented, with Kakashi and Rin tutoring him, and Minato and Kushina obviously doing their best (though Minato remains mostly busy due to the unfortunate realities of being a Hokage. Meanwhile Naruto is absolutely a total mommas boy)

Kakashi and Rin end up actually fighting over who gets to be Naruto's sensei (Naruto wants NEITHER OF THEM!!!!! HES A BIG BOY NOW STOP CODDLING HIM!!!!!)

Canon then proceeds mostly the same, though with some very obvious major changes

Somewhere along the way, Itachi is convinced to ditch Konoha even without the massacre, and later down the like Sasuke also follows suit to investigate what happened with his brother— though this time he leaves with orders from Minato to go undercover, and investigate Sound

(fucking THANKS dad!! -Naruto, probably, when he finds this out)

+ also I originally had some vague ideas for the 9 tails jinchuriki Sakura— with both her and Naruto eligible for the role when it times come to pass the responsibility down. Kushina ultimately going with the very selfish choice of not wanting her son to suffer the same fate as herself, choosing instead to vouch for the skilled civilian girl to take on the burden. Maybe incorporate that into it, that could be fun

BUT LIKE. Codependent queerplatonic besties Rin and Kakashi, some time around when they're fighting over who gets to be Naruto's sensei (Minato wants nothing to do with that argument, no matter who he picks someone is going to stab him so he refuses to make the choice himself) — and then somehow wind up in canon

Kakashi is so fun in that au, he's a LOT closer to being the strict, bratty kid he used to be than the lazy, perpetually late slack off we know and love in canon (although, despite his preaching about protocols, he can be alarmingly loose when it comes to bending rules to suit him. Being the special little guy of not just 1 but 2 Hokage's absoloutley made his bad habits so much worse, he can get away with almost anything and he knows it)

He also has some insane unresolved feelings ab his father's death, who is cemented as a hero both in his heart and the hearts of all of Konoha, for both his service and his sacrifice

Sakumo's death wasn't drowned out in the massacre of grief of literally all his loved ones dying in such quick succession, and so it's been given a lot more time and space to fester— Kakashi absoloutley has some revenge type shit going on with the "mystery masked man" who attacked Konoha and killed his father, and Rin stands beside him— having exacted a promise from him to not take on the burden of revenge alone ("that's what comrades are for, Kakashi!")

He can have his revenge quest but only if she gets to come with, you hear!! They probably had some huge blow up fight over it years ago that ended in like, and super dramatic blood pact to do this together. Yay friendship !!! If one of them dies the other will go insane.

Watch your fucking back Obito, if Kakashi becomes too emotional to kill you at the grand reveal, Rin will handle the "overcome by murderous rage" part on his behalf.

Anyways, throw them into cannon !!! Yippie !!!

The two Kakashi's can not look eachother in the eyes without canon!Kakashi developing a rather violent twitch and AU!Kakashi pulling on a face of pure disgust. They are everything they hate in a person and they share the same face. It's very uncomfortable for the both of them.

Having way too much fun specifically thinking ab them reacting to Sarutobi as Hokage— Sarutobi is not and has never been Hokage in their world, they have no idea what to do with this. He's one of the Hokage's advisors, but retired alongside Kagami, so he hasn't been politically relevant in years, not even as Sarutobi clan head since that position recently went to Asuma in their world.

Meanwhile Sarutobi and Danzo are going through all the stages of grief at the knowledge that Kagami was their 3rd Hokage, oh man are they Experiencing Emotions rn fr

That isn't even covering like. Oh hey! Btw! Sakumo was Hokage for a good few years!

(Multiple people looking at this strange, uptight version of Kakashi who very visibly seems to think he's better than 90% of the people in the room at any time: "....that checks out...")

Also!! This Kakashi has never heard people talk bad about his father bc Sakumo's mission never fucked up! The village loved that guy, even after so many years, Kakashi will still occasionally hear murmurs of "if only lord 4th was still around"

He is very much known as and proud of being "the son of lord 4th, the white fang, who died to keep the kyuubi from being released and killing us all"

I'm sure there were undoubtedly some people within Konoha who didn't especially like Sakumo, but even still, theyd never fucking DARE to say anything within earshot of Kakashi. Total death wish, why would u do that?

Obv, other countries no doubt celebrated his death (especially in Suna where he was wildly unpopular and deeply feared) but like. In Konoha? Nah people LOVE that guy, even after so many years.

All of that is to say that if a single person breathes wrong about Sakumo "deserving his death" Kakashi will go fucking insane on their ass. Immediatley. There will be blood. Rin will not hold him back.

Anyways silly Kakashi and Rin snippet time:

"So are you two— dating?"

"I'm out of her league." Kakashi says as simultaneously, Rin replies,

"The only thing that can get Kakashi up is a rule book"

"Isn't that right, Kashi-chan?"

"Can you not??"

"Oh, I'm sorry I forgot only your Kushina-neechan can call you that" Rin teased, and Kakashi turned a shade of red so bright he seemed to glow with it even under his mask.

"I was drunk!"

Rin gave him a comforting pat on the back that did absoloutley nothing to actually comfort him. "And you'll never live it down."

"I would be a great sensei!" Kakashi denied, very much ignoring the immediate noises of doubt and disbelief coming from everyone in their general area.

"You hate children!" Rin accused, pointing a disbelieving finger at him.

"I would be a great sensei for Naruto!" Kakashi corrected himself, and Rin rolled her eyes.

"And then what? You tie up the other 2 and leave them somewhere while you teach Naruto?"

"It'd be good for their character!"

"You were supposed to deny that that's what you'd do that, Kakashi!"

"Well if you like the other 2 so much, then you can teach them! And I'll just take Naruto!"

"He needs a team Kakashi!"

"Sensei said—"

"Sensei said you were a little bitch as a kid and a team is what helped straighten out your attitude."

"He did not!"

Rin sniffed. "Maybe he didn't use those exact words, but—"

"Well a team certainly didn't help your attitude, did it? And besides, you don't even like kids either!"

"Hmph. I'd make an exception, because I'm a good sensei."

I think Rin and Kakashi have genuinley fought exactly 2 times.

One was when Kakashi was spiraling a bit on his revenge quest for his dad and Rin got him to promise to let her in on the revenge so he didn't fucking kill himself alone trying to avenge Sakumo.

And one is their current, very petty arguing over who gets to be Naruto's sensei

(Team 7 ends up having 2 very enthusiastic sensei's, who also end up getting a stern talking to from both Minato and Naruto of all people about playing favorites. It's deeply embarrassing for everyone involved.)

I actually just need Rin and Kakashi very loudly arguing over who gets to be team 7s sensei while canon!team 7 stands there like ??????????

AU!Kakashi and Rin are nagging Canon!Kakashi about how lucky he is to be their sensei. Canon!Kakashi needs them to shut the fuck up and get out of his line of sight immediatley so he can have that mental breakdown he's overdue for

AU!Kakashi is going to cause problems for Canon!Kakashi on purpose. He's looking directly into his counterparts eyes and going "Wow Naruto you look just like ur dad. Who is my sensei btw. Did other me tell me that? You should ask him ab that. Sensei said I'd get to be ur big brother when u were born. Just so u know. Oh hey Sasuke! Wow it's sooo funny that ur on team 7 when I also helped train Itachi. Crazy."

He refuses to be silenced he thinks canon!Kakashi is being a cowardly little bitch and will not take "everyone I know died and I'm incredibly depressed" as any sort of reasoning, he's calling it an excuse and telling Kakashi to do better

(Rin is telling him to slow the fuck down and be nicer to himself)

The Kakashi's fucking HATEEEE eachother it's super awkward for literally everyone around them

Anyways the Uchiha massacre !!! in the AU, the Uchiha's relationship with the village is very good, they're incredibly well respected, powerful, and one of the centermost clans of Konoha. Arguably the centermost clan, especially since the Senju are pretty much all gone now

So the Uchiha massacre being a thing is totally out of nowhere and horrifying to Rin and Kakashi. Like, it would have been even if the Uchiha were in poor standing, but that's like THE clan!!! Holy shit!!! And they're— gone? Dead? Killed in their own homes?

They're both told Itachi did it and kinda uhh. Don't fully believe it.

Itachi did leave the village in their world, but peacefully and for unknown reasons still under investigation (and then there was a ton of fun stuff with Sasuke facing a ton of sudden pressure as the new clan heir) and Kakashi and Rin both knew him, having been on team Ro together, so there's a lot of disbelief at the idea that he could do such a thing

But also like, they are in an alternate dimension. One that honestly? Kind of seems to be the worst timeline to them.

Anyways uhhh also fun playing with the HUGE difference in how jinchuriki are treated in the two konohas— one in which the kyuubi was released and decimated a chunk of the village, and another where Obito was stopped before it was released, + their jinchuriki are known war heroes

(Rin was made into a war hero of her own right, coming back from their mission as the new sanbi jinchuriki. People like to say she bested the demon with her will of fire or smthn, it makes for a great story)

Obv they still face a lot of negative stigma (particularly from civilians) but nowhere NEAR as much as canon konoha. Plus like. One jinchuriki is the Hokage's beloved and popular wife, and the other is a war hero. So.

Rin and Kakashi are hearing that Naruto is the kyuubi's jinchuriki and staring blankly at whoever told them. In their world, Kushina still holds the title, and the clan council is in the middle of choosing who will be the next one (Sakura or Naruto)

Rin can help give him jinchuriki lessons!! They can bond over having demons in them <3

Also thinking about how since AU!Kakashi got more time w his dad, he's a lot more aware of and proud of his clan heritage as a Hatake. He wears his clan mon on his clothes just like his old man used to, loud and proud

It'd be cool if I grabbed a fistful from that other obkk child bride ghost marriage au where Rin survives and Kakashi gets kind of partially claimed by the Uchiha bc of Obito's eye + the ghost marriage

Not the ghost marriage part to be clear (Sakumo would never fucking allow it in a million years) but the "Kakashi kind of gets picked up by the scruff by the Uchiha bc of his sharingan and gets special lessons from them and lowkey becomes an honorary Uchiha" bit. Would give him even more reason to a) be really fucked up about the massacre + know Itachi, and b) approach Sasuke

Also it'd just be fun and super funky, especially for those around him reacting to it

Let him wear a shirt with the Hatake mon on one sleeve and the Uchiha mon on the other, in alignment with his eyes!!! It'll be fun!!! It'll be quirky!!!

(Also, it'd mean he's the special little guy of 2 Hokage's and the most important and powerful clan in Konoha. Even more reason for him to be the way he is. Also: infinitely funny.)

I have a couple more abstract thoughts but I think this has become more than long enough, so I'll stop there. But like !!!! Dimension travel my beloved

[lonerphilosopher22]

The Unshaken: Who Breaks Who?

Mira and Selene didn’t come here to watch this. They came here for answers.

Selene’s best friend, a woman she had known for years, had… changed. It wasn’t sudden, but it was undeniable. She spoke differently, carried herself differently. The sharp, ambitious woman she had once known was now soft, quiet, almost reverent.

Selene had tried to understand. Tried to ask. But the answers never satisfied her. “I’m finally at peace,” her friend had said. “I’ve found my purpose.” But Selene did not believe in purpose. She believed in control. And this—this surrender—was something she could not comprehend.

So she came here—to the source. To see for herself.

And Mira? Mira came because she found the whole thing ridiculous. She wasn’t here for answers. She was here to prove them wrong.

And now, here they sat, across from the Master himself, across from the kneeling woman at his feet -Elira - The one who had gone the deepest.

Mira: “So this is your life?”

Elira kneels beside her Master, still, poised, waiting.

Elira: “Yes.”

Selene: “No choices? No decisions?”

Elira: “No burdens. No uncertainty.”

Mira: “You act like it’s some kind of relief.”

Elira: “It is.”

Mira: “You don’t think for yourself?”

Elira: “I think of him.”

Mira: “So what does that make you, then? A pet?”

Elira does not frown. She does not flinch. She smiles.

Elira: “If he wishes it.”

Mira: “You sound proud of that.”

Elira: “I am.”

Selene: “Even if he told you to act like a dog?”

Elira turns to her Master. A silent question. His hand lifts—just a slight motion.

She lowers onto her hands and knees, back arched, her movements elegant, controlled. And then—

She barks.

Soft. Refined. Without hesitation

Mira’s fingers twitch. Selene’s breath tightens.

Because there is no shame in her act. Only grace. Only devotion. Only surrender so deep it is almost frightening.

The Master strokes her head, slow, deliberate.

Master: "Good girl."

Elira tilts her head into his touch, breathing steady, utterly at peace.

And Mira suddenly feels sick, because she expected to laugh—but she cannot.

Selene: "Would you take pain for him?"

Elira: "With gratitude."

Mira: "Prove it."

Elira turns to her Master again, eyes lifting. He waits for a moment, considering, then gestures with two fingers.

She crawls to Mira. Effortless. Graceful. Every movement speaks of training, of devotion, of absolute discipline.

She stops at Mira’s feet. Kneeling. Waiting.

Master: "Slap her."

Mira stills. Something in her gut twists.But she lifts a hand, and when it connects with Elira’s cheek, the sharp sound cuts through the silence.

Elira does not flinch. She does not blink. She does not break. Instead—she lifts Mira’s hand, brings it to her lips, and presses a soft, reverent kiss to her palm.

Elira: "Thank you."

Mira pulls her hand back as if burned. Her heartbeat is too fast, her breath uneven.

Elira turns, crawls back to her Master, poised, untouched, serene.

And then—his hand lifts her chin.

Selene and Mira see her fully now. See the purity of it. The truth of it.

Mira: “You—You actually wanted that?”

Elira: "I wanted to please him."

Selene: “Even pain?”

Elira: “Especially pain.”

Elira speaks again. And this time, her words are softer, deeper, cutting into something neither of them knew they had.

Elira:

Do you want to resist the air when you breathe it?

Do you fight the pull of sleep when you are tired?

Do you argue with gravity every time your feet touch the ground?

Do you think a dancer feels lost because she follows the music?

Do you think the stars regret shining for the night that holds them?

I was never lost. I was only waiting for the right hands to guide me home.

You think submission is about being conquered. It isn’t. It is about returning home.

Silence.

Mira’s throat is dry. Selene’s heart pounds. And they both realize—

They did not break her.

She has broken them.

Broken them without force. Without anger. Without resistance.

Broken them with silence, where they expected screams.

With acceptance, where they demanded shame.

With tranquility, where they tried to create chaos.

With worship, where they only saw degradation.

With gratitude, where pain should have left wounds.

She has broken them, because they do not understand her. And yet, they cannot look away.

She has broken them, because they thought submission was weakness. But what they see before them is strength deeper than their own.

She has broken them, because they do not know what to do with this truth. They do not know what to do with her.

Because Elira is not fighting. She has already surrendered.

And somehow—somehow—she has won.

[miwiheroes]

Hi welcome to miwiheroes <3

*australian accent* 'Ello this is Eli, president of miwiheroes club and I realised I never made an intro post, also this is a little masterpost where you can find all the analysis/ byler rambling posts without having to scrolls through my account :D

I'm 19 years old

At university for psychology

he/him

I may look like an aggressively straight man but no one knows i'm actually hyperfixated on shipping two queer guys from a sci-fi netflix show

I'm a capricorn, infp, bisexual and trans ftm

my hyperfixations right now include byler, the elder scrolls (oblivion), link click, aot, the magnus archives and dan & phil <3

i'm from england

my spotify is 'figflower' and: Here are my byler playlists!!

i never used to write analysis on film but thx byler tumblr because i've been missing out

if you were wondering, my favourite characters from stranger things are (in this order): will, mike, hopper and el <3 okay see ya

MY ANALYSES:

(i will update these as i make them. my more massive analyses are highlighted in blue)

ANALYSES I'M MOST PROUD OF:

This theoretical model of relationships + ST couples

Mike and Will and El cannot be replaced by a different gender - they are tied to a queer narrative

All my Airport Scene Analyses

Blue and Yellow theory is completely canon

Will is not getting a new love interest in S5

Season 3 ending scene full analysis

Mike and the theme of promises

OTHER:

Common Romantic Tropes used with Byler

The D&D Substitute scene is Mike questioning his sexuality

Byler + Reciprocal Looks of Love

The existence of a Love Triangle proves Byler endgame

The Painting Lie is Chekhov's Gun

'The Will Voice' isn't a thing Bylers made up

The original S3 ending script reveals inner thoughts

Mike's lack of attraction to women other than El

Purposeful blocking analysis

Purposeful music choices and music titles

Will's understanding of Mike makes the audience root for Byler

Mike has to be wrong about needing to love El

Elmike breakup vs Byler fight contrast

Phonegate canon or not canon? analysis

Mike's bedroom detailed analysis

How Mike treats El's letters vs. Will's art

Mike's conversation with El in the grocery store is queer coded

Byler parallels with other canon ships

Answering a mileven ask part 2: electric boogaloo

Answering a mileven ask part 1

Mike's self-sabotaging avoidance to incriminate himself

Silly queer coding jokes

The M&M Scene

Will's 'I'm not gonna fall in love' is a bigger proof than you think

Confirmation that Mike jumping into the quarry was about Will

Milkvan's conflict, Byler, and the concept of understanding

Byler and the insane amount of Closet Imagery

Season 1 Mike is extremely queer-coded

What if Mike's gay from the beginning of S5 like Will in S4?

You're not delusional: What I noticed when I wasn't a byler

Thinking about the monologue…

Mike is clearly thinking about Will in the Snow Ball scene

Light is symbolic for truth = byler endgame

MY FICS:

My AO3 Account: miwiheroes

vibrant days (caution to the breeze) - 15,204 words

Mike and Will's relationship has been secret for 2 months. Neither of them want to bring it up, but things build and build until it becomes more of a burden than just a little mutual understanding. Will's growing up (and getting drunk) and it's impossible for Mike to stay in the same place forever, with words always on the tip of his tongue.

aka mike and will are hiding their relationship and avoid talking about hard subjects

is my timing that flawed? - 14,621 words

In the aftermath of a harrowing escape from the Upside Down, Mike and Will grapple with physical and emotional wounds. Faced with Will's new plan and doubt of what's real and what's not, Mike must confront reality and something that he had never been able to truly control.

aka wound cleaning fic + a devastating cliffhanger + Will not knowing what's real and what's not

it's rotten work (not to me. not if it's you) - 15,919 words

Ten years after everything, and Will hasn't been able to shake a debilitating fear of anything medical-related. So when the only option and smart thing to do is get a blood test from the hospital, Mike is sure to take the time to be there for him.

aka will needs a blood test but has a phobia of needles and mike takes time off work to support him

what you really want - 46,456 words

aka a s5 speculatory mike wheeler-centric fic about his internalised homophobia and a lot of moments where he's not so clever about his feelings with will

our hearts were singing - 13,724 words (dnf)

aka karen invites mike and will over for christmas, but mike still hasn't told his whole family about his relationship, even after a year of them definitely not-so-platonically living together. maybe it's time.

you can't help but become the sun - 16,267 words

aka mike offers to be will's reference, they talk about mike's self-esteem issues, and more shenanigans with paint ensue

stay with me a while - 9,515 words

aka mike confessed to will to save the world, but will wasn't conscious enough to say it back. when he wakes the next morning, they have a lot to talk about.

life used to be so hard - 5,697 words (incomplete)

A collection of drabbles and short one-shots that tell a non-chronological story about Mike and Will's life after the UD. Stay tuned to put the pieces together and figure out a full story <3 Further explanation is in the notes of the first instalment.

the boy with the thorn in his side - 21,781 words (incomplete)

aka mike figures out his sexuality in the worst way possible, but as always, will is there to help. in more ways than one.

MY BYLER EDIT COMP ON YOUTUBE

Have fun! And if you don't ship byler ur allowed to interact but if you want to hate on it, please don't interact! I'll just delete any hate because I personally think there is no space for homophobia or negativity on my page.

You'll also find 0 byler doubt here. I don't want to worry people. So ily <3

[xi4oyan]

Hope you like @miifu666

/)/)

( . .)

( づ♡

The Chains of Immortality

The chains of immortality had never been kind to her.

From the moment Suklha opened her eyes to this world, eternity was imposed upon her without warning, without choice. No thread of fate wove her name among the gods, no legacy marked her lineage. To the heavens, she was a mistake—an unwanted fragment of immortality, a specter without origin. She grew up among steel and silence, moving like a shadow through the cold corridors of the temples, amidst whispers that never addressed her. She learned to survive. And she became as sharp as the blades that surrounded her, a storm of logic and biting words, weaving webs of strategy and fleeting alliances, never attaching herself to anyone.

Then, he came.

Like thunder breaking through the veil of celestial monotony, a whirlwind of chaos and liquid gold. Wukong, the Great Sage, equal to the heavens—and yet, so terribly alone.

He arrived unannounced, without reverence, with a wide smile and eyes that gleamed like molten gold beneath the sun. He brought chaos with him as a bird carries the wind on its wings. Wherever he passed, traditions crumbled, certainties shattered. Suklha should have avoided him, pushed him away as she did with others. But he persisted. He watched her from a distance, walked where she walked. There was no fear in his gaze, no aversion, only a restless curiosity—a spark on the verge of igniting something she could not name.

"Shall we ruin a celestial banquet?" he proposed one day, his tone playful, but his gaze calculating.

"Do you think I would refuse?" she replied, and thus began the dance.

Between challenges and provocations, between biting laughter and glances laden with something neither dared to name, Suklha realized that Wukong was different. He saw her. Not as a mistake, not as a disposable piece, but as someone real. And then, one day, she saw him kneeling, pain tightening around his skull, fingers gripping the cursed circlet that burned his flesh and imprisoned his soul. A divine artifact that no one could remove.

No one, except perhaps her.

It was foolish, irrational. But Suklha did not hesitate. Her hands found the divine metal and pulled, pulled until the bones in her fingers cracked, until she tasted the bitterness of blood in her mouth, until the cruel circle yielded just a millimeter. Just a small space, a crumb of freedom. Insignificant to the heavens. But to him... to him, it was everything.

Wukong gazed at that tiny gap as if it were a doorway to a new universe. Then he looked at her. Suklha was not prepared for what she saw in his eyes.

It was not gratitude. It was not surprise.

It was possession.

The silence between them became a thin thread, on the verge of snapping. Then, he laughed. A low, resonant laugh, laden with something she could not define.

"What a terrible mistake you've made, Suklha." His touch was gentle as he grasped her wounded wrist, but his gaze burned with something far more fierce.

"Now, I will never let you go."

She should have stepped back. But she did not.

After all, the chains of immortality had never been kind to her.

And perhaps, just perhaps, being chained to him was not a burden, but a choice.

[yoongleboonglepie]

Pechsträhne Chapter 12

BTS x Reader

Series Masterlist

Chapter playlist-Youtube music

Chapter Playlists-Spotify

Word Count Approx: 25k

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A/n: She's long, she's here, she's A LOT. Love you all, and I can't wait to hear how you feel.

The rest of the Pinterest boards will go up tonight as well! So for all my sleuthing readers-look forward to those!!

Edit: I forgot the recap-Okay now for real

Most lovingly, ~Delyn

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_________________________________________

Recap

“Oh my god.” Y/n gasped,  her mug slipping from her fingers, and her other hand coming up to save both the mug and her floors from an unfortunate demise.

“What? Did I break them?” Namjoon spun in his chair, hands frantically coming up to look over her shoulder. 

Y/n didn’t need to answer. The answer was written clear as day on a torn napkin resting where the eaten strawberries used to be in swirling neat penmanship. 

“They’re listening to me. I’m sorry.” 

--

January 4th, 1901

Today–simply put–is one of the worst days of my life. 

First and foremost, it is cold, bleak like what is to come. The hills that surround us are blanketed just the same, in colorless waves of white that do nothing to combat the nothingness I feel on this morning. I should be proud, mother says, to behold such an honor–such a historical moment in our history, but I feel nothing of the sort; I feel something more akin to hatred. There is no honor found in being stuck as a perpetual witness, though she seems to disagree with me vehemently on that belief.

Does that make me wretched? To feel hatred for my own blood? Mother says as much. He is my brother after all and I must keep reminding myself of that despicable fact each morning when I see his annoyingly broad face at breakfast, and I hold back the urge to crack the shell of my eggs upon his forehead. I hate witnessing them enjoy in merriment that should be mine: the wines and imported cheeses; the frivolous outfits and unappealing hats (certainly they must see that adding height to the top of one's head does not make up for a lack of substance beneath it); the music and the dancing women parading the halls and theater; oh how it should all be mine!

I really should not be saying things of this kind about my brother, for some good has come from him–and by that I mean the two lovely little girls that bounce upon my knee each morning, devouring the alphabet letters I teach them in the study with as much passion as one would enjoy ice creams from town or fresh baked cakes from the kitchen staff. I look to their shining faces and I see something worth haunting these halls for, which spurs my mother to lament on when I plan on having a few of my own–though I have little interest in that process. I would rather run naked through the lobby on a bustling Saturday evening and face the consequences of such actions than to become swollen and burdened with birth and babies and men. 

My mother still insists, though she is fully aware of my distaste for it, and I can not possibly fathom for why she chooses to throw herself so forcefully at my choices, when they had never been interested in my potential in other regards–if they love showering my darling brother so much, shower him with the same iron hot poker you incessantly prod me with each month–for he is already building a crib for his third baby. 

Poor Phil, six years barely seems like enough time to recover from what I can only assume is the worst part of womanhood–If it were me I would have taken a trip out of the country and found myself lost at sea when the proposition for another biting mouth was offered up to me–though I am aware that her choice in the matter is mute; neither of their two existing children are boys. My younger brother, on the contrary, has already bestowed upon our nerves a babbling boy that he loves to throw into all of our arms like it’s a talisman from god and not just another drooling baby; all the while shouting praises to his similarly pregnant wife, (only a year in between births–goodness me I am starting to sweat at the thought). 

Ernst has yet to be sworn in only hours from now, and the race between brothers has already begun. 

Must I have a child to enter the race? A son, to be more precise? If I go to the theater and find myself a pretty girl to wear on my arm like a bracelet glittering as a show to my affluence in both money and prowess and have her bear a child in my name–will I be of more importance? What a silly thought.  

Unfortunately I must go, I am being called to dress for the celebration. I contemplate whether a funeral would be a more apt name…

Until tomorrow then, the first day of the end. 

Adelaide

Bear laughed, the breathy chuckle puffing out of his mouth swallowed up by the crackle of flame from the blazing hearth and the distant trill of horns and pulse of drums. His hand reached over the end table, distractedly lifting his glass of spirits to his mouth and letting the liquid pool about his lips, immediately taken in by the next entry. 

The wooden doors to the study burst open in a clamorous hurry, his older brother Duane, Youngho Jung, and Seonggi Kim barreling in through the gaps they left. The bang unsettled the dust from the tall bookshelves and Bear’s nerves, jolting the glass from his lips and barely making it back to the table next to him in time for Duane’s broad-shouldered arms to grab his own in a rough shake. 

“Spending the last day of 1953 locked up in the study? How unlike you.” Duane was clearly intoxicated, his button down coming loose from the waistband of his high waisted tweed trousers and his meticulously slicked back hair had a few sprigs loose. He bent his towering height down to Bear’s ear, a mischievous smile curling his features into something devilish. “There are dolls in all directions that I think might be something worth looking at–a wife in your own near future perhaps?” A chorus of drunken laughter waved through their small group at such a preposterous proposition. 

“You should know better than to say the ‘W’ word around him, Squirrel–that word doesn’t exist in his vocabulary.” Youngho pried Duane’s sweaty hands from Bear’s shoulders, ignoring Duane’s obvious disgust for his childhood nickname. Youngho clapped one of his own in their place and offered him a smile significantly less saturated with alcohol than Duane’s. “I’m sure he will join in on the party when he’s ready.” 

Bear’s grateful smile was drowned out by Seonggi’s own chaffing comments “I never thought we’d have to find him in the effort to get him to join us, I figured we’d be finding ourselves fishing him out of the lake by morning in nothing but his smalls.” Seonggi’s lanky arms were enveloped with a tan plaid long coat, a green sweater barely peeking out from where he still had it buttoned from their trek from the hotel ballroom to the estate, the sleeve riding up as he used one to swipe Bear’s glass off the end table and finish it of in one gulp. 

“Well, what else would I be friends with you all for if not to do just that?” Bear shot back recovering from their less than coordinated entrance in stride, jumping to his feet and straightening out his own dress shirt. “I was catching up on some reading–saving up my energy for the rest of the evening, the night is young!” 

“Now you are finally making some sense.” Duane guided him by his shoulders towards the entrance of the study, pushing him out of the warm embrace of the fire towards the chilled entrance way that brought the hairs of his arms up to stand. “To the party! I will not have my brother being a square during my last few nights as an apprentice–Come tomorrow everything changes.” 

“For the better, I hope.” Youngho snickers, loosening the brown tie around his neck. 

“You say that as though you doubt me!” Duane pushed open the front wooden door of the estate, leading their group down the steps to the gravel path. 

Seonggi rolled his eyes, pressing down the back of Duane’s collar where it had popped up in the back. “Did you not hear my earlier comment about fishing your brother out of a lake?” 

“That was about Bear, not me.” Duane shrugged, his breath plumed into the cold night air, mixing with the wispy snow flurries.

“The thing about that is that you two are one in the same–I’d be dragging you by the belt up the bank after he was pulled in from the water.” Seonggi retorted, his almond shaped eyes glaring into the side of his friend's face. 

“And what a great friend you are for that.” Duane tipped his head, and belted out a few laughs, leading the rest of the men to follow. 

“Boys!” 

The four heads swiveled in the direction of the front door behind them, ceasing all sounds of merriment. The sound of Adelaide’s crackly voice still manages to fill them each with fear despite them being grown, most with children of their own. They need not ask what she wanted, she would tell them accordingly. 

“Duane, is it not your wife I passed upstairs, wrestling with your son to get his night clothes on while lugging about your baby on her arm?” Her hair was gray, and her face aged with skin as thin as paper. A miracle it was that she was still walking about the halls at all, let alone speaking to them with such clarity. 

“Yes ma’am, I suppose it was.” Duane gulped nervously, tugging at the collar of his shirt, unintentionally popping out the back that Seonggi had just fixed. 

“And Jungho, was it not your son I saw streaking through the halls and making a mess of the carpets with his soap sodden feet?” She turned her icy eyes onto her next target.  

“Yes Ma’am.” Youngho paled under her scornful glare. 

“Then shall I reprimand the fully grown men in front of me to fulfil their fatherly duties so their wives may enjoy just a crumb of a beautiful night, or will you relieve her and the new pianist's wife of the job that is only yours on your own accord?” Adelaide phrased her words as a question, but the men knew it as anything but. They moved sluggishly to comply, and it gave Bear enough time to think up a new response. 

“I can handle it–let me attend to my uncle duties after being away for so long this past year.” Bear skipped back up the steps, grateful for an excuse to avoid the lavish party–something he’d never thought he’d find himself thinking. 

“But you haven’t even had the chance to join in the fun yet! Let us handle our little ankle biters and you go get a few more drinks in your system while you wait.” Duane argued, landing on the step next to him with ease, but Bear held up a hand to silence his protests, looking up at his brother with mirth.

“I insist. I haven’t had much to drink yet so I’m the more coordinated one of the bunch here anyways–you guys go ahead, I’ll catch up!” Bear gave Duane a gentle shove down the stairs, and a reassuring thumbs up. “Enjoy your last New Year’s as a son, and not the owner, yeah?” 

Duane grinned, and clapped Bear on his shoulder roughly before skipping down to rejoin the gaggle of men.

“What about you Seonggi? Why didn’t you get your ass handed to you?” Bear could hear Duane’s accusatory jest from the door as he watched them leave, their voices diminishing in volume. 

“I already helped put him to bed before we left. It helps to plan ahead sometimes, you know.” The man in question scoffed, offended he would even ask such a question. 

“Duane? Plan ahead? It’s the New Year–not the second coming of Christ.” Youngho chortled back at them, their shared laughter an echo of what their boyhood had once been as the three ambled back down the cobblestone path. 

“Du solltest seine Verantwortung nicht übernehmen, Bär.” Adelaide gave Bear a reproachful once over, though she still held open the door for him to follow after her.

He chuckled, and shut the door behind him to keep out to cold winter air. “Ich bin sein Bruder. Was ihn beunruhigt, ist auch meine Sorge.” 

Adelaide led him up the stairs, taking her time with each step, her hand gripping the railing tightly with bony fingers. “Und es hat nichts mit Patti zu tun?” 

Bear froze a few steps behind her hunched form, his mouth suddenly dry and he found himself wishing he still had a drink in his hands to help ease his tension–but found enough wherewithal within himself to quickly deny the hidden accusations of such a question. “Of course not.” 

Adelaide hummed, clearly not convinced by his rebuttal. “Then what is the real excuse?  It is not like you to be kept in on a night such as this.” 

Bear thought to himself for a moment, wondering if confiding in Adelaide would be of any use to his current predicament, or if it would make him feel even more so unsettled. He thought against lying, for she had a keen eye to pinpoint trickery from a mile away, much to his and his brother’s chagrin. 

“I’m not interested in fireworks anymore. I find them…” Bear searched for the proper words, watching carefully as Adelaide made the final step up to the landing. “I find them unsettling now.” 

If Adelaide believed his answer was enough, she did not share; just led him along a soapy path down the right side of the hall, the carpet still wet and squishing beneath his shoes from where much smaller feet had run along it previously. 

“Jeonghun is giving the newcomer a hard time–but I think she has it handled for the most part. It’s Johan and Dorothea that are causing most of the trouble.” Adelaide pushed open the second door down from the playroom, not bothering to knock, the only barrier between them and an infant’s cries removed so it could pierce their ears as intended. 

Patti looked drained, the kind of tired that no amount of her cigarettes would mend. The bags under her eyes more prominent than ever, mostly caused by the barely four month old baby draped over her shoulder that she bounced from side to side to try and sooth their high pitched cries; while her other arm was tangled in a blue patchwork quilt she was attempting to straighten out to her son’s liking. Though each time she lowered it down to the mattress he protested by jumping to his feet, and running in swift circles around his mother’s legs in a one sided game of chase. 

Still, in her exhaustion Bear couldn’t help but find her more beautiful than all of the stars in the sky combined.

“I brought you some help.” Adelaide’s firm tone cut through the noise of the children, bringing Patti’s deep brown eyes up to regard Bear with nothing short of relief. 

“And where’s Duane? Will he be joining us?” Patti inquired breathlessly, her eyes squeezing shut in a moment of covert irritation, for her son had just started another round about her legs for what must’ve been–according to her reaction–the hundredth time that evening.

“No. Your husband returned to the hotel to revel in the festivities. Thankfully Bear offered up his help in his stead.” Adelaide turned to exit the room, stopping within the open door to fix them both with an unreadable expression before making her exit. “I will be in my room at the end of the hall if you need me. I am far too old to be up this late anymore–party be damned.” 

A beat of awkward tension clouded the room, both of them unsure of what to say first.

“If you wouldn’t mind–” Patti started, cut off by Bear’s words spoken over her own. 

“I’ll handle that rascal. You sit with Dottie.”  Bear didn’t wait for instruction, relieving her now trembling arm from the weight of the quilt so she could escape from Johan’s room over to Dorothea’s nursery, and turned his attention to Johan’s giggling face. 

“Now you–” He lunged forward, grabbing the boy in his arms and flinging him into the air over his shoulders with an exaggerated groan of protest. “You are getting too big to play like this–take it easy on your poor mother.” Bear threw him down onto the mattress, letting him bounce a few times on the surface while more giggles erupted from the child’s mouth, already preparing to squirm away from Bear to start his next race. 

“I don’t think so.” Bear cut him off, blocking his path and pushing him back onto the bed. 

The two of them continued their little game of chase, until Bear was able to settle him down with a few bedtime stories from his own adventures on the promise that they were of both himself and Duane to appease his young and curious mind. Johan’s eyes were cemented closed, Bear only just having gotten a few sentences into his second tale when he had noticed his evened out breathing and still feet. 

Bear leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to the sleeping boy’s forehead and whispered a soft “Sleep well Johan, 88, Bear over and out.” He rose to his less than impressive height, soaking in the quiet tranquility of the room as opposed to the roaring party outside the estate's doors, giving himself one moment to believe that this could be his life and his son sleeping peacefully in front of him. 

“What’s that?” 

Patti whispered to him over the threshold startling him from his thoughts. Dorothea had been soothed and coddled over the opposite shoulder, Patti’s left hand rubbing tender circles on her back, the glinting ring on her finger a reminder to Bear that none of this belonged to him. 

“What?” Bear asked, stepping out of the room to join her out in the hall, but Patti didn’t linger, leading them back to Dorothea’s nursery–the nursery Bear had helped her paint a shade of bubblegum pink when his brother had failed to get around to it. 

“What you said to him in there, at the end of your story.” Patti clarified, settling herself down onto the brand new wooden rocking chair that Duane had delivered as one of his gifts to Patti for the nursery (even if she had whispered to Bear in guilt ridden shame that she had wanted one with more cushion, like she had seen in one of the furniture magazines in the study). 

“88?” He lowered himself onto the vibrantly pink nursery ottoman, his eyes catching one of the printed and plastered strangely proportioned lambs leaping around the walls.

Patti hummed in affirmation, keeping her voice low as she rocked the infant, her heels pressing into the equally bright rug beneath her feet. 

“It’s something my father and I said to each other when I was younger. It’s shorthand for ‘love and kisses’ when using amateur radio transmission.” Bear took in a hesitant breath, and offered more detail that she hadn’t asked for–something he excelled at in conversation. “Though I do my best to only use it with people that I’m familiar with. Unfortunately, followers of the madman now use it to spread hate. Funny isn’t it–something meant to spread affection being used as a weapon to hurt.” Bear trailed off, his eyes unable to remove themselves from Dorothea’s sleeping wrinkle of a face.

“That’s how it always goes, doesn’t it?” Patti sighed, her hand stilling on Dorothea’s tiny back. “Hopefully they grow up in a different world, where it can just mean love and kisses again.” 

“Unfortunately,” Bear began softly, “We can’t erase that side of it–for what is done can not be undone. All we can do is hope that the people who use it for good can overpower those that use it for bad.” He took one finger and tenderly traced it over Dorothea’s small button nose, pausing to watch small puffs of breath leave lungs much too small for Bear to fathom. 

Patti watched the exchange, her eyes syrupy and tired, a thankful smile tilted her cheeks up while her lids blinked slowly. “Thank you for your help tonight. You never have to, yet you always do.” 

“Because I want to.” Bear flickered his eyes from the baby up to Patti’s rich tawny eyes even though he knew he shouldn’t look at them the way he was. “It’s what family does for each other.” 

“Family?” Patti muttered the question with each syllable as blurred as the line she crossed by sliding the hand off of Dorothea to brush against Bear’s. “I wish Duane thought we were as important as you seem to.” 

Bear’s face colored with passion, quickly coming to her aid with words of intended comfort. “Patti don’t say such nonsense–you guys are Duane’s entire world. He would do anything for you.” Bear tried to give his words the power they needed to be convincing, but even he could not deny the scenes he had seen play out before his eyes; Duane consistently leaving Patti to her own devices in the name of focusing on his apprenticeship and studies, only  for Bear to sweep along behind each poorly thought step to clean up after him. A common theme it seemed, Bear cleaning up after his brother’s messes and missteps only for Duane to take the credit. He would never tell anyone though–he loved his brother too much to face the reality. 

Bear wore the label of mischief maker like a badge of honor, or a shield that is so broad it protects his brother without even trying. Each accusation or pointed finger tends to lead to Bear as if pulled by an invisible magnet–what an easy target one is when they are self assured and loud; unafraid to take up space.  

“I think we both know who has actually done the most for our little family.” Patti murmured, her delicate finger caressing the side of his palm, bringing him out of the thoughts of his brother and back to her overwhelming presence. 

Her phrase should not have affected him the way it did, spurring his heart forward into a gallop under her intense gaze, leaden with many words they had only shared in private secrecy that he had sworn he would never speak of again. He cleared his throat, and pulled his hand away from where it had fallen to rest with them. He can’t let her touch him that way.  

“If you no longer need my help, I should be going.” Bear stood, straightening his brown trousers and checking his watch. “Fireworks will begin soon–if Johan gives you trouble I’ll just be downstairs.” 

“Goodnight, Bear. 88.” Patti called after him, rushing through a tacked on “Not the fascist way of course!”

He paused, looked at where she sat so ethereal in the warm lamplight on a cold night, her eyes begging him to stay even though they both knew he shouldn’t. “Goodnight Patti, 88. Also not in the fascist way.” Bear nodded in her direction and slipped from the nursery with every muscle in his body screaming at him to turn around and sit back down next to her until the sun rose, or Duane stumbled back in from his night out celebrating. Yet he refrained. 

Bear took slow steps down the stairs and back towards the study, the same hair-raising sensation prickling his skin as he passed through the foyer and into the kitchen in search of another drink to wash away his horrid thoughts. He decided on a glass of champagne, humoring even just a small amount of celebration for himself to take with him back to the study. 

He was too distracted in his journey to see the hulking, hunched, shadow standing at the end of the hall just out of view; and far too disinterested in caring when the shadows invisible dragging steps following him into the foyer, covered by the loud booming sound of flame and gunpowder in the sky outside that signaled the arrival of the New Year. Bear settled into the couch of the study once more, oblivious to the watchful stalking eyes of the creature that laid waiting in a plane invisible to the naked eye. He was too focused on keeping his own cool through the torrential downpour of flame from outside.

Waiting. 

Be that as it may, Bear was never good at being oblivious; especially not for long.

Bear shuddered, spitting out the last of his champagne onto the red rug beneath his feet. Through the stained glass panes of the study doors edges, he could’ve sworn he had seen something–inhumane in nature and grotesque by design–lit up by the red and golden flourishes from outside and reflecting back at him like some imprint of death pressed against the glass.

Bear fell to the floor, each blast rang louder than the last in his ears, reminiscent of too many memories he wished not to think of anymore. All control broken by the unsuspecting image. His chest heaved, and he risked a glance back to the glass, only to find the face gone–vanished with the the raining light of a dissipated firework. 

Nothing but a memory, Bear poured himself a glass of water and brought the rim shakily to his lips, forcing each sip down his throat. Nothing but something to forget. 

Bear could not remember such a face from all of his duties served–no friend or foe had looked as such. He did not linger on thoughts of what could be, or couldn’t be explained; those kinds of thoughts serve one who has lost many a friend no good. 

Bear remained on his knees on the study floor against the center table, pouring glass after glass of water until the pitcher was empty, but nothing seemed to quell the sweat building on his brow or the pounding of his heart nor the dryness of his mouth. 

Not when that creature's face haunted the edges of his vision, and the thunderous roar of fireworks above ripped into his subconscious and forced him back into memories he wished not to see. 

“Bär.” Adelaide’s voice cut through the white noise of fireworks and his own heartbeat. She stood wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair tucked away and out of sight for the night. 

Bear couldn’t catch his breath, not even for a moment. Adelaide held a small bell in her hand, and frantically waved the orb around the study door like she was trying to swat at an invisible fly. The scene itself managed to grip its hold onto him: an old frail woman flailing her limbs about with a look so serious he couldn’t help but let out a few wheezing chuckles at the blasphemy of it. 

Once she seemed satisfied with whatever it was she had set her mind to, she slid the pocket doors of the study closed, locking it for good measure.  Adelaide spun on her heels and took long purposeful strides over to Bear, one of her tremoring hands reaching out to pinch his chin into place, holding him still and repeating the same swinging of the bell around his head and face as if trying to banish his anxieties with the soundwaves. For what it was worth–whether it be the absurdity of it or the power behind her waving–he began to regain control of himself, both mind and body. 

Adelaide dropped his chin and took to running about the corners of the room, ringing its gentle tinkling sound in each one before moving onto the next.  Her age left her at odds with the motions, her own breath growing labored as she returned with a slow tread to the couch Bear had settled himself on during her ministrations. She sunk down next to him, and fixed him with an admonitory stare that pierced straight through him. 

“You must be careful, do not let yourself become vulnerable to that which walks these halls.” 

Bear couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head out in a way that made a few curls of his own fall from their gel coated cage. “Adelaide, the spooks of the house people whisper of are not what I’m worried about.” 

“You should be.” Adelaide shook her head, and grabbed his hand tightly in her own. “Keep it, I have plenty. They feed off of your troubles.” She dropped the bell into his palm and curled his fingers around the metal that was now warm from her touch. 

Bear didn’t have it in him to argue with her old and wispy mind, complying enough just to tuck it away into his pocket for safe keeping. “Alright.” 

Her dark eyes flickered to the journal he had discarded on the center table, her facade of stone falling just enough for him to catch a real glimpse of her–eyes wide and glowing from the firelight, a youthful air about her face as she ran her fingers across the leather cover wistfully. As quickly as he had seen it, it was gone. 

“Where did you find this?” Adelaide snipped, though her tone was nothing but an empty threat; he had angered her enough growing up to know when she was truly a threat.

“Squirrel and I had gone digging through some of the old boxes and archives in the cellar and historical office. He had procrastinated on his preparatory reading for his ceremony tomorrow and needed to skim a bit.” Bear knew he was throwing his brother to the wolves with such a comment, but after having seen how much he had left to Patti that night–he couldn’t help but let something that wasn’t a compliment slip from his lips. 

“How interesting.” She examined him with passive curiosity. “All of the other reading materials at your disposal–and this is what you’d decided was worthy of your time?” 

Bear leaned forward, snatching the journal off the table and flipping to where he had left off. He read an excerpt aloud, doing his best to do so with animated expression. “He is my brother after all and I must keep reminding myself of that despicable fact each morning when I see his annoyingly broad face at breakfast, and I hold back the urge to crack the shell of my eggs upon his forehead.” He snapped it closed, sandwiching one of his fingers between the pages to keep the spot. “I think that is some very profound writing if I do say so myself.” 

Adelaide did the unexpected–a short bark of withering laughter sprouting from her chest. “Brother’s are a fickle thing aren’t they?”

“Very.” Bear agreed, a smirk finding its way to his lips. 

The firework display was coming to an end, though with Adelaide’s company he had barely registered the finale–something he would have to thank her for. The cheering and music from the distant courtyard and hotel ballroom could still be heard, for the party had no intentions of stopping at midnight.

“It should be you up there tomorrow, If I do say so myself.” 

If hearing her laugh had surprised Bear, her sudden shift into modest honesty had knocked him into another realm entirely; the closest thing to a compliment she had given him in ages. He adamantly shook his head, and returned the journal to the center table. 

“My brother is the only real choice. I am off on other lands or on the other side of the country, sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong far too often.” He pressed the curl back into place. “He worked hard for this. We always knew it would be him.” 

“And how much of his work was done by your hands?” Adelaide prodded, giving him a knowing look. 

Bear’s heavy sigh was enough of an answer, and Adelaide took to looking into the flames. 

“You deserve it–I think you would’ve been the obvious choice if it were me.” She finished, hoisting herself to stand and start a wobbly path to the study doors. “Remember, use the bell if they return.” 

Bear took the bell from his pocket, and turned it this way and that in the low light, inspecting what seemed like just an ordinary bell for something extraordinary that she insisted it had. He shook it once, the twinkling sound catching Adelaide's attention enough for her steps to hold pause. 

“I think you deserved it. You were the obvious choice to me.” Bear commented, boring his eyes into the back of her head where she stood frozen in the doorway. It was her turn to be caught off guard, something Adelaide almost never was. 

She didn’t react otherwise, pulling herself together and sliding one of the doors open for her exit. She hesitated, her hand holding onto the door frame to support her old rickety bones. She spared him one quick glance, her eyes glassy and wet. 

“I see you’ll find yourself making good use of that bell. Goodnight, Bärchen.” 

_________________________________________

Y/n sat on the edge of Yoongi’s bed, holding the napkin held out for everyone to see. Jimin’s scrawl was easily legible–impeccably neat even under the given circumstances of the less than ideal materials he had on hand. It was quiet. Each of them in a state of confusion or disbelief–or both. But as always, Yoongi spoke his mind first in the way he knew best: Eloquent and efficient.  

“What the fuck?” Yoongi gaped at the torn corner with disdain, his eyes squinting to get a better look. “‘They’re listening’? Why hasn’t he reached out about this before?” 

“Maybe he can’t. With the way he’s been talking to me lately, you’d think he’s under constant surveillance.” Y/n fiddled with the patterned paper between her fingers for a few moments before dropping the note into Yoongi’s hand to inspect it further. “Even at a park a few miles away he acted like he still had more to say but couldn’t.” 

“The shadow figure?” Jungkook offered, his dark eyes looking at the note from over Yoongi’s shoulder. 

“That’s our best guess.” Y/n shrugged, unable to look him in the eye after her discussion with Namjoon. That and she was exhausted beyond belief–she could blame the conversation with Namjoon and her previous experience with Jimin for making her head throb and her eyes heavy with fatigue. Her mind couldn’t pinpoint if she was still frustrated with Jimin, or if her irritation was trying to throw itself around at the first thing it could sink its teeth into in a blind search of whoever was causing him to act this way, for she was getting so easily riled up with each sound or thought that wormed its way through her skull. She took two fingers and rubbed at her temples to ebb away at the aggravating pulse behind her eyes. 

Namjoon stood from Yoongi’s desk chair and rested one of his large hands over one of her own, stopping her from boring holes through the side of her head with much too forceful presses of her fingers. “You shouldn’t be getting this upset right now–you’re still healing from your fall.” 

“I can’t exactly not feel worried when one of my best friends just left me a cryptic note about being listened to–by some ghost or my mother who knows.” Y/n groaned, letting her hands fall from her face under Namjoon’s guidance. “I don’t know what to do with this right now.” 

“We can do one of two things.” Yoongi started, looking up from the paper napkin and wetting his lips. “We can either pivot our goals for this weekend into figuring out what’s going on with him, or we can continue with our original plans and then we can try and get him to crack.”

“Let’s not make any plans tonight. Like I said, she should be resting.” Namjoon enunciated the last word with a pointed look at Yoongi. 

Y/n wanted to argue with him, and tell him that he was wrong–that she could handle the discussion just fine. But in all honesty she didn’t have it in her to push back against his stubborn commands, she did truly need rest if she wanted to be of use for the upcoming weekend in any capacity. All she had left in her was a meak nod, and let him guide her out of Yoongi’s room and back to her own, the box of strawberries still strewn about her desk where they had left them to scurry over to Yoongi’s room to share in her discovery.

“I’ll go over your wards and then leave you be. Don’t stay up too late tonight.” Namjoon directed her to sit on the edge of her bed while he gave all of her windows and doors a once over, even going as far as to check the corners of her bedroom and bathroom to make sure nothing had been bumped or pushed aside. 

Y/n sat, staring unfocused at her knees. The fire that had been ignited before of irritation and confusion had burned through all of the energy she had left, leaving her a drained shell on the edge of her bed. This was a cycle she continued to struggle with, getting worked up to the point where she felt she couldn’t contain herself before it suddenly fizzled out and left her empty and void.

 She wanted to call Jimin and beg him to tell her everything–to demand further answers from him in the excuse of lending him a helping hand. They had Namjoon and his knowledge of plant witchery, Yoongi’s extensive knowledge of the occult, and Jungkook the Psychopomp on their side: Whatever Jimin was dealing with they’d be able to handle–at least better than he could on his own. 

Though in response to these thoughts of rushed rash decisions, came the echo of something he had said to her earlier that day; a pretty voice sounding out a sentence laced with a warning beneath the sweet tone. 

“You know–there’s things a lot of us hide from each other. Maybe for good reason, but maybe out of fear. Perhaps some people aren’t able to say them outright in fear of what may happen to others as a consequence of speaking up.” Jimin’s plush lips moved to release the words in swift tandem. “Sometimes we all need a reminder that there are people that are here that will listen.” 

“It looks good. I might have Yoongi give you some incense to burn in here though, just to refresh the space. You can never be too safe.” Namjoon stopped in front of where she sat, peering down his nose at her with his hands tucked into his pockets. 

Y/n nodded, pushing Jimin from her mind and shifting to stand. “Thanks Joon. For everything today, not just for checking the wards.” she leaned forwards and let her forehead fall onto his shoulder, the warmth feeling nice against the ache behind it. 

Their hug was brief, as was their goodbyes. The disappointment of being alone didn’t fester for too long–it didn’t have the time to. Her dress had barely hit the floor by the time she crawled herself into bed fully intending to stew on their discussion like she had promised, only to last merely five minutes into her thoughts before she was drifting off into a restless slumber. 

Her dreams were riddled with images of the demonic creature she had encountered in the kitchen the weekend before, still dripping with tea and ectoplasm. His mouth open and waiting for her to fall right into it with molten hungry eyes trained on where she lay paralyzed below him, unable to stop her inevitable demise. No matter how many times she tried to reign in her dreams and steer them somewhere else, she couldn’t. All roads led back to him. 

The images didn’t leave, even when her eyes opened to find her own bedroom dark and empty. Faint outlines of his figure were visible from all angles, burned into her retinas to torture herself with whenever it was much too dark for her brain to fully recognize that it wasn’t real. A constant state of wondering whether or not what she was seeing was reality or just the haunting etches of his memory. 

If it was dark, the risk of traveling over to one of her friends' rooms or vise versa was high–it was still Thursday after all–so her father would be expected to sing his sickening lullabies tonight for the last time before the weekend. Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to keep feeding her twisted mind with mirages of the demon, and fumbled for wherever her phone had landed on her bed. 

The shuffling of light feet outside her door had her muscles locking in place. She could hear the soft steps (much too soft to be her fathers) hesitating outside along the carpet running over the wooden floors of the halls. Rustling overtook the feet, and she heard three objects drop to the floor outside her door, each one barely audible and signifying how lightweight whatever the gift was must be. Once whoever it was seemed satisfied with what they had done, Y/n followed the sound of their footsteps a few feet down the hall but no further. They were too quiet to hear past then. 

Y/n cautiously touched her feet down to the chilled floor, her heart pounding against her ears as she reached from the flashlight on her end table and clicked it on. Her phone read that it was minutes to midnight, so still much too early for her father to be the culprit. Y/n took the risk, shining the light out from the gap of the door prior to unlocking it and giving it a gentle shove. Something in front of the door stopped it from opening entirely, the sound of leaves crunching making her pull the door closed ever so slightly. 

She poked her head around the edge, finding three more perfectly cut and trimmed peonies laid gently in front of her door. She swiped them up without hesitation, and quickly shut her door–even if she still had some time in regards to her father, she couldn’t say the same about every spirit. 

It was as if the flowers themselves were enchanted with more so than just their stunning looks and perfect blooms: for as she rubbed a few velvety petals beneath her finger tips, an overwhelming sense of calm seeped into her mind and body, uncoiling all of her tension and leaving her a tranquil cloud that floated back to her beds previously stifling embrace that now felt like anything but. The sweet floral scent stuck to her fingertips that were tucked near her face, lulling her back into an easy sleep no longer invaded by creatures from the basement or looming dark figures: but of the first half of her date with Jimin. Or was it Jimin she saw? Her mind slurred images together in slow, languid waves, mixing up images and trading them out for others however it saw fit. 

Y/n realized she had been wrong entirely about the scene–it was not her date with Jimin. She wasn’t even at the park anymore. She must’ve just been misunderstanding what she had seen–because now she was walking along one of the property trails, hand in hand with Jungkook. His eyes reflecting the glint of the sun and his hand warm and comforting within her own. 

She would have to be sure to ask him to go for a walk with her soon, Y/n thought, her breath leaving her mouth in puffs, barely conscious of what she was thinking any longer. She really liked how it felt to hold his hand.

_________________________________________

Y/n slept much longer than she had intended to that night, the sun blazing through her curtains at an angle letting her know as such without even having to check the time. She moved sluggishly about her room, in no similar rush as to yesterday to get dressed–just settling for comfortable clothes, dangling the new stems from the string above her bed, and falling back into her comforter. 

Their group chat had blown up her phone, heightening her anxiety through the roof before she managed to click on the first private message from Namjoon. 

[Joon 🌱]: Don’t freak out…nothing that bad has happened. You just need to check your work email. 

Y/n did as she was told, thankful for Namjoon’s stable mind. No matter his reassuring words, she still found herself rushing to tap the icon to check on the mostly barren inbox–except for one from her parents with the subject line enough to send her through the roof. 

Send him well wishes on his journey! 

It is our greatest honor to escort our very own Jimin Park to Baltimore Maryland for his graduation where he will be awarded his Masters of Museum Studies. We will be sure to send photos and a live stream link for anyone that would like to attend and share in the festivities virtually. 

Expect our return on Monday, and be sure to give him your congratulations! 

Sincerely, Anselm and Mariah Wörner

Attached to the short email was a picture of Jimin, Jin’s parents-Hana and Yeongjin Kim, and both of her parents posed in front of the hotel, looking as though it had been taken early this morning. Two sleek black cars were being stuffed with luggage on the edge of the screen, but that wasn’t what was holding Y/n's attention the most.

Her father’s arm was thrown over Jimin’s shoulder, a bright smile taking over his features that was compensating for the lack of light in his eyes–soulless and empty. His hand was clamped onto Jimin’s opposite arm, digging into the fabric of his shirt and holding it clenched within his fist. An almost imperceivable display power, a barely noticeable warning. 

Jimin was going to be alone with her parents for an entire weekend (well, alone with Jin’s parents and her parents), and that filled her with trepidation. There would be no way to text or call him about his message while he was with them–he would be almost completely out of reach. 

There was no way this wasn’t deliberate. No–not the day after he had left her an ominous note–not when her mother had said nothing about indicating them joining them, nor had Jimin. Which could only mean one thing: Whatever Jimin knew, or whatever he was involved in and trying to tell her must threaten whatever her mother had been up to. 

Y/n spiraled, mentally and physically for the rest of the morning in a pacing circle until Namjoon stole her away from her mental cages in a brisk walk to meet Jungkook in the dining room for lunch. Jungkook wasn’t the only one present–Jin and Hoseok were draped over opposite chairs, busying themselves with their small lunch menus with an air that held a suspicious amount of nonchalance. 

Jin’s attire stole her wandering eyes and fixating mind, the absence of his cap, gloves or hotel coat more apparent to her than ever. It’s Friday. He should be working, Y/n noted to herself, then swept her eyes to Hoseok. The same tired taciturn nature oozed from his frame as when he had insisted he was sick–only this time he was trying harder to conceal it from her by the way he plastered a bright smile on his face and waved with too much enthusiasm at her entrance. And if that wasn’t odd enough, he appeared to sag with relief when she ended up choosing a seat further away from him; something that under normal circumstances would have him pouting at her for the first half of their meal. 

“How are you feeling today, Y/n?” Jin’s silver tone voice was saturated with gentleness, laying his menu down to look at her with undivided attention. 

“Fine…how about you?” Y/n couldn’t take her eyes off Hoseok, and how plastic and fake he looked sitting at the head of the table. His grin akin to a barbie doll in the way his eyes shone little interest in reflecting the same sentiment of joy. 

“Great. I was actually going to come up and see if you would want to play a game or two. I took today off since my parents were in town so I could see them off.” Jin answered, oblivious to how Hoseok didn’t even seem real at the moment. 

“Yeah that’s…That’s fine.” Y/n finally turned to fully address Hoseok, surveying him carefully for any kind of response. “And you?” 

“Peachy!” Hoseok chirped, putting more force into his upbeat mask. “Nothin’ too crazy has been happening on my end. Just driving–the usual.” 

Y/n pursed her lips and furrowed her brow, her voice coming out more accusatory than she intended. “I thought you were working extra shifts at the convenience center this week?” 

Hoseok’s head tilted sharply to the side, his smile faltering. “Oh yeah–right.” He nodded, his meticulously curated smile returning. “That’s right. Sorry, thought that was implied.” 

Y/n briefly met Namjoon’s eyes from across the table over the edge of his menu, and they shared a dubious look as she fumbled through her response. “It’s fine…just checking in.” 

She reached to the center of the table to grab a menu from the pile, clipping the moment Jin sent Hoseok a warning glower from below his brow–startling Y/n’s hand to retract from the menu at such a strange display of emotion from him. He must’ve not noticed she had glimpsed the passing shadow of it across his face, because he just returned to reading his menu with an impassive expression like it hadn’t happened. 

Next to him, Jungkook leant back in his chair with calculating eyes on constant surveillance of the dining room having caught the strange interaction. The muscles of his cheek twitched when his teeth clenched down on his cheek but he too chose not to call them out on it, settling for observation over confrontation. Though it was only seconds before he sensed Y/n’s stare, his head turning to meet it. A microscopic quirk of his brow was the silent ‘You okay?’ she had grown accustomed to when in group settings, and for some reason–she found her face heating up at their eye contact, and averted her attention to her menu with the tiniest of nods. 

Lunch was quiet, Hoseok distracting himself with his phone and Jin focusing on his meal. Namjoon’s accusations from the evening prior taunted Y/n each and every time she snuck a look in Jungkook’s direction, and they delved even further into her skin when she would find him already looking at her. The only thing that managed to stop her from glancing at him was when Seokjin looked up at the same time, wordlessly intercepting their game of tag with an unreadable flick of his brow. 

On their walk back to Y/n’s room, she and Namjoon were discussing all of the progress (and lack thereof) he had been able to make during her week of absence, plucking at her guilt that bloomed at his words–frustrated with herself for missing only her second week of work. Y/n knew he wasn’t upset with her, and that was the only comforting string that kept those feelings from stacking on top of the thoughts she was already sorting through that day. She fought to keep herself present in the tale he was currently recounting of his run in with their new greenhouse roommate–a black widow spider they lovingly named Julia Caesar. 

“...I put the pot down then and could see all of her scary little eyes–no thanks–she claimed it as hers now I’m not going to risk evicting her and getting bitten. Consider this a warning when you come back next week: she has taken over the empty terracotta pot on the second floor. I might even get a tag to put on it so everyone knows.” 

“Joon, we can just take her outside.” Y/n snorted, resting her head on the shoulder of the arm she was holding onto. “Just take the pot outback for a day and I promise she won't be there by sundown.” 

Namjoon looked affronted, curling his mouth in disgust and bringing his chin inwards at the suggestion. “Absolutely not. I’m not touching it–like I said she owns it now.” 

“Then I’ll do it.” A new thought clicked in Y/n’s mind, a teasing smile warming up her lips. “Unless you are actually starting to like her now…” 

He sputtered, leaning in front to open her door for her. “No. Never.” 

“Are you sure? Because last I checked a bet was made, and it smells like I might be winning.” Y/n reluctantly untangled herself from his arm and stepped into her room. 

“Positive.” Namjoon’s neck was turning red, and his eyes refused to stay locked in one place. 

Liar, Y/n giggled to herself. 

“Uh huh. Sure.” Y/n gave an exaggerated nod, dragging out the last word longer than necessary and leaning up against her door with her hand already tapping it closed. “You owe me a trip to Longwood.” 

The close of her door stifled any of his protests, and Y/n couldn’t stop the loud laughter she knew he could hear from the otherside, his defeated footsteps trailing down the hall towards the landing to escape his loss.

Y/n found her thoughts slower than they had been that morning. They no longer raced around her brain like they were trying to put a seasoned Mario Kart player to shame, instead, they ferried about the currents of her mind, coming and going at a pace much easier to control now that she had food in her stomach and Namjoon on her mind. Thus, she was able to tuck her nose into a book, flipping through a dozen pages or so when someone made their presence known on the other side of her door. 

Seokjin stood on the other side of the threshold, a leather guitar case perched over one shoulder and his cream colored tote bag on the other. Y/n beamed up at him, though his eyes were stuck inspecting something on the floor in front of the door. Y/n followed his line of sight, trailing down his figure to a handful of peonies trimmed in perfect matching length and laid in a pile at the foot of her door. 

“You have a few gifts.” He commented timidly, and bent down to pick them up for her. “I was going to text you but I decided to just change and come get you myself.”

“Oh-No worries!” Y/n gingerly took the flowers from his hand with her confusion evident on her face, she definitely had heard anyone else knock since Namjoon had taken his leave. “You can come in if you want, just give me a second to set these aside” Y/n eyed the guitar case over his shoulder quizzically. “Did you still want to play some games or have you decided to change the plans? Not that I’m complaining–I loved listening to you play.” She left the door open for him to follow in after her and dropped the new peony additions on her desk. She was going to run out of room for them soon…Y/n thought as she watched a few stray petals fall loose from one of the stems and scurry to the floor. 

Jin shifted uncomfortably in the center of her room, his gaze following her movements as she leapt to stand on her bed and clip the bundle of stems to a string Jungkook had helped her hang up. ”I was going to suggest we dust off the old Wii and have some fun with it, but it’s so nice out today that I couldn’t excuse staying cooped up.”

Y/n hummed in response, mesmerized by the petals and the fresh scent they emitted. The flowers were cut at the exact length as the first she had received–but this time it was four perfect blooms staring back at her with full blushing faces. Y/n tore her eyes from them and turned back to Jin, hopping down from the bed to join him in the middle of the room. 

“Where are we going? I’m not exactly dressed for anything fancy.” She examined his casual attire, simple black pants hemmed above the ankle and nice white t-shirt hidden beneath a thin blue jacket. Y/n caught the glint of a small silver pendant hidden beneath the collar of his shirt but couldn’t make out its shape. 

“Me neither.” He chuckled, giving her a sweet smile. “Guest house?” 

Y/n felt her eye twitch slightly, but chose to ignore it and push down any thoughts of getting roped into being there late into the evening–she would just be sure to tell him she had plans with Namjoon after dinner as an excuse if need be. “Sounds good.” She glanced down at her own lounge set with a wrinkle of her nose. “I probably will change actually–much too hot for fleece.” 

Jin gave her an affirming nod, and gestured to her door. “I’ll wait out here.” 

Y/n quickly shuffled out of her clothes and into a pair of green embroidered shorts and a white long-sleeved cropped shirt, tugging on some taller socks when she remembered how Namjoon had chided her last week for not wearing any during tick season–god forbid she get one during their walk through the woods and she would have to admit it to him (not that the rest of her outfit was necessarily tick friendly, but she had to compromise somewhere). Y/n stood tall, regarding the mysteriously appearing flowers where they dangled over her bed apprehensively, then slipping out into the hall after Jin. 

Thankfully, Jin didn’t linger around the estate for very long, urging them out and onto the dirt trail to the guest house and lake to enjoy the afternoon sun. Jin was awfully chatty this time, distracting her with antidotes of his work week and about how he had gone out for lunch with his parents the day prior–filling her in on their most recent trip to Portugal. The house came into view before Y/n had even realized it, and the unknown passage of time reminded her of how much Jin seemed to calm her mind, unwinding her tensions and putting her at ease; the kind of friend that had you forgetting that time itself even existed when you were with them. 

Once in the house, Jin took a moment to prop open the sunroom door that led directly onto the turf and the fire pit, and moved back to drop the leather case onto the glass table top in the center. Y/n made herself comfortable, finding the same rhythm they had a few days prior: her seated comfortably near him and him fiddling with his guitar.

He unlatched the case and lifted the instrument out from within, situating himself down next to her and beginning the task of tuning the strings according to his liking. Y/n closed her eyes, taking a deep breath of fresh early evening air and letting it furl in her lungs and release through her mouth at a lazy pace. The chorus of chirping woodland animals and the sound of rustling trees comforting her in the best way possible. She couldn’t even remember any of the things that had worried her that morning. Something about Jimin? It didn’t matter. She was comfortable here now with Jin. 

The scent of freshly cut grass and the thick beams of sunlight that enlightened clouds of floating dust, cut through by the shadow of a bird flying overhead in front of its source made her feel truly at home. While she loved the ease of travel and particular beauty of D.C while in college, nothing beats a nice day in Pennsylvania trees. The smell of fresh earth and clean air made her muscles relax into a tranquil state that only grew in strength when Jin started absentmindedly strumming a few chords, simple progressions designed to warm up his fingers.  

Y/n curled brought her legs up onto the couch with her, and rested her elbow on the back of the couch to prop her head on it, captivated by how easily his fingers slid on the fretboard to find their next chord. The rhythm promptly switched, moving into a climbing introductory flourish of a song she could immediately recognize as one of Hozier’s. She didn’t interrupt him (nor did she feel pressured to find a distracting hobby) and let him start through the opening verse, his time kept by his foot rising and following on beat against the wooden floor beneath them. His confidence had already multiplied since Wednesday, for the lyrics were already spilling from his lips in lilting shapes of romance and yearning, flowing into her ears and muddying her senses. 

He didn’t take much breaks in between songs, just letting them flow from his hands and mouth with practiced ease and filling any empty space between them that would have been. Y/n didn’t mind, enjoying the silvery tone of his voice and the nostalgic plucking of the strings. Y/n felt her mind growing loose, having found a moment of refuge from whatever was going on back at the hotel and estate drifting completely from her brain and leaving her floating, light as a feather through the soundscapes that enveloped her in their welcoming arms. 

There was a small pause in the music as he leaned forwards to fish through his bag that she had recognized from before to thumb through sheet music and chord charts for the next song he was looking for. 

Y/n took that moment to take in his soft skin in the golden cast of the sun from the windows, and the way it glowed. She saw him now for how she knew him best beneath the carefully built exterior to match the role of the eldest: kind and carefree. Y/n nibbled at her lip, taking in how relaxed he seemed in that moment. His back wasn’t straight as a pencil and his face wasn’t forced into a pleasant smile. Y/n felt honored, thinking about how this must be the place he felt the most comfortable–and she could clearly see why. Out here almost felt like a completely different property, like they could walk through the door and pretend this was their house, a normal house with normal activities. No pressure of any preexisting legacy or long family history to pull them this way and that. Y/n watched him closer now, her brow furrowing in thought as she started to see him in a new light. Relaxed in the normal. Is this what he wanted? Normal? Did he even want to be at the hotel?

She had always just assumed he would–because that’s what everyone else concluded as far as she could remember–especially with him being the first and only biological child of the Kim’s. Her trail of thought continued even further, unraveling new strings from what she had always thought was a completed tapestry, a picture perfect image of Seokjin Kim. But there were loose threads at the bottom, and Y/n kicked herself for never even bothering to check. 

She had yet to hear anything about his intentions to take over after his father as the Hotel and Estate’s finance manager, and wondered just what he was doing still working at the front desk if his parents were in the process of finalizing their retirement. This encouraged her previous line of thinking, why had she never asked him what he wanted? She decided the only way to build a better read into what he was comfortable talking about or not talking about, would just be to shoot her shot and see how it landed. 

“Jin?” 

“Hmm?” He paused his rummaging, and looked at her from over his shoulder. 

“Your parents are retiring, right?” She approached the subject gently, not yet wanting to scare him away.

He looked back at the splayed open folder, a small twitch of his nose the only sign he gave her for how he felt about the question. “Yes. Why do you ask?” 

“Well I was just wondering…You know…” Y/n tried, hoping he would catch on to her question so the topic would be in his hands to choose whether or not to elaborate further.  

“Oh.” His hands lowered the folder down to rest against the glass, and he sat back against the couch to look at her, his mouth quirked to one side. “I’ll be taking over sometime next year if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jin was good at guarding himself, Y/n concluded. But she was also good at picking apart his body language: No jokes and a fidgeting mouth. He was either extremely uncomfortable or extremely serious. Both of those options were odd to see on someone who constantly chooses to put forth the face of an easy going friend, or an excellent host. Jin was truly a chameleon. 

“How are you feeling about that?” Y/n tested the waters even further. “You don’t seem very excited.” 

Jin’s eyes moved swiftly from one part of her face to the next and chewing on the inside of his lip while he thought up his next response. Y/n rushed to apologize, not wanting to ruin the peaceful environment he had curated. 

“You don’t have to answer that–I’m sorry that was–”

“I don’t know.” 

Y/n froze, her eyes flicking up to look at his face. She watched part of his guard crumble enough for him to sigh and give a rueful smile. 

“I want to keep the tradition going, and I don’t mind the work. A family of number crunchers breeds a great mathematician so it’s not that I’m worried about.” He gave a dry chuckle. “I just feel like…” He looked out towards the grass, his eyes cloudy, “Nevermind. I don’t want to trouble you with this.” 

“No, I want to listen,” Y/n tucked a leg beneath her and shifted her body to face him completely. “You feel like?” Y/n urged him onwards, her eyes shining earnestly. 

He moved his guitar to rest on the case, and mimicked her position, turning towards her and propping leg on the couch, bent at the knee and brushing against her own. “ I just feel like I wasn’t ever really asked. It was just expected of me. I like the job and I love being here, but I just wish it would’ve felt more like my own choice and less like an obligation.” He flicked a piece of hair from his eyes only for it to fall right back into place. “I know that sounds a bit contradictory–if I like it why should I care right?” 

“I get it.” Y/n shook her head, and laid it back on her palm to regard him with reassuring eyes. “Even if you want it, it feels nice to have autonomy over the decision.” 

“Which is something I don’t really feel like I have.” He shrugged. “It’s such a first world problem-” He held his hands up, his eyes rolling to take in the ceiling and his voice squawking out two octaves higher in a mocking tone. “ –‘Oh no! I have a well paying job and rich parents! I never have to make a decision ever again! Woe is me!’” 

Y/n giggled at the display, and he seemed pleased at being able to make her laugh. “If it makes you feel better, I always felt like such an ass complaining to classmates about why I left.” Y/n copied the same silly tone he had used moments prior. “‘Yeah my family is rich–and I threw that away because I got mad. Woe is me, I made my own bed and now I have to lay in it.’” She dropped her tone back to its normal octave. “So don’t worry, we are of the same ridiculous kind. I won’t judge you.”  

A tiny melancholy smile graced his features, took her in with warm and inviting eyes. “I’m sure you did great in school though.  You’ve always been hard-working.”

“Right back at you.” Y/n shot back, a playful smile working its way through her calm demeanor. “Although, I do admit–I do work pretty hard.” Y/n gave a feigned modest expression and puffed up her chest. “One of us has to make sure there’s trouble around here. It may be tiring but it’s honest work.” 

Jin rolled his eyes. “Every time I try to be kind to you, you just insist on instigating.” He took one long finger and pointed it at her. “There’s enough trouble around here already, no need to overdo it. I’m getting too old to chase all of you around.” 

Y/n let out a short burst of laughter, making a few of the distant animals scatter at the sound. “Old? You’re not even thirty yet!” 

“I’m close enough.” He rubbed a hand against his brow in exasperation. 

“You have like three years left until then, take a breath.” Y/n scoffed with a shake of her head. 

Jin mumbled out a quiet ‘my knees say otherwise’ and moved to grab for his guitar again. “Would you like to hear anything else?” 

“Hmmm…” Y/n brought a finger to her chin, and shrugged, “Have you been working on anything new since Wednesday?” 

Jin thought for a moment, and grabbed for a few sheets of paper from the folder and lined them on the table in a neat row. “If you don’t like it just let me know. It’s just a song that was recommended to me recently.” 

Y/n motioned with her hands for him to continue, and made herself more comfortable (if there was even any more comfortable she could even get at the moment). Y/n let her eyes close, leaning her head against her hold to focus on the melody with no intention of giving him anything other than her full attention. She barely noticed the song growing distant–the chorus feeling more like a distant memory than a song played no more than a few feet from her ears; and the sound of the trees and bugs faded into a mindless blur, more white noise than anything decipherable. Her head fell from its perch on her hand and onto the back of the couch as her breathing evened out.  

_________________________________________

“Wake up!” 

The harsh whispering voice pulled Y/n out of her impromptu nap, her eyes blinking to adjust to the the once bright room being coated in shades of black and blue, only a ring of yellow light around the sunroom’s now closed door from the outdoor porchlight having been turned on. 

Y/n searched for Jin, but he was no longer next to her–a discovery that had her swallowing roughly against her scratchy dry throat. Her unfocused eyes scanned anything it could make out in the dim lighting, finding his guitar case latched shut and propped in the corner of the room, the chairs and couches, but still no Jin. 

She felt incredibly disoriented. Her body felt distant, like her head was no longer connected to it, and her hands trembled slightly with muscular fatigue. She tried to clench them into fists but her grip strength was weaker than usual, and the act of sending command signals to her own body felt foreign. Y/n started to panic, trying to move each limb on its own but was met with great difficulty–how long had she been out? 

Whoever had woken her up was also nowhere to be seen. Their voice, urgent and familiar, had the hair rising on her arms and her breath quickening. She couldn’t pinpoint who it was, but it definitely hadn’t been Jin’s. If she hadn’t known any better she would’ve said it almost sounded like it had come from outside, as if called through the screened windows or the storm door. But no one was present, no footsteps and no human figure stood outside the door; just a symphony of crickets and the bump of a gentle breeze against the window panes. 

Y/n stuck her hands in her pockets in her first instinct to find purchase in the comfort of her flashlight ‘lightsaber’, yet found only the folds of the soft fabric–it was empty. Her stomach sank in on itself, the realization that she had forgotten to grab one from her nightstand before she had left had shame crawling up her throat and clenching her heart down in its unrelenting fist. So much for any trust she had built with Jungkook, she mourned. 

She was alone, with no weapon, and Jin was missing. Nausea, an unforgiving enemy as always, made its appearance–climbing up the back of shame like a ladder to join in on its torment. Her hands began to slick with sweat, and she couldn’t seem to swallow enough times, the motion her only weapon of choice against hurling her lunch on the outdoor rug. She may not have found her flashlight, but she had been smart enough to at least grab her phone–which she found snug in the deepest part of her other pocket much to her relief. 

Y/n yanked it up into her shaky hands and just about keeled over when she registered the time glaring back up at her. It was coming up on 10pm–she had missed their scheduled meet up time and dinner.  And to top it off, she was going to have to walk back to the estate in the dark. Alone.  Her heart thumping painfully in her chest with dread at the idea of walking the trail by herself with no light but her phone. At night in a city, there’s streetlamps or houselights–hell even in suburbs you can usually still see the residual wingspan of human life stretching over the sky from the surrounding areas. 

Not in the woods of Pennsylvania. You will find no sign of light here. 

Not when there are acres upon acres of trees and mountains surrounding you on all sides, and the nearest city is a 20 minute drive out–any and all remnants of it swallowed up by the hungry shadows of the natural world. 

Y/n unlocked her phone, and her breath hitched. There were over a dozen missed calls from her three accomplices, and almost double the missed texts. And most of them were from Jungkook. 

[Jungkook] 7:03pm : Where are you?

[Jungkook] 7:09pm: I’ll have them put food away for you.

[Jungkook] 7:55pm: Are you alright? 

[Jungkook] 7:58pm: It’s me outside your door, are you asleep? 

[Jungkook] 8:02pm: You’re not in your room. Please respond. 

[Jungkook] 8:27pm: I’m going to come look for you if you don’t answer any of our calls.

[Jungkook] 8:29pm: Y/n. Answer please. 

[Jungkook] 8:32pm: Please.

[Jungkook] 8:40pm: I’m coming to find you. 

Y/n quickly moved onto the next notification, trying to rush through them all so she could get her bearings and respond. 

[Joon 🌱] 7:08pm: Are you feeling okay? Or did you fall asleep again…

[Joon 🌱] 7:22pm: Do you want me to bring you up something to eat? 

[Joon 🌱] 7:46 Okay seriously Y/n, I’m starting to get a bit nervous. If you could just give me something to let me know you are safe. 

[Joon 🌱] 8:06pm: We went into your room without your permission–sorry. Where are you??? 

[Joon 🌱] 8:08pm: Jin isn’t answering either. Are you still with him?

[Joon 🌱] 8:30pm: Kook is freaking out. Please just call one of us if you can. 

Jin wasn’t answering either? Y/n’s head began to pound and her eyesight threatened to give out, pulsing the light of her phone screen in and out of focus like some sick joke. She groaned quietly–for that was about all she could muster, and willed her pupils to focus back in on the messages. 

[Zoltar]: 8:00 pm: You ded sleepy head? Lol

[Zoltar]: 8:10 pm: Okay this isn’t funny. Where are you 

[Zoltar]: 8:16 pm: I’m trying to hold down the fort but the kid is getting antsy 

[Zoltar]: 8:22 pm: Answer your damn phone Y/n. 

[Zoltar]: 9:01 pm: Where the fuck are you?

Y/n wasted no time in sending a message to their group chat to let them know she was alive, her fingers being as remorseless as her vision, each digit moving as if weighed down at the tip; the only solution to typing was to drag her finger across the screen and hope for the best. 

[Morning Glory 🌼 ]: I’m ok I thinkk. I’m at theguethouse. I don’tknow how I slept this long–I wasneven tired before. I don’t feelllright. 

[Morning Glory 🌼 ]: I was wt Jin 

[Morning Glory 🌼 ]: Idkk wher he is

[Morning Glory 🌼 ]: I rreallyy dontfeel rright. 

It hadn’t even been a full ten seconds before her phone screen was blocked by an incoming call from Yoongi, and she hastily swiped to answer it as quick as her fingers would let her, holding it to her ear with a shaky hand.

“Jesus Christ, Y/n.” Yoongi hissed through the receiver. She heard the loud commotion of Jungkook and Namjoon shouting back at him from within his range, the microphone picking up the sound but not their words. “Shut up I’m trying to listen to what she is saying!” 

Y/n kept her voice a whisper, scared that Jin would return from wherever he had left and catch them talking to each other red handed. That was if he was even still here…

“Y/n?” Yoongi’s voice cut through again, pulling her out of her hazed funk.

She hadn’t answered him yet she realized with a shake of her head, and did her best to slur out her explanation. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened. I don’t…” Y/n dragged her eyes to scan what parts of the house she could see through the door, just a dark kitchen entrance and the start of the dining room. Unease pooled into the pit of her stomach, and the unmistakable feeling of being watched pricked at her skin like cold drops of rain on a hot day. She wasn’t alone, and from the sense of it, whatever was watching her wasn’t human–meaning if she were to stretch the invisible vines of her spiritual senses out it could trigger something much worse at the expense of finding more information.

 “I’m scared.” She shuddered out, embarrassed with how weak the admission sounded to herself. 

She could hear Yoongi’s heavy breathing on the other end, and it sounded like he was running. 

“We are on our way–about halfway there. We were already heading to check the lake. Thank god you’re not there. Just stay put and try to stay out of trouble.” His voice rang through loud and clear, but it did little to combat the growing fear in her belly. 

A dark shadow passed by the frame of the door and her heart stopped–or at least it felt like it–but she knew it couldn’t have with how loud the blood rushed through her ears with each pulse. 

“Okay scratch that I’m really scared.” Y/n’s voice shook, edging off of the sofa and crouching below the couch and out of sight, praying it hadn’t seen her yet. Her legs were still waking up–she wouldn’t be able to run if she tried just yet.

 The figure returned, walking in her line of sight, only to turn back out of it. It didn’t take long for her to understand that it was pacing quickly from one end of the dining room to the other where it would disappear around the wall and return seconds later; its body language agitated and fidgety. 

Yoongi cursed, and she heard Jungkook’s garbled voice trying to shout something to her. 

“I don’t have my light.” Y/n could barely hear her own voice it was so quiet, and she hoped they still could by pressing the microphone as close as she could to her lips without touching it. She had surely lost all of Jungkook’s trust, she lamented to herself. What a fool she has made of herself. 

Whoever was in the other room had started muttering to themselves, their breath coming out labored around the sharpness of their words. She couldn’t make out what they were saying, but she could tell that they were upset, and that made her terror only grow. She couldn’t stay on the phone, it was too risky–they were going to find her, and she was going to have to run. There was no other choice. 

“Hurry please, someone is here.” Y/n begged, and before he could respond she hung up. If she waited at all, or gave any of their voices time to pierce through her mounting resolve she would stay stuck in her spot, using the sounds of their breathing like a security blanket of delusion that it would do enough to keep her safe. But it wouldn’t. 

Y/n could now make out the sound of the spirit’s rushed and clumsy footsteps dragging back and forth across the wooden floors, picking up speed and slowing when they would turn to retrace their steps. The muttering grew more frantic, and its volume increased–surpassing agitated and skyrocketing into twisted mania and fury. Y/n struggled to swallow, and knew she was going to have to make a decision on when to run, but the thought of her lost friend held her back from fleeing each time the figure vanished behind the wall. 

Jin, where are you? Y/n pleaded in her mind that he was alright, and had simply gone to the bathroom or to one of the guest rooms to lay down. But why hadn’t he woken her up? Why hadn’t he said something? 

“But as for someone else near you, the smell of death is quite strong–someone at your table perhaps? I’d know your onions if I were you.” 

No. Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes that threatened to leak salt streams of fear down her cheeks. That was a lie. Jin has to be okay. 

The person pacing back and forth groaned in frustration, and she saw them bring their hands up to their head to cover their own ears and their steps got faster as a result, blazing lines into the floor as they darted back and forth. Y/n made up her mind in that moment that there were only seconds left before this thing erupted into something more; her gut and her senses buzzing with alarm bells, and her nose picking up the first few whiffs of rot. 

There was movement outside on the grass, and Y/n let herself have one delusion to keep herself sane (funny way the human mind works, isn’t it?)–and let herself believe that it was Jin. Y/n knew that this was her moment, and tracked the figures next turn and watched it vanish for a second behind the dining room wall, timing how long it took for it to come back into her sight and turn. Two seconds. Y/n shook out her hands that had finally regained feeling, wiping the dampness from her eyes on her shorts. Two seconds will have to do, she reluctantly noted. 

When it turned and started its trail back behind the wall, she leapt to her feet and bolted for the sunroom door, ripping it open and throwing herself down the few wooden steps to the grass and taking off towards a broad shouldered figure bent forward at the waist to inspect something in the grass. Y/n could hear the figure from the kitchen thundering into the sunroom, its voice layered with a thick accent in a language she couldn’t discern at the moment–but she didn’t care. Not when Jin was coming into view, and alive. 

“Jin!” Y/n called out for him, the tears from before returning in an overwhelming sense of relief. 

As she approached him, he rose to his full height and Y/n grayed in horror when as the distance lessened, no features became distinguishable on his face: there were no plush lips and no warm brown eyes to look down at her. Just a dark shadowy figure. Y/n kicked up grass and left divots in the dirt below it in the wake of her feet finding enough of a hold to stop her trajectory forward–but she was going too fast. She collided with the figure, the shadows licking at her skin with icy tendrils where two calloused and freezing hands gripped at her shoulders and held her in place. Y/n bit back a scream and tried to shake the hands off of her to no avail. 

“Get off me!” Y/n’s hands disappeared through their torso when she tried to push them away. Though it did not verbally respond, the shadowy figure that held her shoved her to the side, stepping in front of her and towards the speedy inhuman figure that pursued her from the sun room. Y/n watched as the tall figure in front of her pulled something long and slender from his back to hold at eye level. 

A gun. 

A gun that was pointed directly at the rapidly approaching dark figure from the kitchen.

Y/n’s hands clamped down on her ears and crouched low to the ground to mute a deafening bang that rang from above, splitting the figure from the guest house into two wispy halves. The spirit howled out in agony, the sound almost just as tumultuous as the gunshot–then he was no more. Y/n watched both halves dissolve into dusty, weightless, particles and fall to the grass where the demonic figure had just been a second before. Gone. 

The remaining figure in front of her lowered the gun and turned his head to nod at her, using one hand to point at the woods behind her frantically, only stopping when she turned her head to look to where he was gesturing wildly to with a slow and uncertain turn of her head.

From the direction in which he pointed, two more dark outlines of men emerged from the treeline, these two varying in height and build. They ran up to where Y/n was crouched, peering down at her with similarly featureless faces, and the taller one of the two took both cold hands and lifted her to her feet, waving at her with what could only be read as excitement. 

Y/n blinked at the shadowy man, her ears still ringing from the gunshot and the scream. Something in the way he held his hands up to her face and tilted his head with an air of innocent youth brought forth another image. An image from the woods outside the historical society, and an uncannily similar shadow figure tiptoeing behind her. Y/n gasped, her hands falling from her ears to muffle the sound. 

It was the same indecipherable man from before–the shadow from the historical building that had followed her and Jungkook.  

“Tree man?!” Y/n breathed through her hands, the sound warped by the press of her fingers.  

The shorter one (not tree man) grabbed at her forearm, and cold sensation coated her hand that they enveloped in a shadowy one of their own giving one firm tug in the direction of the treeline. Y/n tried to pull her arm away but stopped; Tree man tapped her arm to give her a thumbs up that held too much enthusiasm than Y/n found appropriate for the situation they were in, but nonetheless the effects were reassuring–at least slightly so. 

Tree man faced forwards to the first figure, and reached up over his own shoulder to unholster his own musket, juggling with parts of it she couldn’t see and jerking his head to the side in the same direction his shorter friend was trying to lead her to. 

Y/n didn’t need any other convincing to hightail it out of there–not when she could see the ground pulsating with an ever growing dark mass where the other ghost had vanished, whispers of his anguished mutterings spewing from it like a pit of souls. 

Y/n spun on her heels and sped off towards the path, her hand in the hold of the shorter spirit. She glanced back, catching the tallest shadow man perching his gun on his shoulder again in preparation for the return of the demon, sidling up next to Tree Man in uniform position. It was almost funny that now with something else completely taking over her fear, she didn’t think twice as she barrelled through the brush with a potentially dangerous spirit and onto the dirt path, her mind focusing only on finding her friends and getting the hell out of there. 

Y/n pumped her arms and legs with fervor to keep up with the short ghost’s agile speed as he weaved the two of them through the complete blackness of the woods, trusting in the way he appeared to know exactly where they were going. Her eyes caught the faraway glare of a flashlight–a gleeful swell of hope pooling between her struggling lungs and throwing herself to accelerate forwards blindly in search of catching another glimpse of it. When the glares turned into tiny bouncing balls of white light Y/n held her free arm up and shouted out to them from down the trail as loud as she could with what little breath she had. 

“It’s me! I’m right here!” 

There was a chorus of distant shouting, and her legs nearly gave out in relief when she recognized each one of the voices calling back to her as her friends. As the lights grew closer, she could make out the familiar shape of Jungkook charging ahead of the other two, and Y/n wanting nothing more than to be scolded by them because at least it meant she was with them and not lost in some hazed mess in an entanglement of spirits back at the guest house. 

The distance between them closed and she released the ghostly hand with no fight from the spirit, and hurtled herself towards Jungkook with what last of the power she had left in her, his arms already open to catch her fall. They collided with an audible noise, the wind knocking out from her lungs  an entirely acceptable trade off in her mind for being able to feel the warmth of his body radiating heat onto her cold skin. Y/n felt her teeth chattering–Had she been this cold the entire time? She had been too focused on fleeing to even notice that her skin was coated on goosebumps, or that her fingers were completely numb. 

Jungkook held her close, his eyes trained on the figure that had guided her here with a leering glare. Yoongi and Namjoon filed in next to them, exhausted and out of breath. Yoongi’s wild eyes fixated on her face, and Y/n watched his muscles make their move to bathe the helpful spirit in light from his flashlight. Y/n freed one arm from Jungkook’s hold and waved it in front of the beam of light as best she could, some of it spilling between her fingers and streaking across the spirit’s figure.

“Stop! They helped me!” Y/n cried out desperately, the figure raising a hand of its own to shield the light from its face. 

Yoongi directed the beam towards the ground, his shoulders still heaving and his eyes raging with a strong emotion she couldn’t read. For a moment it was just the sounds of the night, and their heavy gasps for air while they were at a standstill with the figure. 

“Who are you?” Jungkook grit through his teeth, the whites of his eyes swallowed whole by his stabbing glare. “Show me who you are.” 

The figure faltered forwards, as if tugged by an invisible rope towards Jungkook. He dug his heels in and scrambled a few steps back to try and fight the magnetic draw of Jungkook’s words, glancing over his shoulder and back to the four of them he hastily surrendered both hands up into the air with a skittish shrug. Jungkook stiffened and opened his mouth to speak, but Yoongi beat him to the punch.

“Do you even know your own name?” 

The figure inched his hands back down to his sides, letting them fall against his legs with a somber shake of his shadowy head. 

Yoongi grunted out a sigh and wiped at his brow, the release of breath doing nothing to soothe the tension radiating from him. “He’s harmless.” Proving his point, he shined over shadow with his flashlight to find him immune to the effects of the light. “A soldier.” Yoongi licked his lips and pocketed the flashlight, gesturing to the figure with his chin. “You can go.” 

The figure held up one hand in a grateful salute and followed Yoongi’s order, whirling back down the path whence they came to the guest house. They watched him dissipate into the darkness through the beam of Yoongi’s flashlight, and Y/n felt the shake of her knees threatening to give way, gripping onto Jungkook tighter. Namjoon came up on their right side, and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder blades to which Y/n threw one of her arms over Namjoon to siphon more heat into her clammy skin.

“No more guest house.” Yoongi declared with a huff and kicked a rock with vengeance, watching it sail into the tree line and clamber out of sight. 

_________________________________________

Y/n stumbled along the now lit dirt path, her one side tucked tightly against a steely Jungkook, and her other hand squeezed between Namjoon’s fingers.  Yoongi strode in front of them, invisible steam still seeping from the top of his head and into the air and his shoulders were still scrunched up towards his ears while he took it upon himself to light the way ahead of them all. 

Y/n felt terrible for stressing them out the way she had–the only way she seemed to be able to anymore. But she couldn’t stop the tears from pooling in her eyes and slipping down her cheeks at the thought of Jin’s voice that had lulled her to sleep, or his sweet smiles.  It was unlike her to leave anyone behind–she hadn’t even gone in to look for him–she had only thought of herself. 

“Jin,” Her mouth worked on its own accord, her voice croaking out from between her lips and into the heavy air that surrounded them. “We need to find Jin. I just left him there–I need to-”

“-You didn’t leave him anywhere.” Yoongi spun on his heels, his tone cutting. “Jin left you as far as I’m concerned.” 

Y/n stilled, causing Jungkook to stop with her. “He wouldn’t have if he had known better. Something is wrong back there and he might still be out there alone.” 

“His fault.” Yoongi grunted, starting forwards again. 

“No it isn’t.” Y/n admonished, refusing to take any further steps forward. “He could be hurt. Think about what Bea told me Yoongi!” 

“We can’t trust everything every ghost says. We need to get you to bed before you pass out.” Yoongi didn’t stop even though he knew she wasn’t following. 

“You can’t be serious!” Y/n turned to Namjoon and Jungkook for aid, imploring them to back her up. “He can’t be serious!” 

But neither of them could bring themselves to look at her. Y/n felt a few more tears drip from her chin, and used her hand that was conjoined with Namjoon’s to furiously wipe them away. 

“We don’t leave anyone behind. Ever. We stick together, remember?” Y/n weakly called back up to Yoongi’s distantly retreating figure, her shouts making him freeze mid-step. Yoongi coiled in, pulling taught with an inhale like a poised hunter, waiting to strike. He snapped into motion with his exhale, whirling back to stride towards her with purposeful steps.  

“We aren’t kids anymore Y/n. This isn’t play time with Uncle Bear–This is real shit.” He took one finger and pointed at the darkness behind Y/n, down the path towards the house. “No one gets left behind? I think Jin forgot the memo. Because the last we saw of him on the way here, was him getting into a car at the front of the estate, dodging any questions Namjoon threw at him of your whereabouts and driving off into the night with one of his best buddies.” 

“No…” Y/n launched herself into denial, her lungs constricting in on themselves like they were getting stuck together with every exhale, and every inhale ripped them apart with a painful spasm. “Who did he go with?” 

“Who do you think?” Yoongi hissed through his teeth. “Hoseok Jung.”

The world spun around her–or maybe it was her that was spinning–she couldn’t tell. What she could tell was that her stomach was lurching dangerously, and the nausea that had held her in a chokehold before had made its return. The ground approached her quickly, and Y/n barely managed to crawl a foot to the left to avoid hurling on any of her friends' shoes. 

“Yoongi–that’s enough.” Namjoon reprimanded the shorter one in front of him, and rushed to rub comforting circles on Y/n’s shoulder blades. “She’s been through enough tonight.” 

Namjoon turned his words to Y/n penetrating her peripheral with a fixed worried stare. “He’s not mad at you Y/n, I promise.  He’s angry with them–we all are. But first and foremost we just want to get you home safe, okay?” He raised his tone to a volume loud enough for Yoongi to hear and then some. “And we aren’t going to take out our anger on anyone that doesn’t deserve it, right?”

Yoongi slid his eyes closed with a sigh, regarding Y/n’s pathetic look at him from over her shoulder, and Namjoon’s heated glare. Jungkook remained silent; as wooden as a puppet while he stood motionless where she had left him. 

“I’m sorry.” Yoongi submitted softly and pressed his tongue against his cheek, his dark eyes glistening vaguely in the reflecting light of his flashlight. He abruptly turned with a clear of his throat, and started forward again. “We need to get you home. You should sleep.” 

The remainder of their trek was silent, save for Y/n’s occasional sniffle or Namjoon’s concerned voice checking in on her in hushed whispers. Once the estate had come into view, Yoongi separated from the rest of them, his head kept low while he rounded the back of the estate to enter through the back door while the rest of them entered through the front. 

Forcing Jungkook to let her enter the Estate and walk up the stairs with only Namjoon was like trying to bend hot metal with her bare hands, but he relented with the promise that he could come check on her before bed once he had gotten himself settled; only responding to any and all comments with single words or shakes of his head. 

All Y/n could think of as Namjoon guided her up the stairs was how terribly she had messed up that night–with Yoongi, with Jungkook…

With Jin. 

She couldn’t even say his name in her head without wanting to cry. She couldn’t fathom that he would have left her behind on purpose. But then the more Y/n thought about it–the more things fell into place. 

Jin always requested to spend time with her on days they conveniently planned to try something new–or push a new boundary spiritually. There would’ve been no way he could’ve done that on purpose. No way he would have known their plans ahead of time. 

“They’re listening to me. I’m sorry.” 

Jimin’s note crashed through her thoughts, spinning through her brain like a tornado–sucking up everything that she knew and spitting it out into mismatched and jumbled theories and conjectures. 

The night when Hoseok and Jin returned from a mystery outing with her mother; The way Hoseok had clearly lied at lunch about his whereabouts; Jin’s impeccable timing on wanting to spend time with her; Hoseok dancing with her while her mother whisked Roland away; and so many other “coincidences” she could spiral herself into if she wanted to–though they all led back to the same conclusion: they had to be working together to cover up whatever mess she had made. They had to be listening, she  just couldn’t piece together the how. 

“Here we are,” Namjoon sighed, pushing open her door for her and steering her into it. “Let’s get you to bed, yeah?” The smile he gave her said everything she needed to know–that he had already come to the same conclusion, and that he was doing his best to keep everything together with a solid hold; the foundation beneath the crumbling walls of everyone else’s processing.

God she loved him. 

“Yeah.” Y/n murmured, stumbling to her closet and pulling out whatever was closest to her. Y/n didn’t care if he was still in the room with her, tugging off her shirt and pulling on her t-shirt swiftly. They were adults, and could handle it. 

Her sleep shorts were tugged on and she tossed her old ones haphazardly into her hamper as she passed it on the way to her bathroom, catching sight of Namjoon bent to inspect her plants in a covert way of offering her privacy.  He followed her into the bathroom, hovering in the door frame and watching her lazily scrub at her teeth, before she moved onto washing her face. 

“We will figure this out, okay?” Namjoon broke the silence, convincing both her and himself with his words. 

“Yeah. Okay.” 

Y/n didn’t have it in her to say anything else, and buried her face into a soft towel. Her friends might have been betraying her this entire time, and she was dumb enough to let them.

“Christ!” Namjoon leapt into the air as Jungkook rounded the corner to stand next to him in her bathroom doorway, having forfeited knocking and moved to letting himself in. Jungkook didn’t react to his startled outburst, keeping his face still as stone and his eyes distant while he observed the scene.  

“I’ll let you two be.” Namjoon resigned himself, his hands sliding into his pockets. “If you need me for anything Y/n, I’ll be here.” 

“Same to you. They are your friends too.” Y/n returned, dropping the towel and moving to take him in a hug meant to comfort the both of them. Y/n felt his shoulders shake beneath her hold, if only unnoticeably so, and he squeezed her back just as tightly. 

“Yeah,” He breathed, “They were.” Namjoon untangled himself from her hold, and kept his face turned away from hers while he made his way to her door, making his exit quickly.

Y/n could feel Jungkook’s eyes still boring into her, and she readied herself for the impact of his scolding–whatever it was, she deserved it. She turned to face him, leaning herself against her bathroom counter to leave less than a foot between them and face him head on. 

“Whatever you want to say–say it now.” Y/n held her hands out in surrender. “I know. I fucked up.” She took one hand and counted off her sins for him, her voice growing more hoarse with each itemized bullet she was giving him to throw at her. “I forgot the flashlight, I was by myself, I didn’t think things through, I trusted a ghost of all things-”

Jungkook lunged forwards, one hand coming to cradle the back of her head, guiding it to his shoulder and the other wound his arm across her middle to squash her against him with crushing force. 

“Stop.” His voice was much flatter than she expected, far from the anger filled wrath she anticipated.  

Y/n welcomed to embrace, returning the gesture with her arms clawing around his middle to grasp at the back of his t-shirt. “Why aren’t you yelling at me? Please yell at me–do something. Anything.” She begged, his distance hurting more than any scolding could. 

“I thought you were dead.” The dam broke with a broken whisper, and he trembled against her. “I thought I was going to have to find your body somewhere.” If it was even possible, his admission had him pressing her to him tighter than before, desperate to feel her heartbeat and her breath against his skin. “And then when we found you, you were so fucking cold–I couldn’t tell if you were a ghost.”

Y/n felt as though a hole had been punched through her chest, carving out everything it could to find a grasp on his words. “I’m so sorry.” Y/n sobbed, one of her arms coming up to card through the hair on the back of his head, imitating the way he held her to him. 

“Don’t. It’s not your fault.” He spat out the words with soaked venom, and she felt two droplets drip onto the side of her neck. Then another. And another. “It’s them.”

Jungkook didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night, and Y/n didn’t want him to.  They had tucked him into a makeshift bed on the floor next to her own, thrown together with extra blankets from the hall closet and shoved as closed to the edge of her mattress as they could get it. Y/n’s arm was hanging down the side of her bed, securely tucked between Jungkook’s fingers and his cheek while they both stared absentmindedly with glassy eyes into the darkness of her room; him on his back and her on her stomach. 

“They aren’t going to do this to you anymore.” Jungkook muttered from the floor, her eyes flitting down to stare at his face. “I won’t let them.” He looked up at her with pure rage simmering beneath the surface of his irises–hot and biting. “I promise.” 

With Jungkook’s slow and steady breathing next to her, and his real hand slotted in hers, any haunting images of the beast from the kitchen or the figures from the woods were kept at bay. Eventually the two of them managed to slip into a restless sleep with only a few hours until sunrise.

_________________________________________

Y/n was hungry. That much she was certain. 

Anything else? Don’t ask–because she wouldn’t have an answer. 

It was late Saturday morning, an appropriate foggy mist settling over the grounds that occasionally found itself sliced through down the middle by rays of sun that crept through thick layers of harmless cloud. 

Namjoon had prepped the batch of tea they were supposed to use the day prior for this afternoon–where Yoongi had decided that if evenings were going to be so complicated, they might as well try to make use of her mother’s absence by trying out a session while the sun was still up (more or less with today's weather, but the point still stands). Nothing would stop them this time–absolutely nothing. Not when the stakes had risen that much higher after the scene at the guest house. For the only thing Y/n had left to do before Namjoon finished up a few last minute tasks at the green house while Yoongi handled an A/C emergency at the hotel, was to simply find something to eat. Only there was one problem. 

Yoongi was–as explicitly stated–at the hotel; Namjoon was working at the green house for a couple of extra hours that he had hoped to take uninterrupted; and Jungkook was getting in a much needed gym session to work through the remaining tension and stress of the previous night, with the promise to be back as soon as possible. Thus leaving her with no way to satiate her impatient stomach. 

Whatever time Jungkook was to return, wasn’t soon enough. She was starving–no dinner and no breakfast, coupled with a traumatic experience and life altering news? Yeah, she was rolling the dice for whether or not she was about to shoot off into a rocket with the only possible destination being the beginning of a manic episode. Which while great for productivity, would not be great for her physically or spiritually. 

Y/n texted their group chat with her thoughts, feeling more like a toddler than a grown woman for having to ask to eat–but it was better than running into the beast from before or any other demon that would choose to crawl from the cracks and stomp after her. She tried to will the time to pass faster (which never worked, but it was worth a shot) by getting herself dressed and ready in clothes that were easy to move around in, but comfortable. The sound of someone approaching her door had her all but skipping over to open it–her excitement dropping like a vase crashing to the floor and shattering into little pieces at her feet; the same feeling of anger and desolation at the sight of more fucking peonies. 

Y/n huffed, grabbing them from the floor and tossing them carelessly onto her desk with the pile from the day prior and talking out into the empty room and hall, leaving her door open for the mystery culprit to hear. “Alright, this isn’t funny anymore. Whoever is doing this–I got the message, thank you for the flowers but I’m going to run out of space.” 

Nothing. 

Nothing except shoes scuffling on the carpeted stairs and rounding the landing to approach her hall.

Taehyung came shuffling around the corner, a paper bag swinging over his arm that held a cup of coffee up to his lips, his head bent to take in the screen of his phone and keep the straw lodged between his teeth for quick and easy access. 

Freedom, both Y/n and her stomach thought gleefully. 

“Hey!” Y/n waved at him from her doorstep, being sure to keep her feet within her door frame. 

Taehyung perked up at the sound of her voice, his lips releasing his straw to give her an inviting smile. “Morning–or I guess good afternoon.” He chuckled. 

“Morning, what are you up to?” Y/n tried to sound nonchalant like she wasn’t just talking to thin air, and also internally praying to the universe that he hadn’t gotten anything to eat from the cafe and would be open to taking her down to the kitchen for something. 

“Needed some caffeine–had a bit of a rough night of sleep.” He scrunched his nose as he approached his own door, stopping to face her. “You?” 

“Oh–nothing interesting over here. I only just woke up not too long ago myself.” She laughed nervously, moving to prop a foot up against the back of her knee and leaning all of her weight on the doorframe. “Would you perchance want to go grab something to eat together?”  

“Perchance?” Taehyung laughed around his straw, and took another sip to hide the growing smirk. “I would love to, but I did just have a pastry from the cafe so I don’t have that much of an appetite for a big meal.” 

Y/n’s face visibly fell, and her stomach let out a similar cry of its own. “Oh.” 

He bit his lip over a boxy smile, his eyes flickering from her stomach to her disappointed pout. “If you wanted to spend time with me that badly, you could’ve just asked.” 

Y/n’s face grew warm, and she rushed to defend herself. “I didn’t–I mean I want to I just wasn’t trying to–” 

“It’s alright.” Taehyung held the paper bag up for her to see, and gave it a gentle shake. “Luckily for you, I brought extra back for seconds.” He twisted open the door handle to his room and gestured into it with his chin. “Care to join me?” 

Y/n started forward, but paused. If Namjoon wasn’t enough to keep the demon from the basement away, who's to say Taehyung was? But she couldn’t resist the invitation, she was human after all–and her stomach was threatening a coup on both her insides and mental state if their ransom demands weren’t to be met. And after her events from last night , she could feel herself tipping into foolish carelessness from being so close to the safety of her room–she had much better chances here than having to run through the woods in the dark.

“One sec!” Y/n called back to him, rushing back into her room to tuck one of her flashlights into her jogger pockets and her phone in the other. She practically leapt across the hall between their doors to slip into his room, missing the questioning raise of his brow at her antics. He left the door of his room cracked slightly behind him as he entered, and moved to drop the bag of pastries onto his dresser. 

He had kept his room close to the original design she noted: red ornate wallpaper, a dark and heavy solid wooden bed frame that was older than any of the children on the property, but a new mattress lay with a vintage floral comforter in creams, oranges, pinks and reds to match a sizable old painting hung on the back wall that–forget the kids, was older than anyone that was still within the land of the living on the property. The two end rooms sandwiched in the middle of the estate were more narrow than the rest, the shapes reminiscent of what a true house from the 1800’s looked like: narrow and tight fitting with an even smaller bathroom and closet than most of the other available rooms. Why he chose one so small when there were still a handful of bigger ones available, she couldn’t know. 

However if there was one thing she could pinpoint about Taehyung, it’s that everything from his music taste, style, and interests were what she could describe as classic and vintage; so it was no wonder he kept the room mostly the same as it had been when G-min had lived in it before him. The past lived on with Taehyung, and she had to admire his effort to stick to his aesthetic, noting the choices of antique furniture he must’ve dug out from the basement or attic to suit his personal tastes.  

“I grabbed a few extra, so take your pick.” Taehyung tossed his brown coat over a skinny coat rack that had a few nicks in the varnish from age. 

Y/n felt little embarrassment in doing as she was told, poking around the bag at what he had to offer, settling on perching a fruit tart on her palm and looking around for some place to sit. Her eyes landed on the thick wooden chair snuggled up against the wooden desk, and back to Taehyung. 

“Is it okay if I sit there?” 

“Hmm?” He looked back at her over his shoulder and nodded. “Wherever you’d like to sit is fine by me.” Taehyung cocked his head to the side, a playful smirk threatening to erupt on his face only held back by a bite of his lower lip as he moved to say something else but stopped himself–finding it best he didn’t. Y/n shrugged it off, and focused back in on her saving grace, the light in a dark tunnel: food. 

The first bite was well worth the risk of coming over here in her opinion, a small sigh of relief being pulled from her system when the flavor burst across her taste buds, laying a balm over her hyperactive mind. Content with munching on the edges first, she barely registered Taehyung coming up to her side, his loose fitting emerald green sweater brushing over her shoulder as he reached over her side jolting her to notice his close presence. His hands fiddled with a weathered record player that took up the corner of his desk, and dropped the arm carefully down onto the record he had played last, not bothering to put a new one down onto the turntable. 

Y/n’s phone buzzed in tandem with the first blow of the gravelly trumpet from the speakers, a text from Jungkook asking if she could wait twenty more minutes for him to get back and shower. She responded with a simple thumbs up and shoved it back into her pocket, not wanting to come off as rude or disinterested in the man before her who had turned to perch himself on the edge of his bed, their knees practically touching with how close the desk was to his bed. 

“How have you been? I haven’t gotten to see you around as much this week.” Y/n braved the first question, the urge to both genuinely check in on him and to have him be the one talking so she could continue taking bites of her pastry. 

“I should be asking you that question.” Taehyung tilted the top of his cup towards her, but seemed to eye the way she scarfed down the sweet treat and relented his answer first. “I’ve been alright. Worked on some setlists, went into town to help Jimin pick out a nice outfit for this weekend and for a few other things…otherwise I’ve just been here, practicing.” He shrugged, giving her a coy smile. “How’s that pretty head of yours?” 

Y/n choked on the last bite she had just managed to push into her mouth, and beat her chest a few times to help ease it down her throat. “I-It’s fine. Thank you.” She averted her eyes to stare mindlessly at the painting above his bed. 

“Good to hear. Did you go see someone about it?” Taehyung remained passive and friendly, but the question felt intentional if the way he plucked at the paper edge of his lid was anything to go by. 

“I did, my mom ended up taking me. They said everything seemed alright–though I might have to go get imaging and shit done.” Y/n rolled her eyes with a dry chuckle. “Whatever, as long as my mom pays for it.” 

“You don’t think you should?” One of his eyebrows quirked up ever so slightly and he teethed at the edge of his straw. He gestured for the paper back with the two remaining pastries in it with a beckoning hand.  

Y/n shook her head, holding the bag out for him to take. “No–I don’t see the point. There’s never been a reason to go get anything checked.” 

“Until this past weekend, you mean.” Taehyung corrected, and looked up at her from over the edge of the bag, pulling out a chocolate croissant and putting away half of it in one oversized bite. 

“Yeah, until this past weekend.” Y/n scratched at her ear awkwardly at her own slip up, and tilted her head to get lost in the way the vinyl spun, reflecting the light from his window on the grooves. 

Taehyung grunted around his second bite, only a small portion of the flakey pastry left in his fingers. He chewed a few times, and brought his other hand up to wipe away a small dot of chocolate on his nose only to smear it across the surface to make a much more noticeable stain. “That’s a good enough reason in my opinion. You don’t want to fuck around with your head.” 

“I guess so…” Y/n watched him toss the last small piece into his mouth and try to wipe at the chocolate again only to miss it entirely, her eyes unable to look away from the growing spot. 

“You guess so? You went down pretty hard in there.” He scoffed, grabbing a napkin to dab at it yet still somehow missing. 

“Were you there? I hadn’t seen you–” Y/n couldn’t watch him struggle any longer, pulling the napkin from his hand and leaning forwards, “–let me get it please.” She graced one hand along the edge of his jaw to hold his face still while the other rubbed at the spot, swiping it from his face and onto the napkin with a gentle hand. 

She hadn’t realized how close her impulsive action had brought them, their faces only inches apart and her fingers still pressing into the side of his face forcing them closer in proximity. Y/n slowly brought the napkin down between them and hastily let go of his jaw. 

“I’m sorry–I shouldn’t have done that without asking.” Y/n didn’t pull herself away from his entrancing gaze–a contradiction to her words–and neither did he.  

Taehyung licked his lips, his eyes flitting down to look at her mouth and back up to her eyes so quickly Y/n had thought she had missed it. He didn’t lean in any further, but kept them locked in an intimate stare far longer than Y/n would’ve normally found comfortable. But lately she hadn’t felt normal. 

“Would you like to get coffee with me tomorrow morning? At the cafe?” Taehyung's voice was silky, the baritone tone rattling up from his chest and to her ears like sweet molasses. 

Y/n didn’t trust her voice to speak, settling for a few nods in its place.

Lithe, heavy-shoed, steps drew her back from his orbit and Y/n caught a glimpse of red pass by the crack in his door, stopping at her own. 

“Y/n?” Yoongi’s gravelly voice called softly for her, and she heard his heavy work boots stop outside her door.

“Sorry Tae, I have to go–Can I call you Tae? Sorry I’m a mess today.” Y/n scrambled to her feet at the same time that he did, their bodies engaging in an awkward shuffling dance in order to let her roam towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow If I don’t get to see you before your show?” 

Taehyung chuckled, his eyes furrowing in humored befuddlement and his cheeks flushed lightly while he tipped his cup in her direction as a goodbye. “Yes you can–and same to you. See you tomorrow.” 

Y/n whisked herself out of his door, praying that he would keep his mouth shut to everyone else  about just who exactly had come looking for her. His door clicked shut behind her and she came up right behind Yoongi, giving him only seconds to adjust to her arrival. 

“Where were you?” He pressed, arms crossing over his chest where he still hovered outside her open door. “You’re lucky I came to look for you first and not the kid.” 

“I was with Taehyung, he had offered me a sweet treat and my poor empty stomach and I simply could not refuse.”  Y/n gave a sheepish shrug of her shoulders, and clasped her hands in front of her in prayer. “Please don’t tell the other two–they’ll kill me for leaving the room before any other ghost will.” 

“Hmmm I don’t know…What’s in it for me to lie?” He looked at her expectantly, a ghost of humor passing over his features. 

“My undying loyalty?” Y/n tried, giving him her best puppy dog eyes. 

“Boring.” Yoongi flicked her forehead, the surface of her skin tingling where they touched. “Try harder.” 

“Ugh.” Y/n brought her hand up to run her fingers along the sore spot. “I’m still recovering technically, that could've set me back you know.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Yoongi scoffed, and started down the hall. “Think of a better argument and I’ll think about keeping your illicit affairs with our neighbor a secret.” 

“It wasn’t like that!” Y/n whined, following him out the door into the hall. “I swear–you always make assumptions about me and anyone I’m alone with that isn’t you.” 

“It’s not an assumption if I can see it written all over you. Psychic remember?” Yoongi tapped his temple, and signaled for her to wait at the end of the hall. “I’ll head down to the dining room first and watch you come down just out of view of the cameras. I’ll be right there, just give it thirty seconds or so.” He pointed down to the foyer, and started in the direction he gestured to. Y/n felt her anxiety prick at the back of her throat, making it feel tight to swallow and the hall suddenly felt wider and far longer than she remembered. She couldn’t help but imagine the demon lurking just out of sight around each corner, and wondered what had gotten into Yoongi to even think about leaving her alone for thirty seconds after last night's escapades. 

The top of Yoongi’s head stayed in view, giving her enough of an anchor to pull herself out of another spiral with the last thing he had said to her coming to the front of her mind. Could he really see how jumbled her feelings had become for her friends? Why did that concept make her feel more nervous than her discussion with Namjoon had? The seconds ticked by to thirty signaling Y/n to start her descent, and his eyes never left her movements as she walked from the landing to the dining room, just out of view of the cameras like he had promised. 

“You still hungry, or did I catch you too late?” Yoongi smirked, obviously picking up on her increased embarrassment from his earlier blunt observation. 

“No, I could definitely still eat something.” Y/n licked her lips, ready to devour the first full meal in sight. 

“What are you in the mood for? We could wait here for lunch, or get something from the Adelaide–even go into town?” Yoongi asked, shifting his eyes from the front door to the kitchen. 

Y/n snorted. “Eat here? Yeah right–Mom may be out of town but she’ll still find out somehow.” She squinted up at him curiously, eyeing his relaxed features. “What’s up with you? You seem much happier than your texts make you seem…”

Yoongi shrugged and licked his lips, quirking a flirtatious brow in her direction. “I get to see you. Isn’t that reason enough? Now make your decision.” 

Y/n scrunched her face and released a few nervous chuckles, taken off guard by Yoongi’s blunt verbal affection but complying either way–swinging her arms back and forth at her sides in thought. Y/n had just landed on her decision to just go with the easiest option, partly because of respecting Yoongi needed to get back to work and partly because it meant having her meal in less time than it would take if they went into town. Visions of the rice bowls from the Adelaide lunch menu came to the forefront of her mind and left just as swiftly when Yoongi grabbed her wrist with urgency, his wide-eyed gaze fixed over her shoulder on something in the foyer.  

“Run.” He hissed, tugging her swiftly from the dining room and through the kitchen doors without even giving her a chance to see just what had garnered such a reaction. Not that she cared to anyways. 

Y/n could barely keep up with his unforgiving speed, hauling her behind him out into the hall, the doors of the ballroom whizzing by in a blur. Y/n stole a frantic glance over her shoulder, but could see nothing with her own eyes. Alternatively, he ears happened to pick up on another set of heavy footsteps pounding after them, the glass panels from the ballroom doors reflecting snippets of something broad and dark hot on their tail. 

Yoongi turned them sharply down the hall to their right hand side, and kicked them forward  to barrel through the entrance of the living room. Whoever was pursuing them didn’t falter, if anything their steps grew more prominent, and more if this world than that of spirits. They weaved in and out of the couches, armchairs, and end tables, and leaped over the stack of brightly colored bean bags that toppled over each other by the backdoor. They blew through it in seconds, and Y/n managed another look over her shoulder as they tumbled out onto the back porch, only a glitching image of a tall masculine frame visible for nothing but half seconds at a time. He blinked rapidly in and out of her vision, none of the flashes suspending in time long enough for her to see any defining features. Y/n cast a nervous glance down at her feet, only covered by socks–there hadn’t been time to grab any shoes and her feet were going to get wet-

“Don’t stop!” Yoongi commanded, jolting Y/n back into motion where she had unknowingly stopped.  

They dashed across the yard, the grass still slippery from the overnight rainfall not enough to slow Yoongi down. They passed by the greenhouse, where a very confused Namjoon peeked out at the two of them from the window he had propped open. He opened his mouth to shout after her, but she hadn’t the time to listen to what any of the words meant let alone respond to them.

Yoongi didn’t let up, dragging her only faster to cross one of the small cobblestone side roads used only for residents and into the tree line–yet the mysterious pursuer didn’t seem to be following them any longer–no footsteps trailing after them. 

“Yoongi–slow down!” Y/n shouted up at him, struggling to catch her own breath. “I don’t see anyone following us!” 

He didn’t let up–if anything he squeezed her hand tighter within his own clammy hand, pulling her deeper into the damp trees and brush. Y/n twisted her wrist, his grip starting to hurt and her hand starting to feel like it was full of static from the lack of blood flow. She barely managed to shimmy it from his grasp and come to a tumbling stop. 

One moment Yoongi’s boots were hitting wet mud and the next they were completely still, sinking into the substrate beneath them and coming to a stop with breakneck speed. His black eyes were piercing through her, urging her forwards. 

“You need to run Y/n, they are coming.” Yoongi tried to grab for her again, but Y/n leapt out of reach–something in his face seemed off, and she couldn’t put her finger on it. 

“Who? Hadwin? The beast? Duane? Who?” Y/n demanded, subconsciously taking a step backwards. 

“I don’t know–you know I can’t see that well. Who cares who it is?” Yoongi spat, his frustration evident in the way the words shot from his lips like daggers. “Now come on–let’s go.” 

Yoongi made a second attempt at reaching for her, but Y/n took several steps away from him, backing away in the direction from which they came. She shook her head slowly, anxiety crawling up her throat making it feel tight. “No.” 

Y/n’s chest rose and fell quickly, and her eyes zeroed in on every part of him–his wildly messy black locks, his deep penetrating dark eyes, the familiar furrow of his brow–everything seemingly normal. She couldn’t understand why every cell in her body told her to do exactly as he said. To run. Just not with him, but away from him. 

“Y/n–Now isn’t the time for bullshit. We need to go, now.” He held fast, his jaw clenching in a clear show of self restraint. 

“To where?” Y/n asked breathlessly. 

Yoongi threw his hands up in exasperation, scoffing. “Does it matter? Anywhere but here!” He closed the distance between the two of them, forcefully grabbing her hand in his. Cold. His hand was cold. 

Before he could tug her forward Y/n grasped at straws for a question he would surely know the answer to, not willing to accept his lackluster roundabout answer. 

“What is your contact name?” Y/n took her hand from him again and swallowed her ragged breaths down, cradling her palm to her chest to warm the frigid temperatures that crept into her skin from his.

“Pardon?” He turned to face her slowly, utter disbelief pulling his brows into his hairline, rage simmering beneath the surface of his eyes. 

“In my phone. What is your contact name?” Y/n snapped back, the unease in her chest engulfing her nervous system into panic mode. 

Yoongi laughed–humorless and empty. There was no small hiccupping squeak in the back of his chest or visible gums creeping in on the edges. He trained his sharp stare on her, not like he was looking at her, but like he was calculating his next answer and her next move. “Is this a trick question?” 

The hair on Y/n’s arms rose in response to the iciness that seeped from every crevice of him, her voice coming out harsh and challenging. “If it’s such a stupid question, it must be easy to answer it.” 

It was at that moment–that terrible, stomach dropping moment–that Y/n saw the facade drop long enough for her to see through it. His lips curled up to show his teeth, pulling his nose into a scrunch like he had tasted something awful. The movement lasted only half a second, but it was something she had never seen him do even in childhood. The unconscious tick did not belong to him, and had slipped through while he thought of his answer. The action was foreign enough to make her arms feel disconnected from her torso as all other space to feel had been smothered by freight. 

“Yoongi. My contact name is Yoongi.” Yoongi’s eyes looked black. Not his deep brown eyes that swallowed all light, compacting each ray into flakes of gold that only appeared to those gifted the chance to be close enough–to those looking at just the right time when passing by him. Those were gone. 

A ray of sun slithered from a break in the gray clouds, shining down through the canopy of trees and scattering golden shapes over the dirt and their skin–only Yoongi’s looked spotted with gray where it touched. There was no lively glow. Y/n couldn’t bear looking at whoever stood in front of her for another second. This trickster, demon, mimic–whatever the hell it was–it wasn't Yoongi.

Y/n cut through the trees to her side, catching the mimic off guard for he had expected her to run back to the house, his long heavy strides starting in the direction they had come before registering her change of direction. Y/n could hear the trees rustling above her yet no birds, her heartbeat pulsing in her ears, and the mimic’s stampeding steps following after her–wearing the sound of Yoongi’s breathing like a costume. It made Y/n sick. 

“Y/n, don’t be scared. It’s me, Yoongi.”  That voice; it scratched from his throat in a whirling mixture of Yoongi and monster–like he had gone M.A.D. “Just slow down.”

Y/n didn’t let his taunting words try to convince her of anything other than the truth, and pumped her legs faster across the uneven terrain. The mimic growled, appearing to be displeased by her lack of response. Y/n could see a part of the winding road that led to the front gates of the estate coming into view like a mirage in the desert, tipping her forward into a frenzy to get out of the uneven woods that clearly had no effect on the creature’s speed. 

“Don’t you love me still? Or have you already left me behind for someone else?” 

Y/n tripped onto the asphalt, catching herself on her tender palm that had just healed from her last encounter and tearing open the freshly formed scars. Y/n gasped at the sting but didn’t stop, lurching to her feet and running straight into the road. 

“Leave me alone! Yoongi would never say that!” Y/n screamed back at the haunting cackles of the mimic, still using a botched version of Yoongi’s voice over its own horrid scrape of vocal chords; like that would make her believe its terrible disguise after all the mistakes that have bled through the cracks during its attempts at camouflage already. 

The creature let out an ear splitting screech of victory–a cross between a yowling cat and a whistling train as it blew from his cheeks–the mimic had made it to the road and was gaining speed. Y/n wouldn’t be able to stay in the lead for long. There would only be one other option–because she was fucking tired of running. 

Y/n stopped, digging her heels into the road and skidding to a stop. The imitation Yoongi collided with her back, sending them both careening forwards and Y/n ducked at the contact; the momentum of his run sending him flying forward over her and onto the misty road below them. The blow did little to deter him, for he was able to spring up from his jumbled heap into a crouch at inhuman speed. 

“You can’t run from me–I am not of the living.” The mimic swung his fist in a spinning arc towards Y/n, and she dodged the movement just in time for him to throw another–this time landing the blow successfully into her stomach. 

Y/n bent forward from the force, the wind pulled from her lungs as her morning pastry threatened to make an unwelcomed reappearance. She hissed through clenched teeth, flames of wrath licking at her insides and pulling her upright by the sheer magnitude of its power. She was tired of being a punching bag. 

“Enough with all of you!” Y/n didn’t think–she just acted. She’d have to apologize to Jungkook later for her slip of mental control; because her fist collided with the side of the mimic's gray version of Yoongi’s face.

White hot pain seared through the bones of her hand, but she didn’t care. Not when she saw the image of Yoongi flicker, a glimpse of someone taller curling down in on itself to hunch to Yoongi’s height. 

“Sorry Yoongi.” Y/n hissed through her teeth, grabbing the ghosts shoulders and shoving him down to bring his face to meet her kneecap, extending her leg outwards to give him a kick in the chest for good measure. 

The mimic sprawled back onto the asphalt, shock exploding with bursts of black blood across his face. The surprise didn’t last long, his slackened jaw closing to beam up at her with an excited grin that pushed more black fluid from the corners of his mouth. 

“You are a lot more fun than I thought you’d be.” He cloaked his own voice with Yoongi’s eliciting more fury to pool in Y/n’s belly with each stolen syllable. 

“And you are all annoying.” Y/n readied herself for the mimic’s next move, planting her cold feet on the road while the creature pulled itself to its feet, giggling all the while like they were two children playing on the lawn. 

“Funny–because we all say the same of you lot. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” The mimic barreled towards her, dodging all of her hits with animalistic reflexes and trapping her arms at her side with an iron grip. He used his own forehead to smash into the back of her head, achieving his intended goal of disorienting her enough to push her down to the ground. 

The blow did no real lasting damage to him, the blood streaming from his nose black and thick as bothersome to him as a buzzing gnat, and he treated it with just as much disinterest when he wiped it onto his pants with the back of his hand. 

“You know, we tried to make this easy on you.” He straddled her back, one knee planted on either side of her torso. “We sent people who were much nicer than you deserved.” slotted his hands through the roots of her hair and dug into her skull, tugging her head sharply back at an angle to grab her chin with the other, leaning down to spit into her ear. “But now we need to play dirty–you’ve proven yourself quite the bug.” He summed, feigning a pensive moment of consideration as he wrenched her head from side to the other. “I’ll show you a bit of mercy by offering you a choice: Would you prefer to be smashed into the pavement or would a quick snap of the neck please you?” 

“Is that a trick question?” Y/n mumbled up at him, mocking the mimic’s previous choice of words. The distant sound of a rumbling engine made Y/n’s ears perk up, though she tried not to let the hop show across her features. She could practically hear the spirit roll its eyes at her response, and felt a thick liquid pool onto her shoulders and down her front where it gushed from his face. 

“Then I will make the choice for you.” He sighed, readying his arms to coil around her throat to hold her still. 

The car was coming closer–and rapidly. Y/n held her breath and just hoped it would be quick enough. 

“Now hold still. Unless you want me to have to do this twice.” He sibilated, bringing one leg up to steady his foot against the road, giving him the extra push he would need to make quick work of her neck. 

The car screeched to a halt behind them, and she heard Namjoon shouting her name, and over volant footsteps against the cobblestone. The creature above her snarled and constricted his elbow against her windpipe, the sensation all too familiar for Y/n’s liking. 

“Oh look, an audience. I always loved the chance to put on a good performance. It’s my specialty after all!” he howled with laughter as the steps grew closer. “He thinks he can stop me, but we all know he is much too we-” 

The creature's words were cut short, his weight was removed from torso and his arms wrenched from her neck. Y/n looked up as she gasped for breath, her forehead just missing a collision with the pavement in time to see them mimic eating his own words: Jungkook had him gripped by the collar of Yoongi’s work uniform, and pushed flat onto the pavement, raining down punches onto his face with sickening crunches. Namjoon skidded to halt, falling to his knees next to her, helping to guide her into a sitting position. 

“So much for having those few uneventful hours to ourselves, am I right?” Namjoon panted out, his large hand coming to rest against the back of her head, and coming back coated in black goop. 

“With us? Never.” Y/n shot back, equally as out of breath. 

Their attention was forcefully stolen by Jungkook’s wrestling match with the demo coming to pause, the pummeling sounds ceasing to exist. Any final waves of the creature’s laughter were silenced by Jungkook's fists, their pummeling force only stopping to hoist the mimic’s face up to his own, speaking to him through gritted teeth.

“Who. Are. You.” Jungkook grunted out through heaving breaths, shaking the creatures shoulders for good measure. “I command you to tell me.” 

The creature gargled out a few more snickers, though his confidence had faltered to a lesser degree of prominence than it had been moments before. “I’m your friend! See?” The creature’s eyes then widened into pure panic, pupils blown and his hands coming up to claw at Jungkook’s fingers, his voice and mannerisms a perfect imitation of Yoongi. 

“Please! Jungkook stop! It’s me–Yoongi!” He gasped out, spitting some of the blood onto the pavement next to him. “You’re going to kill me!” 

Jungkook hesitated, his grip tightening its hold in the cloth of his red jumpsuit and his jaw clenching. Jungkook shook his head, and pushed the figure down. “No.” 

The creature immediately dropped the act, finding it ineffective. “Fine. How about this one?” 

Y/n watched, unable to look away as Yoongi’s face melted–dripping away onto the pavement like hot wax, and disappearing with flourishes of steam. In its place, (s/c) flesh took its spot, and their eyes rolled back into terrified versions of her own. It was like looking in a mirror, only this mirror coated her reflection in black ectoplasm, and had a mind of its own. 

“Holy shit.” Namjoon swore next to her, vocalizing her internal sentiments. 

“Jungkook!” They used her own voice, the sound grating to Y/n’s ears and making her flush with how desperate the creature made her sound. 

“I should’ve trusted my mom–You’re hurting me just like she said you would!” The mimic used hands identical to her own to grapple for Jungkook’s looming face. “I’ll love you if you let me go. Please–I’ll do anything just let me go!” 

Jungkook was frozen in place, one fist suspended in mid air to take his next blow. Y/n wanted to scream at the creature for being so insufferable–for making moves so criminal she was genuinely worried Jungkook might lose. 

“Don’t listen to them!” Y/n shouted at him, one weak fist coming up into the air. “Kick their ass!” 

“No! Jungkook don-” 

Jungkook lifted the creature by the shoulders and slammed them back into the ground, the image of her face glitching out of view, replaced by flashes of a dark figure in between each flicker. All of their protests were knocked from their mouth, for Jungkook was ruthless; his fingers digging into the skin of the creatures shoulders, and sinking into the surface like it was softened butter. The flesh spiraled between the gaps of his fingers as he grunted, pushing them deeper into the creature in search of something solid to grip onto. 

Raw terror surged through the mimic’s face–not the imitation of hers or Yoongi’s–their own unadulterated fear as the realization of their impending defeat had set in. 

“You can’t! You are weak!” They tried to use Y/n’s voice, but could not seem to find the sound of it anymore, the raspy wheeze of a demon coming through. 

Jungkook’s fingers seemed to find what they were looking for, his forearms flexing with the strength it took to hoist it to the surface. The flesh of the mimic burst into a spray of black liquid, showering down upon his skin and his hair, staining his clothes; the fallout splattering over Y/n and Namjoon who were wholly unprepared for the explosion–their faces and arms coated in the substance. 

The dark shadow of a man was all that was left in Jungkook’s hold, their legs flailing in their frantic scrabble to free themselves from his hold. 

“Who are you?” Jungkook’s demand was unyielding, coercing the figure to let out a shout of defiance–but they could not stop the answer from displaying itself in front of their eyes. 

As if coerced by Jungkook’s command, the shadows melted away into swirling mist, scattering into the ground like frightful animals. In their wake, a fully visible man was left behind for all to see: tall and lanky, yes sunken in and black–gone like all of the other M.A.D ghosts on the property. His jaw was squared and strong, wider than the average man’s, and his mouth was black and decayed, his lips split directly down the center as if sliced vertically with a knife. 

Their throat contracted repeatedly, sounds trying to make themselves useful from his lips but found no proper order. That was until Jungkook asked again, lifting him closer to his face so they couldn’t avoid his prodding, all consuming eyes. 

“Tell me now. I won’t ask again.” 

“Cl-” The spirit started, unable to win the fight against Jungkook’s control. “Clay.” 

Y/n sat ramrod straight against Namjoon, the name ringing a bell of familiarity–but not finding a clear image of the name. 

“Clay.” Jungkook repeated, the name sounding more like a curse from his lips than anything honorable. 

Clay nodded vigorously, as if doing so would save him from his wrath. “Yes. Now have mercy on my soul, reaper. I have done no wrong.” 

Jungkook swallowed, his head tilting to the side in a taunting jerk. “Nothing wrong?” He cast his eyes in Y/n’s direction, taking in the damage Clay had done. Clay’s own gaze finding her gave her the privilege of watching the light of hope drain from his expression like a squashed bug. 

Jungkook shifted his weight back so he could lift Clay a few extra inches off the pavement, coiling his muscles up for his final blow. 

“Go to hell.”

Jungkook slammed the man into the ground, and Y/n felt the rumble of it within her, but not against her skin–the rumble was not of this world. The man shrieked with misery as his body crumbled into dust within Jungkook’s hands, the particles falling to the road and disappearing beneath the surface. 

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“Du solltest seine Verantwortung nicht übernehmen, Bär.” : You shouldn’t take on his responsibilities, Bear. 

“Ich bin sein Bruder. Was ihn beunruhigt, ist auch meine Sorge.”: I’m his brother. What worries him is also my concern. 

“Und es hat nichts mit Patti zu tun?”: And it has nothing to do with Patti? 

Bärchen: Little Bear (term of endearment for children). 

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[jiangwanyinscatmom]

Mo Dao Zu Shi and Self-Yearning For Reconciliation

There is an overarching lesson within the writing of MXTX that forgiveness and moving on doesn't entail non-verbal consent for a relationship to be salvaged once more or reclaimed as it used to be.

Within SVSSS, we are given the character of Yue Qingyuan desperately seeking the friendship and brotherhood he had with Shen Jiu. Only for that relationship to be provided by another way of Shen Yuan who finalizes he is not the man Yue Qingyuan needed closure from, but is the only one able to give it for the man to find peace with his own choices.

To a lesser extent this is also shown with the relationship between Xie Lian, Mu Qing and Feng Xin at the end of TGCF. This time though, despite Xie Lian associating with them with no ill will, he does not let either man make choices for him and resoundingly makes his own boundaries aware within the reclamation of their friendship.

MDZS does not offer this reclamation of a friendship or the start of one previously lost with another. Unlike the previous two who did yearn for friendship what was between Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian had been a stipulation of burden and assumption that started with Jiang Fengmian. Jiang Cheng was to see Wei Wuxian as a servant made friend when brought in, and Wei Wuxian was protector over friend. There was already a set imbalance due to neither naturally being able to choose the roles within their lives for the other and extending parties stating who and what they were to each other.

Jiang Cheng in his already tenuous esteem with himself and resentment of being told he was already viewed as less from his mother, took Wei Wuxian's existence in his life as a displacement of his own claims within life. His sacrifice of his dogs was the precursor for the beginning of their relationship on the allusion of debts between them.

Jiang Cheng gives up the loyalty of a literal pet, for the loyalty of an eventual man. In other words, I will shelter and protect you in exchange. Jiang Cheng does keep to this as children, with the expense of mocking Wei Wuxian's fears as he is want. His stipulations for this begun to escalate over the years and as such the giving of shelter and safety cannot be made up for Jiang Cheng, forever loyalty is now not enough, but why must Wei Wuxian also be adept at cultivation, why is he to be praised for his deeds more so, why must Wei Wuxian be a bright mind of the war.

If he is to be that, it at least would be overshadowed that he is still only under Jiang Cheng's rule. Otherwise every other action against this, is to demean Jiang Cheng, to oppose him, to cause trouble with ingratitude. It is also why, despite Wen Qing and Wen Ning having sheltered him and Wei Wuxian as well as collected his parents and provided their ashes, Jiang Cheng is able to disregard his obligation to help them. If not for Wei Wuxian's supposed insubordination, Jiang Cheng would not have suffered his own losses. Even when he did protect Wei Wuxian, the loss of it was too much, as with the dogs he had given up as a child, he did not get an active said promise of more dedication made up tenfold for the minimum kindness exhibited by Jiang Cheng. As said by Fang Mengcheng, "Atonement? You cannot actually be feeling grateful to him!”

To want to be good and to protect others, must come with selfish want for exemption of guilt for the harm you have caused. Wen Ning and Wen Qing owed it to Jiang Cheng for the deaths of his parents for carrying the surname of Wen, as such he did not need to repay them. Wei Wuxian sat at the table of the Jiangs and was given a living others would envy, as such he owed his life to Jiang Cheng. Wei Wuxian taking on the burden of protecter of another, was a betrayal of all that Jiang Cheng's lineage had gave him. To do the impossible because it is right, is not worth the self emulation and ridicule of the many. And while he may resent that kindness in Wei Wuxian, for it to be given to others as well, is a lack of loyalty of the ideals of Jiang Cheng. Jiang Cheng's growing resentment of Wei Wuxian's choice of kindness over safety, is a a mirrored resentment that Jiang Cheng holds within himself and his lack of respect for his own Clan ideals. A servant under the lord of the house embodies what Jiang Cheng was born to be.

As he throws abuse upon Wei Wuxian at their penultimate clash, while he does say sorry, he is still unable to view it without the veil of debt owed between each other. As Wei Wuxian could not tell him he gave him his core out of pity for his ego to keep him from shattering, Jiang Cheng could not say he protected Wei Wuxian out of a moment of kindness without care for the consequences until it expounded as his reality.

There is a self soothing mechanism, that opening up to truths will eventually mean a mending of what had been, or the beginning of something better. Yet this is only true when both are open to stand together as equals. Wei Wuxian and Jiang Cheng began with obligation and ended with obligation. The obligation to give for doing, the obligation of sorry for redemption.The obligation of servitude for sacrifice.

To rebuild and start again is meant to be the closure of ill will and the understanding of boundaries that cannot be crossed now. Jiang Cheng can only do one but not the other. He chooses hate for his continued nature, even while he is adamantly protecting Jin Ling by the end. While Wei Wuxian knows that resentment is not something that will create true happiness and nurturing growth that people strive for.

Reconciliation is to come to terms with that which you lacked, and to be more, to be better. Jiang Cheng accepts his core nature of resentment which would not last next to the altruism that Wei Wuxian chooses more than once. Kindness and Resentment cannot coexist at the same time. To resent is to be cruel, to be happy is to be kind. Both men are too tired to understand the other, and why they choose to part as a peace offering, an understanding that they will never thrive with the other.