#at least between the side stories and main game

[ev3nesce]

play pretend

summary: It's the end of the week, and your last task is a routine checkup with Dr. Zayne. You're childhood friend, the only stability in your life. You wouldn't trade him for anything, and if that means keeping your feelings in check, then so be it. But when the topic of an unwanted suitor comes into question, your check-up is lost to a game of pretend. Do you have the strength to let him pose as your boyfriend for a quick fix, or will you forget where the line between real and fake is drawn? Spoiler: you forget.

tl;dr: plot with porn?? going yearn for yearn with Zayne 😼

zayne x fem reader

authors note: this is purely self-indulgent LMAO I was so hurt by the new main story update that I had to write a cutesy first fuck. And yes there IS a build up to the smut people lock in I’m here to fix your attention spans. Alsoooooo there's nothing else on this account cause I got too embarrassed to post a fic on the main. Can’t have friends and fam stumbling upon smut written by my own hands. Haven’t posted a fic of any kind in years so please be kind 😘 also cross-posted this on AO3

one-shot; smut (p in v, unprotected, fingering); 9.8K words

Hands subconsciously smoothing out your still-pristine uniform, you smile at the familiar nurses who breeze by. It’s an exchange that, no matter how frequent, still strikes you as, well… funny. Never would you have pictured yourself on a first-name basis with half of Akso Hospital. Not without help, at least. You suppose such a privilege comes with the package deal that is Dr. Zayne.

Zayne, whose office is two more turns to the left. Your fingers absentmindedly fix your hair for the nth time. 

Thanks to your hasty stride, you’re a tad out of breath. And late. In hallways where staff and patients vanish from view, you shamefully jog, only to awkwardly press the brakes when those familiar faces attempt to greet you. Of course, they let you go quickly, for this is not an unusual occurrence. While you’re punctual in any other professional setting, your unique situation with your primary care physician seems to influence some tardiness. Maybe it’s because you know that, behind all the mockery and lethal side-eyes, he doesn’t really care. Not anymore; months of buttering him up and trying to coax a long-lost bond from him have undoubtedly paid off. 

But this time, it wasn’t your fault. You physically cringe at the fresh memory moments before you throw the door to Zayne’s office wide open, uncaring of what you might be interrupting. Most of the time, you had some decency to knock during your lateness. Naturally, manners were the least you could offer as an apology. Today, however, your head was a foggy mess.

“Sorry—“ You blurt out. “Sorry, I’m late.”

Zayne sits comfortably at his pristinely organised desk, and—as dramatic as ever—he does not look your way. The soft clicks of his slender fingers typing on the keyboard are the first to greet you. The reflection of the computer screen on his glasses is especially harsh at this hour as the last remnants of sunlight slip away. Beyond the wall of windows, the vibrant Friday night life of Linkon begins to stir, its pulsating energy a stark contrast to the air of serene focus in this room.

“Again.” He hums absentmindedly as you sheepishly enter and shut the door. Those tired feline eyes remain on the computer screen. “What’s the excuse this time?”

The thought of why coaxes an awkward laugh out of you. “Nothing interesting.”

Zayne’s brows ever so slightly pinch at the sound, and he finally throws a glance your way. No doubt he registers your exhausted, flustered look as you settle into a chair. “Even children are more creative when lying. You look…dishevelled.”

“No, I don’t.” You definitely do.

“Overworking yourself again?”

“What? No.”

You brace yourself for the onslaught of questions his words threaten. Whenever the topic of your work’s physical demands comes up, the conversation becomes a never-ending back-and-forth. He insists you need to take a step back. You insist he’s overreacting. Despite your best efforts, neither of you can sway the other. 

“Then what?” He presses. “Something interesting?”

You frown as the picture of your desk back at work comes to fruition, decorated with a flamboyant yet stereotypically boring gift, one that you could not bring with you. Following it is the unfavourable closeness of the gift-giver’s desk to your own. 

“I was just about to leave work—on time, mind you—when I got given a gift, so I got held up in conversation.”

“A gift?”

“Some flowers.”

“Flowers?”

There’s an inexplicable flutter in your stomach as you hint at the event to Zayne, a cringe pressing in on your shoulders, though you can’t quite justify why. Perhaps it’s the invisible, warning whisper of unspoken boundaries years in the making, as if flirtation and romance were forbidden topics in his presence. Like standing barefoot in the cold. Like a puritan child burdened with silent shame, hesitant to speak on the prospects of young love before a disapproving parent. 

The very idea of acknowledging your own desirability feels taboo. And yet, beneath that suffocating truth, a sinister and smitten urge blooms. It is a fragment of your heart eager to dangle those delicate ideas in front of him. Could you coax even an inkling of jealousy from those otherwise unreadable eyes?

Zayne busies himself for a brief, silent moment, arranging papers that are presumably yours into a neat pile and grabbing simple equipment from the drawers. You’re following gaze is spurred by the conflicting apprehension and interest. The dull scratch of a pen on paper, a breath, your heartbeat. Finally, he rests his chin on one hand and taps the pen against his desk. 

“Who gave them to you?” 

“One of the guys I work with. We happen to be stationed together often.”

“A co-worker, huh?” A moment ago, you could have sworn the usual indifference in Zayne’s face had softened. But what you’re looking at now isn’t exactly a soft look. “I presume he didn’t just want to give you flowers for the sake of it?”

“He also asked me to dinner.” You pretend to find interest in the distant view of neon lights outside the window. “Tonight.”

“What did you tell him?” 

Are the taps of his pen on the desk becoming more aggressive?

You shrug as if your answer is painfully obvious. “That I was busy. Maybe another time.”

“Why not tell him no?”

“Well…I don’t know.” You shrink in on yourself slightly, as if confined by the physical manifestation of social pressure. The man you were talking about, while friendly enough, was oftentimes difficult to deal with. Not outrightly so, but it was the little things: the subtle knack of being argumentative, an ego as inflated as a balloon ready to burst. All while you had to see him every day? …You had really drawn the short end of the stick here. “I felt bad.”

Something about your answer makes Zayne sigh. He drops the pen and reaches for the blood pressure monitor. As he speaks, his tone is both exasperated and annoyed. “Don’t worry about being polite with those things. You’re just giving him hope by saying ‘another time’.”

You shrug off the thick, leather-like jacket of your Hunter uniform reserved for office work and present your arm. Beneath it is a tight, white button-up. You try not to be aware of the few unfastened top buttons.

“What if he’s one of those ‘pay for everything’ types and takes me somewhere fancy?” You tease as Zayne wraps the band around your forearm. “One date might not hurt.”

Zayne’s grip on the arm band shifts subtly, slender fingers tugging the band unexpectedly tight. The coarse fabric presses against your pulse. His brow furrows — an indication of focus, but on what, you wonder? Zayne’s medical prowess is above the mechanics of velcro or the calibration of blood pressure machines. The clinically harsh overhead lights cast a white halo behind him that cuts sharp lines across his jaw.

“What happens when he expects more than one date?”

“You never know. I might be swayed in his favour.”

The weight of Zayne’s stare is noticeable only when he looks away, turning his focus to the machine’s screen. “You can have fun without going on pointless dates. Especially with someone you work with.”

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I’m mostly joking, but a girl can dream.”

Zayne raises a brow. “Dreaming about your coworkers? How professional of you.”

“You’re one to talk about ‘professionalism’,” you retort with a hmpf. “You’re my doctor, after all. I thought there were strict rules about interpersonal relationships with patients.”

“Rules, yes.” Scarred fingers reaching blindly for his stethoscope. As he speaks, there isn’t much authority in his voice. Instead, it’s almost quiet, far away as he sinks into thought. “But we’re friends first.”

“It still surprises me, though.”

“I’d be more surprised if you went to someone else.” 

Now it’s your turn to raise a brow. “How so?”

“Well, I know your medical history like the back of my hand, you’re comfortable with me, your condition is compatible with my specialisations…” A hint of mischief burns in the few bright specks of his otherwise dark eyes. “And I highly doubt anyone else would want to put up with you.”

Your face contorts as if his words attack your senses like a bitter lemon slice. “Ouch, Dr. Zayne. Am I that much of a pain?”

“More like a constant headache.”

Zayne reaches forward, and instinctively, you straighten up, welcoming the further tests. But the chest piece of the stethoscope isn’t in his hand. Instead, he leans down, one hand wrapping around your chair legs. The low groan of wood against wood cuts through the room as you slide towards him. He does so with ease. Incredible ease and attractive ease. 

Though his uniform usually leaves little to the imagination, the white coat pulls taut, offering a delicious view of firm muscle. You swallow hard, almost ashamed at how easily the casual display of strength weakens your knees. The man opposite you is otherwise unbothered, straightening to fix the stethoscope in his ears. 

Considering he’s about to listen to your racing heart, you look away, searching for a quick fix. Any sight except him will do. Your eyes fall to the floor…and to the very usable wheels on his own chair.

“In that case, maybe I should switch to someone else.” The cold metal presses in the open V of your button-up, right below your collarbone. “You’re so busy. I’d hate to overwork you.”

Zayne looks up at you through his lashes as he draws close. “Now you’re being dramatic. You wouldn’t last a week.”

“And what makes you so confident?”

He chuckles. Clearly, he’s enjoying the back-and-forth. “Because I know you. You’re stubborn, never listen, never follow any of my advice. Besides, you’d miss me too much.”

Your heart flutters right beneath the stethoscope.

“I do listen.” You choose not to acknowledge the latter half of his answer.

“Prove it then.”

You tilt your head, confused. He makes a zipper gesture over his lips. Oh.

For the duration of his observations, you keep quiet, allowing him to focus on the task at hand. Just as he sets the metal against your chest for the last time, your phone dings. The double chime is unmistakable: the secure messaging platform used for Hunters. You often exchange words with your colleagues through it, but at this time, those who didn’t have your personal number wouldn’t bother you. 

Your heart flutters again—this time for the wrong reason. Spurred by morbid curiosity, you fish your phone from your pocket without disturbing Zayne. Through the notification centre you scroll until the dreaded name pops up. Great.

“What’s with that look?” Zayne questions.

There’s not much more to say than the message itself. You flip your phone around to show it.

Sooo… how busy on a scale of 1 to 10 are you really tonight?

Zayne adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. A subtle squint creases the corners of his sharp, cat-like eyes, the faint glint of curiosity quickly giving way to something sterner. The amused tilt of his mouth from moments before fades, replaced by a slight frown.

“This is the flower culprit?” His tone is painfully dry as he pushes back to grab a pen and paper, jotting down something probably related to your heart rate. 

You hum in thought. “Time to come up with a good excuse, since I have nothing to do after this.”

“Or, and hear me out on this…” Zayne turns to face you, pen still in hand, as he leans back and spreads his legs. The sarcasm in his voice cuts rather than teases. “You just say no.”

Exhausted with even the thought of it, you sigh. “You don’t get it. He’s just a little…much. He tried something with Tara a while back, as if he shares a single similarity with her type, and he’s only just moved past the aftermath.” You huff a laugh. “My guess is that the only thing that will deter him is making myself incredibly uninteresting or pretending I have a boyfriend.”

“What awful options.”

Though you wouldn’t agree, you don’t argue, instead continuing to wonder aloud. “The second option would be the most effective. Two birds with one stone, even.”

Knowing him, a rumour will start at work that you have a boyfriend. A perfect excuse for the earlier gesture just being friendly, considering the flowers were presented with a considerable audience. The rumour wouldn’t be bad if there was an inkling of truth to it. Opposite you, Zayne folds his arms and taps the pen against his arm in a slow but forceful rhythm. 

…Could you use him as a scapegoat? 

The idea creeps in, sly and tempting, an offer as distracting as the taps of his pen. But no — you snuff that worrisome flame the second it sparks. The guilt it brings is akin to admitting aloud the things that cross your mind in his absence. Pretending would be more than a harmless lie, should he agree; it would cheapen your priceless bond. At least to you. The idea leaves a bitter aftertaste.

“What happens when he asks for proof?” 

“Maybe I’ll get one of my friends to play along,” you respond matter-of-factly, although the finer details are nothing more than an afterthought to you. In all honesty, you’ll probably ignore the message, but for some reason, you have yet to drop the conversation.

“And who exactly are you going to rope into this?” 

God, it’s like he’s determined to highlight every flaw in your plan. You grin. “Depends on who can be most convincing. Maybe I’ll hold an audition.”

Zayne taps the pen a few beats faster as you become stuck in a standoff-ish staring contest. Why, you’re not so sure. There should be nothing left of value in this conversation.

“I have an idea.”

“I’m listening.” You lean forward, anxious for his answer.

He tosses the pen onto his desk. “What if…I helped you out?”

You couldn’t be more thankful that the stethoscope is no longer in his hands. There’s a beat of silence as you look back at him with eyes wide in astonishment. Just moments ago, you had disregarded the idea with a sound resolve, considering it distasteful and disastrous for yourself. Now, with the offer coming from him, your stance has shifted. 

He could convince you to get away with murder. You stifle a laugh.

“You? Could you be convincing?”

“So you doubt my acting skills, huh?” He seems to relax at your light laughter, even flashing you a grin of his own. Your routine checkup has been abandoned entirely. “I’ll have you know I’d do perfectly well.”

“Prove it then. Time for your audition.” You clap your hands together twice before leaning against his desk, arm on the surface and chin in hand. “Question one: Imagine we’re going out for dinner. Where will you take me?”

Zayne looks out the large expanse of window as he considers your question with genuine depth. As he does so, he leans against his desk, vaguely mirroring your own position. “Somewhere we can have privacy, but not so secluded that it feels forced. Good food and candlelit tables. Cozy. If I really wanted to impress you, which I probably do, we could go somewhere exclusive.”

When the answer comes to its conclusion, his eyes slowly drift back to meet yours. Still unreadable. Typical. The carefully crafted response renders you speechless for a moment. You remind yourself not to let it show, pursing your previously parted lips. 

“We’ll split the bill fifty/fifty,” you add after a moment.

He scoffs. “Silly of you to think I’d let you spent even a cent.”

Don’t smile. 

“…Okay, question two: Where do we go after?”

“After…we could walk around the city if it’s a nice night and stop at some of the food stalls for something sweet—like the one I took you to after work the other week. Then I’ll drive you home. A little aimlessly, though, so I can waste time and spend more with you.”

Like the one I took you to. You raise a brow. “Nothing extravagant?”

“What, is this supposed to be a first date?”

“What if it was?”

He flashes a look of mock offence, as if the answer could not be clearer. “Realistically, how extravagant do I need to be to win you over? We’re not strangers.”

“But just like you said, we’ve done those things before. What makes this special?”

A tsk. “If you weren’t seeing the situation in a different light in accordance with our different relationship, I’d be a little worried.” 

You bite back a smile. “Fine then. Question three: I get that text while we’re out and show you. What do you say?”

“Tell you to text him something straight forward so that there’s no wiggle room. ‘I’m busy with my boyfriend, can’t talk’ should do it. Simple. If he questions the legitimacy, send him a picture where he can’t deny what we are.”

Reality suddenly draws you from the conversation’s alarming immersion. How did you get here? When did the conversation take this turn? Did the offer leave his lips on a whim, or was it brewing the second you mentioned receiving flowers? …Why? Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to even consider a version of the answer where there’s real jealousy in Zayne. This was a conversation between two friends, where one is in an awkward predicament and the other is offering a clear escape. 

Except it wasn’t clear. 

You could lie or swallow your pride and reject your colleague, but instead, you were hanging on Zayne’s every word in a daze. Though his descriptions were simple, it was almost as if you could taste the remnants of a shared dinner on your tongue, feel the chilly evening air on your cheeks and the warmth of his hand in yours as you strolled aimlessly through the streets. Imagining it isn’t an impossible task, either. Most of the outings you shared were the taunting shell of a date.

Zayne watches with an immeasurable intensity as silent seconds tick by, waiting for an answer. Should you agree? The date was only theoretical—no harm, no foul. Just a story to tell your colleagues. At most, a picture was all you needed. You match his gaze for a moment longer. Then…

“Alright. Fine.” You drum your thighs as you announce: “You’re hired.”

Zayne leans back in his chair at the news, grinning as if he’s just won a childish game of tug-of-war. “Before we start, I have one condition.”

“And that is?”

“As your employee, things will remain strictly professional, right?”

Those simple, serious words douse out the little spark in your chest—something you’re grateful for, and yet stubbornly wounded by. You snort. “I’d be worried if that wasn’t the general consensus already.”

With a hum, Zayne is the first to look away, eyes drifting behind you to the expanse of Linkon City. For once in this strange interaction, you recognise the look on this face: thoughtfulness. Oh, how you wished to pick apart his brain. Should the universe allow it, you would dive into his mind and make a nest of those fleeting thoughts otherwise destined to be unheard. In this moment, you can’t help but admire him from afar. You could swear a merciless ocean stands in the way, or a glass wall thicker than bullets could pierce. Then he stands with an outstretched hand, and suddenly, you’re back in his office, acutely aware of your physical closeness.

You place your hand in his with underlying hesitance. Before he shakes your hand, he pulls you to your feet. Warm fingers delicately apply his strength.

“Deal.”

“Deal,” you echo. You can’t help but feel surprise at his formal, dedicated approach. “Should we take a photo now, or should I just text him first and see if he believes—?”

“Photo first.” He’s quick to cut you off, shrugging off his pristine white coat in the process and haphazardly throwing it over a chair. “Who knows how long it might take for him to reply? We don’t have all night. By the time he does, I might be long gone.”

While that could be true, you knew your colleague would be waiting with bated breath for a reply. But you don’t bother to challenge Zayne in that regard and instead reach for your phone. “As you wish, Doc-tor. …How should we stand?”

Wordlessly, he takes you by the elbow and gently shuffles you to stand before him, your back to his chest. Over your shoulder you watch, quiet and nervous. There’s a pathetically large gap between the two of you. When you don’t step back to close it, he chuckles. 

“You can come closer,” he says. Then, in a more sheepish tone, he adds, “If you’re okay with that.”

You’re affirmation is nothing more than a hum, too cautious to give voice to nerves that may betray you. You’re step back is carefully calculated; not too far so that every inch of you is flush with him, not too quick to suggest eagerness. Zayne leans against his desk in an attempt to adjust his towering height according to yours. As a result, you find yourself standing between a pair of large, spread thighs that faintly brush your own.

Zayne’s movements mirror your deliberate caution, slow and measured. His hands first guide you by the shoulders, then shimmy you by your sides. Then, at a pace so gruelling it was like he wished not to disturb you, his arms slowly snaked around your waist. Each movement is made in such silence that you wonder if he’s even breathing. Were you? His arms hover an awkward inch away, giving you the opportunity to smack his wrists and lecture him on the professionalism he just swore to. You don’t. Of course you don’t. So he comfortably settles them, and you wonder if that opportunity was wasted.

Maybe if you leave your camera facing the ceiling, you won’t have to face the situation you’ve found yourself in. But unfortunately, time was moving at a very real pace, and standing around doing nothing would be just as bad. Stealing yourself, you raise your phone, nervous to make eye contact with your own self. Zayne cranes his neck to fit in the frame. Warm breath fans across your neck and ear as he does so. You shiver.

“Smiling is a must,” he murmurs. 

All you can do is nod, swallow, and smile as he instructs. Though it’s a nervous, timid smile, it is one nonetheless. Satisfied, your finger ghosts over the shutter button, only to forget all about it as he leans in a little closer, voice little more than a whisper in your ear.

“Smile wider.”

You can’t help but giggle at the feeling of his breath on your neck. It transcends the physical barrier of your skin, travelling down your spine tauntingly, leaving behind an overwhelming desire to chase the high. At least you don’t need to force a bigger smile—you take the photo the second he elicits the vulnerable reaction, capturing the fleeting appearance of a genuine smile and crinkled eyes. Though beneath it all, the ache of this hollow pretence remains.

“That tickles,” you say in a tone that is borderline accusing. 

“Sorry.” His voice remains quiet and breathy against the shell of your ear, this time with a hint of playful remorse. “It was intentional.”

“Mm-hm.” Focus. “I’m going to take one more.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Kiss me on the cheek.”

You’re not sure what possesses you to make the request. Sure, from an outside perspective, it is reasonable enough considering the act you’re mutually playing. But such a simple approach disregards human complexity. If he accepts, is that a reflection of blind obedience, or does it stir something deeper, enticing him beyond the agreement? If he refuses, does that mean he respects those boundaries out of disinterest or fear?

“…Okay.” 

That’s all he says. You’re as clueless as you were ten seconds ago. Shooing away the silly internal debate, you turn your head more his way. 

You are entirely unprepared for how he complies.

Nimble fingers trace a path beneath your jaw before finding purchase on your chin, tilting it with a subtle insistence. Fingers splayed, his grasp is all-consuming and possessive—perfect for a photo and detrimental to your moral compass. His free hand finds purchase on your hip, consistently firm despite being nowhere in frame. Were you always this close? 

The final graze of his lips against your cheek is devoid of his hand’s inescapable demand. Instead, the kiss is gentle. Cheeks red and heart racing, you have half the mind to take the photo. Then another. He lingers long enough for you to take three, your face in different stages of submission.

When you lower the phone, his touch disappears with it. What he doesn’t do is usher you away. Curious.

“Got enough photos?” He asks after a moment. The casual nature of his question is almost laughable.

“More than enough. Now to see if it was worth it…”

Zayne peers over your shoulder as you navigate to the message that caused this all. The quickly crafted response reads with little room for argument. 

Look, I think you’re great and I appreciate the flowers, but I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I have a boyfriend, and he thinks I should convey that I’m taken to spare both you and me, which I agree with. I am not and will not be free to spend time with you outside of work. 

It’s read immediately. The first message follows soon after.

Come on, y/n.

He continues to type. Then comes the second message.

What boyfriend? I’ve never heard of or seen any boyfriend. You don’t have to lie to me. Just give me a chance, sweetheart.

Sweetheart? You scoff aloud in offence. The gall he has to not only doubt you, but throw in a pet name is beyond you. Nevertheless, you couldn’t ask for a better opening. You don’t miss a beat before attaching the photo of Zayne kissing your smiling face with a simple: this one. You can’t deny the satisfaction it gives you to prove him wrong, regardless of the real truth. A soft laugh sounds behind you.

“A photo was worth it after all.”

“I see what you mean, now,” he muses. Though there’s a slight smile on his face, there’s a line between his brows that can’t be missed. “He’s got some nerve, calling you ‘sweetheart’ and all.”

“Sounds like someone is still in character,” you tease, nudging him with an elbow.

“Hey, I’m just making sure the message is clear,” he retorts in mock defence. “Can’t have anyone calling my girl ‘sweetheart’.”

Your breath barely has time to steady before a familiar chime sounds, drawing your attention to the unlocked screen in your hand. A shocked gasp escapes you at the few bold words staring back defiantly. What, it reads. Can he not share? Any words of indignation are snuffed by Zayne’s hand closing firmly around your wrist, angling the screen his way. The shift from subtle indifference to something far more intense is evident in that now-familiar frown.

“Ignore it.” The playfulness is gone.

“Someone really wants to get in my pants.” You sigh. “Well…work is going to be a little awkward. Thanks for your help, though.”

He huffs a laugh, though there's nothing humorous about it. “You’re welcome. Just let me know if he tries to bother you again.”

You half-turn in your spot between his legs and poke him in the chest. “What would you do then, hm?”

“I don’t know…” He trails off as he grabs your wandering hand and settles it back at your side without letting go. He continues, eyes watching where his fingers toy with your bracelets. “Maybe I’d come to the Association myself.”

“Too bad Tara knows you.” It’s a miracle your voice doesn’t waver. The pictures have already been taken; there’s nothing more to fake. “She’d see right through the act. Or should I swear her into secrecy?”

You’re unsure of how long the two of you have been absentmindedly inching closer. The room has shrunk entirely, walls dissolving as tunnel vision settles in. No longer can you pick up the sterile scent of antiseptic that clings to every surface of the hospital, nor do the fluorescent lights bother you. Now, the only tangible thread tethering you to this moment is him. Zayne. Your breath catches in your throat. A dead giveaway. His eyes flicker back to yours. Is it possible that the featherlight drag of his fingertips over your wrist has caught your pulse?

At this distance, you could count each gold fleck in his heavy-lidded eyes. Now, that look is a characteristic you’re less confident in labelling as fatigue. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he’s found in your eyes, his gaze trickles downwards. Over the imperfections of your skin to the curve of your lips, down your neck, skirting the scandalously low neckline of your button-up.

“I can be plenty convincing.” There’s a soft sensuality in the way each word leaves his lips, foreign and addictive. “No one would have to know it’s an act.”

His index finger teases your inner arm before finally making the jump to your waist. Suddenly, you can’t find the line between real and fake, hypnotised by a hazy want. You lay your hand over the one on your hip and speak with hesitance.

“You’re…doing a good job of convincing now…”

Now there’s a hand on either hip, angling you to face him entirely. His words are little more than a breath in your ear. “You think so?”

A moment of clarity draws your anxious attention to the unlocked door. Though it was late in the evening and Zayne should be leaving by now, you were also no expert in the inner workings of Akso Hospital. How often do people walk in unannounced? Would he get in trouble if someone saw him like this? In you’re peripheral, Zayne tilts his head to follow your gaze, curious. Then he laughs, the sound soft and deep, and boldly caresses your hips upon the understanding of your anxiety.

“Don’t worry.” Without lifting a finger, a subtle frost blossoms over the handle. Soft cracks echo as mounds of ice creep along the locking mechanism. The surrounding wooden frame glitters. “No one can open the door.”

You lift your chin in an attempt to tease. “Why would I be worried?”

“No reason.” His fingers continue to deftly draw circles on your hips, slow and intentional. When he leans in again, his lips almost graze the skin of your jaw. “Sweetheart.”

Not only were the lines blurred, they were gone entirely. That fact is enough to feed your confidence. Timid fingers skim over forearms exposed by rolled-up sleeves. Jagged scars rise to meet your fingertips. They whisper stories you’ve been too wary to pursue. Zayne’s biceps are pronounced beneath the black fabric of his dress shirt, his shoulders broad and inviting. Your travels come to a shy halt just short of his collar.

“You’re a tease.”

“Don’t make it so easy.”

“You’re not making this easy, either.” His grip tightens with those words.

“What do you mean?”

“Playing this game with you…” His voice wavers then, torn between sanity and delusion. “I don’t know where to stop.”

You’re unsure of what to say or do. A chill is emerging from the tips of his fingers, so cold that it seeps through the fabric of your skirt. Zayne is naturally the embodiment of his Evol; cold and unforgiving to those who don’t know him. There’s a subtle, physical aspect to the manifestation, too, from the sharpness in his features to an arresting chill that follows him. But this is different. The temperature in his hands is dropping rapidly, so much so that the shocking cold almost has a bite to it. Is he…aware that his Evol is activating? You shiver.

“You’re hands are cold,” you whisper.

Those few words connect with him like a punch—a harsh reality check. It’s evident in the way that his entire frame goes rigid, the clouded look in his eyes overshadowed by a minor horror. The daze is gone. So is the cold. Zayne withdraws his hands entirely, sinking further against his desk.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice thick with tangible guilt.

Without missing a beat, you lean forward to match his slight escape, grabbing his hands and bringing them back before he can protest. The act is not a sensual show but instead an admittance of trust.

“I’m not afraid of it, you know,” you try with a small smile. “I don’t mind if your hands are a little cold.”

“You…don’t?” he asks, earnest in his perplexity.

You nod. He swallows.

“Why?”

Once you recognise that his hands won’t move, you slowly drape your arms over his shoulders. The expression on his face is akin to that of a wounded puppy. You’re both surprised at how quickly his hard exterior has melted and saddened by his martyrdom. Instincts rooted deep in your flawed heart pull you in, resting your cheek in the crook of his neck—a place equally as cold. Your fingers, which trace alone his nape, make contact with what you can only guess is a fine film of frost.

You sigh. “Well, you know my Evol can help ease it. If it hurts you, I can help. Besides…I’m not as delicate as you think I am.”

As you speak, the physical apprehension in his body eases. With it is the release of a shuddered breath as his arms tentatively encase you.

“You trust me too much,” he says with a light scoff.

“Sometimes you can be so dramatic.”

“I’m not being dramatic.”

You lift your head to squint at him. “Hm… Agree to disagree.”

You’re faces are incredibly close. The question of how close or why is entirely out the window. This wasn’t some pretend play anymore. You find nothing artificial in the position of his hands, in the way his gaze dances between your expectant eyes and parted lips. Not in his voice, not in the subtle red hue on his cheeks, not in the complaisant confessions of his ragged breaths. Nowhere. The substance that supported an illusion is suddenly weightless, dissolving alongside the frost beneath your fingertips.

“You truly are the most stubborn woman I know,” he mutters. His own stubbornness is endearing, but you’re tired of this game of cat and mouse. 

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

Eyes less guarded than ever before stare back at you as if you’ve spoken another language.

You withdraw your hands and tilt your head away, half-joking, half-nervous by the lack of response. “No answer? Fine. I was offering, you know—“

Blinded by his previous dumbfoundedness, you don’t anticipate the speed of his reaction. Cold hands force you’re face back towards his. His head is slightly bowed, reverent eyes staring up through thick lashes. It’s as if he’s cradling an object of worship, like you’re a deity to whom he must repent. For he has sinned, disgraced by an ailing infatuation that has festered over the years, devolving into a mind-numbing greed.

Instead of the gentle tone that his words have melted into, a low, husky voice rings in your ears.

“I never said I didn’t want to kiss you.”

His thumb slides towards your lower lip, gently tracing the dip below to substantiate his claim. Air seems to escape you at the feeling of his breath, of his hands, at the way his gaze triangulates between your eyes and lips.

“I think about kissing you all the time.” 

His nose brushes against your cheek as he cranes his neck, breath fanning across your neck. All you can muster is a whispered, “Oh?”

“When I’m at home.” A warmth against your collarbone cuts through the overarching cold as his lips finally press down. Your heart stutters violently. “When I’m at work.” He kisses the expanse of skin between your neck and shoulder. One hand angles your head from the nape of your neck, fingers fervently tangled in your hair, the other cradling your waist. “When I’m with you.”

Another at the curve of your jaw. While his lips are warm, his breath comes out cold between each peck, each word. The conflicting temperatures are both shocking and enticing. 

“I’m tired…” He kisses your cheek for the second time today before pulling back to catch your eyes in earnest. “Of fantasising about it.”

Your faint smile flickers, a fragile torch that illuminates the path he no longer resists. Restraints shed, your breath mingles, and his lips come crashing against your own. It is unlike the nurturing kisses against your skin. In fact, it is anything but gentle; desperately crushing, a confession condensed into a press of mouths. Slender fingers explore the landscape of your lower abdomen, insatiable cartographers drawing maps of mystical lands. Here, he stakes his claim. A low groan echoes deep in his bones and resounds against your equally curious hands.

You suppress a groan of your own as you melt into putty kneaded by Zayne’s precise hands. Lower they go, pulling you closer by the hips, tracing the waistband of your skirt, testing how close to your ass he can get.

The results are in: he can get very close.

His grin doesn’t go unnoticed as his hands dip down with purpose, massaging the plump flesh. You’re hum of content is an addictive contingency. His grip becomes brusquely firm. You kiss him harder. Suddenly, they drop down to your thighs, and the floor disappears beneath you. A sharp gasp of surprise escapes your lips at the loss of support. Instinctively, your hold around his neck tightens, fingers grasping at the fabric of his black button-up.

Zayne’s grip on you is unwavering as he spins you both. Muscle flexes beneath your touch. One arm hooks beneath your knees and supports you effortlessly. The other reaches behind your back, pushing half of his desk’s contents onto the floor in one fluid swipe. Loose paper flutters towards the floor like fragile autumn leaves, settling soundlessly as pens clatter everywhere. The book on dream analysis that you had teased him about reading just last week lands face down with an accusing thud. It faces the ceiling with open pages, displaying the annotation of an electroencephalography. 

When Zayne sets you down on his desk, the action is gentle. The hand that helped to support you pushes apart your knees, allowing him to settle between and press a quick kiss to your lips.

“Sorry,” he says between peppered kisses. “Should I have asked before I did that?”

You chuckle against his mouth. “It’s fine. I’m giving you consent entirely. …Unless it’s something outrageous.” The latter part you add with a teasing tone.

“Is this too outrageous?”

Forehead rested against yours, he looks down to where his hand settles on your thigh. Your legs are spread wide to accommodate him. As a result, your skirt rides up dangerously high. Any higher and nothing would be left to the imagination. Slowly, his hand slides forward, aiming directly for the improper scene. You both watch in silence for a moment as he traces the raised hem, massages your thigh, then retreats slightly, only to repeat himself again and again. He meets a higher milestone each time. The urge to beg for more is debilitating, yet all you can do is shake your head, pathetic in your submission to desire.

When his lips meet yours again, his pace is slow, vaguely cautious, echoing that of his hand. Each kiss grows deeper and deeper, pushing you further back each time. The wooden surface of Zayne’s desk presses into your back before you know it. 

Angling one of your thighs against his hip, he settles over you with a new closeness. You’re skirt is as good as gone. The fabric bunches around your waist as he pushes your thigh up further. Neither of you pays verbal mind to the physical manifestation of his desire that presses against your aching core.

…Were the two of you really about to fuck in his office?

Zayne was always prim and proper. In the way he dresses, in his sophisticated speech, in his profession and borderline-OCD cleanliness. You would never peg him as the type to yield to sinful wants in scandalous places. And yet here you are, arching your back off his desk and accepting the hungry sweep of his tongue. The only thing protecting him from disciplinary action is the ice embedded in the door. You pray that all the times he insisted on his Evol’s temporal durability were not lies.

When his mouth is drawn back to your neck, your eyes flutter open. They adjust strangely to the overhead lights as little spots glitter in your vision. Confused, you squint. Instead of the specks disappearing, their forms refine into tiny snowflakes drifting through the air. They’re too faint to survive long; as soon as they settle in Zayne’s hair and on the desk, they melt into nothingness.

A question is brewing on the tip of your tongue at the sight. Though it’s quickly lost to the uninhabited corners of your mind when his fingers glide over the edges of your panties and directly across your clothed cunt. Your cheeks flare. There’s no hiding the desire that pools between your legs.

“Is this all it takes to get you so wet?” His voice is a purr against your skin.

You pout. As if you couldn’t feel his erection a second ago. “That’s not fair.” 

“What’s not fair is how long it’s taken to get you like this.” A shameful whimper builds in your throat as he circles his fingers with added weight. His free hand creeps over your mouth. “Shhh. You can stay quiet for me, can’t you?”

With wide, begging eyes, you nod with a muffled mm-hmm. Before retracting his hand, he circles above your clit a second time, then a third, testing your obedience. 

The ecstasy that burns beneath your skin from the slightest of touches is obscene. You would think that you’d been trapped in hours of foreplay, denied even the thought of release. But still, it is not enough. The feeling was akin to wearing layers on a cold day, yet still shivering. Like biting into a promising fruit that hasn’t hung from the vine long enough. It just wasn’t right, wasn’t enough. You roll your hips in an attempt to convey as much.

“Impatient?”

Through a sigh, you answer, “Just a little.”

His teeth graze your ear. “Then use your words. What do you want?”

What an unfair question to ask now, with your mind clouded in drunken lust. Articulation was difficult. So was trying to pinpoint exactly what you wanted. There were too many things you could want and not enough words in the dictionary to do them justice. So instead, all you can offer is, “You. I just want you.”

Thankfully, he seems to understand. His fingers hook around the waistband of your panties. Lifting your hips with one hand, he uses the other to shimmy them down to your ankles. A single beat isn’t missed before the adept fingers of a surgeon slide between your folds. His mouth is back on every exposed inch of skin he can find, needy and hot. You hide quiet pants behind a bitten lip. You almost pierce the swollen skin when his fingers finally find entry. 

“Keep quiet,” he reminds you in a soft voice as his index and middle fingers curl. “Only I get to hear you like this, right?”

You nod, eyes fluttering close. But your agreement doesn’t seem to be enough. He catches your rolling head and forces a moment of sobriety. Acknowledgement from every legible medium, including that of your eyes and mouth, is what he truly wants.

“Right, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Yes, Zayne. Just you…just…”

You’re words die out into a sharp inhale as he presses down on your clit.  He pumps in and out in tandem with the exterior pressure, stimulating screaming nerves that turn your knees to jelly and your jaw slack. The room is filled with the lewd sounds of your arousal around his fingers, your bitten-back moans, and the wet kisses trailing from your chest to your jaw, then to your mouth and back. 

A small part of you wishes for him to bite down. To leave a mark that was unmistakably his. But, although you were little more than a stranger to Zayne’s sexual nature, you could almost hear him calling hickies childish.

The steady rhythm he’s set calls for release. Like the sliver of morning light on the horizon, you can feel it approaching, an all-consuming warmth that flutters deep in your stomach and creeps up your legs. Your inner walls flutter around his fingers in an announcement of his skilled work’s reward.

“Right there,” you pant, head rolling, and fingers tugging at his hair. “Don’t stop—“

Except, he does exactly that.

You whine as he retracts his fingers, looking at him with indignation, silently demanding an explanation. Only smugness stares right back. Euphoria sinks back into the confines of your bones at the absence of stimulation. You can barely get out the question of why before he cuts you off.

“Believe me when I say I could please you for hours without question,” he says with a quick kiss before withdrawing to tower before you. “But I don’t know how long we have. I can’t let you have all the fun.”

You’re about to roll your eyes when he raises two glistening fingers to his mouth. His eyes remain trained on you as he glides his tongue over the remnants of your arousal before sucking them clean. Nothing could have prepared you for the sight.

“Sweet,” is all he says, as if he’s describing one of the new desserts sold at the cafe across the street. Your cheeks turn bright red.

Satisfied with the taunt, he reaches for his belt, and suddenly you’re reeled right back in. Your unashamed gaze tracks every movement with hunger as he undoes the buckle, then the button below. When he reaches for the zipper, he averts his eyes. Now it’s his turn to feel shy. The top of his boxers comes into view, followed by a mouth-watering outline of the exact thing you crave.

One hand hovering at the waistband, he settles back over you. A palpable shift in the air has taken place. Gone is the initial display of hunger and desire finally brought to light. In this moment, as he looks down with eyes full of affection, there’s a sense of pure, shared intimacy. Not the exhiliration of stupid decisions or a quick fuck. No. Zayne was not one to hook up with someone on a whim. Nor were you.

“You’re sure about…this?” He asks. The previous displays of confidence are nowhere to be found. You don’t think he can even bring himself to say the word, as if an explicit understanding would chase you away.

“What, having sex with you?” You kiss the tip of his nose with a smile. “I couldn’t be more sure.”

You catch an amused yet curious look on his face before he presses a slow kiss to your lips. Your heart races at the sound of shuffling fabric. Then you feel it. You can’t fight the urge to look.

Zayne holds the entirety of his impressive length in one hand. With ragged breaths, he teasingly drags the red, weeping tip across your folds. At the sight of it in his hold, of the tip circling your clit…You can only hope that he fits. 

“I’ll go slow,” he says quietly. You’re almost unsure if he’s talking to you or himself. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much? If you want to stop at all—“

You try to give him a smile as sincere as possible instead of the giggles that threaten to arise. Nerves are obviously kicking in on his end. Not that you aren’t nervous. God knows you are. But suddenly, he can’t meet your gaze for more than a few seconds, and it’s the most endearing thing he’s ever done.

You quickly cut him off before he can ramble. “I’ll tell you. I promise.”

Zayne nods, presses a chaste kiss to your forehead, and sinks into you.

If your senses weren’t already overwhelmed by him, they were now. The stretch aches at first, his sheer size foreign and unforgiving. Your jaw falls slack at the feeling, and a stuttered gasp leaves your lips. Zayne echoes the sound. Slowly, he pushes further with each roll of his hips, acutely aware of the initial shock. He sweeps away stray hairs plastered to your skin.

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, though he quickly begins to lose his coherence. “So good… You feel so…”

He cuts himself off with a low groan, and his head falls to the crook of your neck. Another careful thrust, then another. Finally, he bottoms out...and his teeth sink into your skin.

It takes everything in you not to cry out his name at the overwhelming sensations. Just moments ago, you wrote off the idea of leaving this room with physical reminders. Now, Zayne’s tongue was gliding over the fresh indents of his teeth to soothe the sting. Today was a day for many firsts.

Resisting the urge to sing your praise is becoming more and more of a punishment. You can only hope that the soft whimpers and incoherent strings of ‘yes’s and ‘keep going’s are enough. Zayne muffles his own voice with the press of his mouth to your skin, desperate and low. Where his throat leans against your chest, the reverberation of ecstasy echoes. What neither of you addresses, however, is the lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and each scraping groan of the desk legs in tandem.

When your fingers tug his hair, his tempo becomes sloppy. Heedless and disorganised, like he’s barely holding on. You’re own high is re-emerging from its previous denial. Nothing seems to register anymore, not beyond the connection of your bodies, not beyond this room, not before this moment. Every sense is reduced to your simple need for him. Sensibility no longer exists, like ink bleeding on damp paper, words blurring beyond recognition. What were the ethics of fucking your doctor? Ecstacy. That’s what.

You squirm in his partial hold, hips aching with the gruelling pace. When your eyes flutter and roll, he hums in content, suddenly slowing down.

His face contorts into something reminiscent of sympathy, brows pinched and eyes pooling with an inescapable intensity. “Right there?” 

Each syllable sounds with a deep roll of his hips. When you whimper out a drawled mmh-hmm, he suddenly picks back up. He’s so close, reaching so deep that his pelvis grinds against your clit. You’re an overstimulated mess of tangled limbs and ragged breaths.

“Zayne—“ You’re legs begin to tremble, inner walls fluttering with that telltale sign. “Fuck—I’m going to—“

When you can’t finish the sentence, he captures your slack lips in a messy kiss. 

“I know.” He trails a hand down to draw slow circles into your clit. “I’ll pull out—“

While it was the most sensible course of action, not an ounce of you wanted that. Spurred by a fraction of sobriety, you look up at him and speak solid yet shaky words.

“You can cum inside me.”

Glazed eyes look back, attention caught entirely. Parted lips attempt to form words that are lost to open-mouthed groans. He shudders. “Fuck. Are—are you sure?”

“You know I’m on birth control.” Hiding a devilish grin, you clench around his length. He sinks further into your embrace with muttered curses. Had you ever heard him say such obscene things before? “Please.”

“How could I say no to you, gorgeous?” 

His words are barely more than a whisper, lost to the scrape of the table and slap of skin. You’re shared sobriety is spent in the short exchange. Your head rolls back, nails digging into a clothed back; his teeth graze against the inches of flesh that spill out of your bra, an indicator of delirium. Everything dissapears behind eyes screwed shut. 

The song of sex is threatening to reach its crescendo, each melodic note vibrating through your entire being. Like a tide pulled by unseen moons, a shared pulse that races beyond the confines of mortal flesh. You hold him close in the moment it engulfs you, and despite Zayne’s intoxicating effect, you are suddenly very sure that this is right. The explosion of pressure in your hips that shakes your legs is right. The perfect alignment of your bodies is right. The stuttered moans as he paints your walls white are right.

For a moment, you two bask in a comfortable silence, arms slung around his shoulder and his head in the crook of your neck. When he lifts himself to hover at eye-level, you can’t help the girlish giggle at the sight of his pretty face and that pretty blush. He smiles back, albeit confused.

“What?” He asks as he absentmindedly fixes your hair.

“You’re cute,” you whisper back. 

“Cute?” He laughs. “Wouldn’t be my first pick of words, but I’ll take it—“

Zayne, who leans in to kiss your forehead, stops just a hairs breadth away when a jarring knock sounds. It cuts through the moment like a distasteful dose of medicine. Both your heads whip towards the door as the handle jiggles. Every function in your body stops. But, for the nth time today, your lucky stars seem to align; the embedded network of ice keeps the door firmly shut. 

The relief isn’t long-lived, though. Underwear God knows where, half of Zayne’s desktop scattered on the floor, hair a mess and skin splotched in shades of purple… You cringe at the disgraceful scene. Zayne sighs, fixes his clothes, and momentarily drops down to fish for your underwear—the first step to regaining modesty. When he slips it over your ankles and up thighs glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, he offers an apologetic look.

“That’s my karma for ignoring the time,” he grumbles.

You slide off the desk and into your underwear, aided by his fingers at the waistband. As he sits them on your waist and pulls down your skirt, you reach up to fix his hair. 

“Sorry,” you say sheepishly, as if it truly was your fault. Well…half of the accountability was yours to claim.

“Don’t apologise.” Stealing a quick kiss, he adds, “Trouble.”

He slips from your grasp before you can retort.

From the view of the door, the criminalising array of pens and paper on the floor is mainly hidden, save for maybe an item or two. But even a single paper was evidence enough. Anyone witness to Zayne’s perfectionism would know as much. But by the time you recline in the chair, he’s already reaching for the thawing door handle. His tall frame blocks the view of the hallway as he pulls the door half open.

He nods. “Yvonne.”

Yvonne. Her presence teeters on the precipice of a blessing and a curse. A blessing, given your growing companionship with the kind nurse from Zayne’s division, yet a curse for precisely the same reason. She had the confidence in your connection to claw something juicy out of you in private, no doubt. Considering how often she brings up the gossip between nurses regarding Zayne and your relationship, this was information right up her alley.

Yvonne shifts her weight to the side to peer in the room—an act of curiosity you read clearly. When your eyes lock, the spark you were picturing stares right back. Interesting, her lively eyes seem to say. After wiggling her fingers in a small hello, she turns back to Zayne with a raised brow.

“Everything okay, Dr Zayne?” she asks plainly. The question is anything but plain. “This door was locked.”

Zayne’s grip on the door turns white knuckled. He clears his throat. “Everything is fine. I must have locked it by accident.”

It takes everything in you not to lose yourself to laughter. Zayne’s quick wit would one day be the death of you, but now his lack of sensibility would be the death of him. Yvonne scoffs at his jarringly poor excuse.

“Accident, huh?” Her amused gaze dances between the two of you, painfully knowing behind the war of words. “I see. Maybe be more…aware next time.”

“I will.”

She hums, posture straightening to indicate seriousness. “Well, I brought those files you requested. Sorry for not bringing them earlier—they slipped under my radar.”

“…Right. Yes. Thank you, Yvonne.”

She purses her lips for a moment and regards him with a scrutinising look. Seemingly satisfied, she says, “That’s all. It’s about time you head home, Dr Zayne. You two have fun now.”

With a wink your way, she disappears down the hallway. Zayne is quick to shut the door. You snicker.

“What’s so funny?”

“You ‘accidentally’ locked the door? Good one.”

“…Shut up.”

His words are accusing and gruff, but there’s no bite to them. He crosses the room in a few strides, taking in your features with a new softness. The two of you simply stare for a moment. Almost subconsciously, his fingers reach forward and skim the curve of your neck, following the path of fresh bruises peaking from your shirt collar. 

“Sorry for those…” he murmurs absentmindedly, lost in thought. “I don’t know why I did that.”

You chuckle. “You don’t?”

He hums. “Heat of the moment. Hickies are childish, but I…I just couldn’t help myself.”

“You may think it’s childish,” you challenge, “but I quite like them.”

A huff resembling something between a sigh and a laugh tumbles from his lips as his fingers graze the curve of your cheek. Delicate and loving, he handles you with a softness you could only read about in tragic odes. You meet his eyes with a look you can only hope shows a sliver of your own overwhelming affection. Although, regardless of the ache between your legs and skin flushed with sex, you can’t shake the disbelief. 

When did the quiet boy you shared stolen sweets with on your grandmother’s porch turn into this accomplished man who dictated your every thought? When was the first time you stole a tentative glance at your childhood crush? On the playground, perhaps. Or maybe outside the store that sold popsicles in the ruthless heat of summer. Those were memories you often basked in. Now, you begin to wonder when he first mirrored your shy gaze. 

“So,” he starts quietly, pulling you from the memories of shared smiles with a very current, very real kiss on the forehead. “About that fake date…”

[cardo-de-comer]

soo helloo and i think it's time for me to explain the deal with my characters and this whole "you're not supposed to be here" thing. EDIT: finally updated the info! Also I now have a Unvale profile that I use as a gallery and keep my ocs art in there. You can check it out if you don't want to scroll trough the ynstbh hashtag on my tumblr ha here it is

i made these characters way back in june and by today they have a lot of lore around them in my head. i even have a dream to make a game with them but it's just a dream for now so i'm gonna try to explain the main things about this story. Obviously this is a long post, although I tried to keep this stuff short. and excuse me for my writing and any mistakes, I don't usually write this much text.

It starts with the world. Alternate 15th century, humanity is almost gone and what's left of it shares quite a big city with demons and angels. However, demons and angels are usually being treated like servants - eventually one gets tired of it all, so everyone knows an uprising is just around the corner. Let's just ignore that for now.

The City has a catch of it's own - it's alive. The walls have eyes and ears and the City knows every resident by heart and soul, both figuratively and literally. Usually City acts through the King, it chooses protectors for itself, ones who have strong minds to comprehend it - they will be called the royal knights, each of them have a company of a /more wiser than the rest of them/ demon and angel to help with their tasks. Only the King and ten royal knights know that the City is alive and very talkative but they don't understand fully what it's trying to tell them. Most of them choose to ignore the voices in their head because hey, that's what you do usually in this situation, otherwise they drive you nuts.

City is also extremely emotional and it's appearance depends on it's condition. Usually it's a sunny day out and the city looks welcoming, but you don't want to be there when the City is scared: it might eat you alive by accident. Now that the environment is aside, time for the main three characters.

I need to add that all characters are entwined with each other one way or another - everything is connected here in my head and it's a shame I cannot tell you fully about how it all is.

Imri is a man of a few words, usually stoic and prefers to stay on his own side, not choosing between Sun and Moon or Hells and Heaven. Chosen to be one of the Royal Knights, he's highly trained to fight for himself and protect the City. Though he actually wanted to be a painter. Always collected and confident, he rarely shows emotion and understands little of it, as well as feelings. There is something uncanny, wrong and strange about him. Despite all of this, he still has human fears and boundaries that he has driven himself into, trying to conform to the society of his time.

The Eighth One is Imri's "true" form - it's his very Soul, that takes the shape of a eight-pointed star. It sees a true nature of things and what drives them - if there were any humans left, when the Eighth One appeared, it would probably see them as a lot of blood because blood is what moves us. With that it sees the City as it is - it looks like an abomination. Souls were made by the Gods a long long time ago - although it's hard to tell how many of them are there - the Eighth One is just the one we know about. They appear at late point of the script. The Eighth One is a glass cannon.

Royal knights get to know their angel and demon companions at least a month before they get knighted to avoid any misunderstandings. Imri doesn't mind his friends at all, although one of them causes quite a fuss sometimes /cough cough devil cough/.

Angel /they name themselves Lyra/ is an overly positive, naive and blindly kind entity. A bit childish and very kind but also endlessly naive, can do "good" to that extend it actually becomes "bad".

One of the most beloved by Gods angel, they were made an archangel back in Heaven. Ynstbh lore goes along bible a lot, so it's true that Lyra was the one who threw the Devil out of heavens when he started to cause problems. You can hear a lot of echoing voices when they talk.

Another Imri companion happened to be the Devil himself. Yes, everyone knows who this is, everyone avoids him and he's not supposed to be here at all. No one knows why exactly he's here, but maybe it's because no one dares to ask. And Imri just doesn't care enough.

He's everything you expect a devil to be. Similar to Bible, was an angel once, angered the Gods (multiple times), got thrown out, became whatever he is now. Did a lot of horrific things and plans to do more. Knows a lot more than he tells.

Sun and Moon are the gods of this universe. All powerful but also nonchalant about the world below, they focus more on their own business. Rarely show themselves to humans, so all they usually see is a celestial body.

Despite always looking calm, the Sun is always full of feelings, warmth and love. It's almost sensual in a way. However, they are very distant and prefer to keep everything to themselves. Ages ago, when the Gods were a little "younger", Sun was a bit more open and very curious, especially about humanity. The Sun is blind, however, it still can see a lot, because what is blindness to a god? They choose to be this way.

The Moon is more chaotic, likes to break and corrupt things, a lot more eager to show and tells what they feel. Their mood changes with each moon phase quite drastically. Moon has a lot of influence on a darker things and entities, such as fallen angels and demons.

Angels and demons were made by Sun and Moon and they come in all forms and sizes but those are the main population - lesser demons resemble the Devil in some ways and lesser angels look like clovers. Rivals usually (though they fought like children) but when the revolution happens, they learn to tolerate and work with each other. Humanity doesn't really have a chance.

Rev is a demon that was in charge of the City's guard. Known for his short-tempered demeanor, he was the only one who could control other demons well. When the revolution finally happened, he became the one in the lead - though he's not the one who started it. There is another God.

Time is the, well, time. It's a solitary god, that prefers to stay away from other gods, Sun and Moon. However, everything, including them, depends on Time heavily. Time resembles a bell and has a lot of candles, making you think about churches, but humans tend to forget about Time quite often so there's no churches in their honor left. They don't mind. They are a very minor character in script so they appear only at the start and the end very briefly.

And there is another being, that Imri meets a few times through the story - it's Death. Death is just having fun in this end of the world and there is a lot of work to be done. I haven't drawn them separately yet but Death appears here along with Imri.

The whole story begins at that day when Imri is supposed to be knighted. Everything seemed fine until Imri gets to hear the City for the first time and realizes that he hears and sees a lot more than everyone else. Completely overwhelmed he blacks out - even the toughest of minds often can't take it - and wakes up later only to find out that the King got killed somehow, angels and demons saw this as the starting point for a revolution and the City starts to panic.

Now Imri, guided by his companions and the voice of scared City that's crumbling and slowly drives him insane, shall travel to the center of it to find out what really happened, getting through demons and angels who are busy destroying the rest of humanity. Fun. I'm pretty sure you can get more story and details from my art - I just don't really know how to put it into text right now.

There is a lot more to this whole thing but I cannot tell the entire plot because spoilers, in case if i actually will make something out of this story. Think of it as a game lore. I'm not sure about making sth yet because i operate only on hopes and dreams and i barely have any strength lately but who knows... But now you have at least some context! And yeah, thank you if you actually read all of this, you're a hero.

Now i need to get back to drawing. Thank you all for your support. <3

[httpsleely]

HQ BOYS AS YOUR S/O—WHAT I IMAGINE THEIR INSTAGRAM WOULD BE LIKE

synopsis. hq! boys using instagram but they're down bad for you

ft. hinata shoyo, tsukishima kei, suna rintarou, kenma kozume

others. character! is aged up, hq timeskip! era

notes. idk i feel like this could be better but I'm too lazy to be bothered. this is just a silly little thought while i was drinking tea 😌

[ masterlist ]

HINATA SHOYO would post you a lot. He definitely has you on his profile picture; either it's your solo picture or a picture of you and him. His posts would only consist of four things: you, volleyball, his friend's, and himself (occasionally)—but there's more pictures of you in it than the three mentioned. His fans teases him and says that his account basically turned into a fan page of you. His bio would be in between something so sweet or so cheesy. He'll probably have a corny quote.

“Romance is icing, but the love is the cake—@your_username”

“my love: @your_username”

“My sunshine forever & always @your_username”

TSUKISHIMA KEI rarely posts you. It's not that he doesn't want to, it's just that. . . He likes having his privacy with you. but when he does post you, his fans go berserk. It's a rare opportunity for him to post you (I strongly believe he'd post you in special occasions; like anniversaries, special holidays (if you celebrate), or winning his games), so of course, everyone will have a field day about it. And when he posts you it's not just a simple picture, he'd have a full on note for you.

“Thank you @your_username for everything you do for me—for all the support you give me whether it may be coming to my games, cooking me good food, saying the exact words I need to hear, or even simply just your presence by my side. Thank you for being with me through everything. This 3rd year anniversary won't definitely be the last anniversary we'll celebrate—so here's to more love that I'll give you, pipsqueak. I love you always.”

SUNA RINTAROU post you way too much. He'd have at least five highlights about you; one for his favorite pictures of you, one for him and you, one for your unflattering pictures, one for very special occasions that he's with you, and one for videos he took of you. And he doesn't just post you on his stories, he also has tons of pictures of you on his main post. If hinata has three things he post, well, suna only has you on his instagram. People often mistake his account for your account because of how much pictures you have in it.

“Café hopping with @your_username”

“She said that I should post this picture of her @your_username”

“Idk who this person is, do you? @your_username?” (*but his post is literally you)

KENMA KOZUME posts (sometimes) whenever he feels like it. he just generally doesn't post a lot. But he posts about you on random occasions. mostly post dumps about you, like what he did in a month with you. Or simply just random pictures of you (some unflattering and some aesthetically pleasing). And he posts with no caption, just you and your @. his fans are basically dehydrated from pictures of the two of you, so they also have a field day whenever he post about you. I'm pretty sure it'd even go trending on twt (x) at least once or twice.

“🤍 @your_username”

“out & about w/ @your_username”

“ily @your_username”

© httpsleely | reposting, modificating, stealing, plagiarizing, and translating my works on any platform are strictly prohibited.

[writers-potion]

Storyediting Questions to Ask

As You Read the First Draft:

Are there place that surprised you as you read your first draft? - Why do you suppose that is? - Is there material there you'd like to expand?

What are the character really doing in this story? - Might they have issues you haven't explored fully yet?

Look to the places that drag. - These might be scenes where you have avoided dealing with something deeper. - What are the characters really thinking in these places? - What are their passions, frustrations, and desires?

Imagine alternative plotlines. - How might your plot be different if ti headed off on another tangent from various points in the story? - You don't have to follow them, but they might suggest other streams that can flow into the main plot.

Think About Structure:

Does you story play out naturally in three acts?

Is there an immediate disturbance to the Lead's world?

Does the first doorway of no return occur before the one-fifth mark?

Are the stakes being raised sufficiently?

Does the second doorway of no return put the Lead on the path to the climax?

Does the rhythm of the sotyr match your intent? If this is an action novel, does the plot move relentlessly forward? If this is a character-driven novel, do the scenes delve deeply enough?

Are there strongly motivated characters?

Have coincidence been established?

Is something happeing immediately at the beginning? Did you establish a person in a setting with a problem, onfronted with change or threat?

Is the timeline logical?

Is the story too predictable in terms of sequence? Should it be rearranged?

About Your Lead Character:

Is the character memorable? Compelling? Enough to carry a reader all the way through the plot?

A lead character has to jump off the page. Does yours?

Does this character avoid cliches? Is he capable of surprising us?

What's unique about the character?

Is the character's objective strong enough?

How does the character grow over the course of the story?

How does the character demonstrate inner strength?

About Your Opposition:

Is your oppositing character interesting?

Is he fully realized, not just a cardboard cutout?

Is he justified (at least in his own mind) in his actions?

Is he believable?

Is he strong as or stronger than the Lead?

About Your Story's Adhesive Nature:

Is the conflcit between the Lead and opposition crucial for both?

Why can't they just walk away? What holds them together?

About Your Scene:

Are the big scenes big enough? Surprising enough? Can you make them more original, unanticipated, and draw them out for all they are worth?

Is there enough conflict in the scenes?

What is the least memorable scene? Cut it!

What else can be cut in order to move the story relentlessly forward?

Does the climactic scene come too fast (through a writer fatigue)? Can you make it more, write it for all it's worth?

Does we need a new minor subplot to build up a saggin midsection?

About Your Minor Characters:

What is their purpose in the plot?

Are they unique and colorful?

Polishing Questions:

Are you hooking the reader from the beginning?

Are suspenseful scenes drawn out for the ultimate tension?

Can any information be delayed? This creates tension in the reader, always a good thing.

Are there enough surprises?

Are character-reaction scenes deep and interesting?

Read chapter ending for read-on prompts

Are there places you can replace describing how a character feels with actions?

Do I use visual, sensory-laden words?

For a Dialogue Read-Through:

Dialogue is almost always strengthened by cutting words within the lines.

In dialogue, be fair to both sides. Don't give one character all the good lines.

Greate dialogue surprises the reader and creates tension. View it like a game, where the players are trying to outfox each other.

Can you get more conflict into dialogue, even emong allies?

If you like my blog, buy me a coffee☕ and find me on instagram! 📸

[viperwhispered]

Notes on Jamil's speech patterns

I was supposed to just pick out some examples of typical Jamil lines. How he speaks, the vocabulary he uses, things like that. Something I could easily refer to when writing to get the tone right.

But then it kinda blew up, oop – because it’s hard to talk about how a character speaks without also dipping into why they say whatever they say.

Plus then I wanted to get examples of Jamil in different moods, and could not resist some poignant things that were more related to his character or backstory rather than strictly the speech patterns themselves, so… It expanded a bit.

Anyways. Some things I noticed he tends to do:

Sighs (more than I realized)

Snarks

Tch (though could be a more general twst writing choice too)

Stutters when he’s flustered / embarrassed / caught of guard (what a cutie)

Goes ahem like an old man when he’s trying to get back on track in those off-kilter moments

Kinda formal with his manner of speech and choice of words (especially in servant mode) (I always worry I exaggerate this but he sure does do that)

But there’s still some animatedness with the way he emphasises words, for example

(so long-suffering and ready to bark out directions to Kalim oh boy - the way the directness just comes through when he loses it)

sugarcoating his opinions if he doesn’t feel like he can say them plainly (tyrant becomes rigorous, etc.)

sarcasm, sometimes with a side of deadpan, sometimes with a smirk

“Good grief” (another thing I didn't realize was that much of a catchphrase)

Very mild on the level of insults & swears honestly, (I mean, "drat"?) but I imagine this is more of a result of the game's rating (I guess for in-game reasons we can say he's been very conditioned by his upbringing)

I put the screenshots that seemed telling, and some related notes, on to a google sheet. That way one can filter and order it in various ways.

The sheet is probably best viewed on a computer or another larger screen, the screenshots might make it a bit difficult to navigate on mobile.

I did go in with the assumption that Jamil might speak differently pre-overblot (when the servant mask is firmly in place) and post-overblot (at least those occasions where he allows himself to be more honest). Like, there’s the sycophantic (as Leona calls it) flatterer, versus when Jamil’s honestly voicing his own thoughts. Which also shows in how I chose to categorize the screenshots.

Of course events are a bit wibbly wobbly in relation to the main story so can’t be placed in the timeline in the same way, but there are still those occasions where it seems you can tell the difference between the servant mask and a Jamil who’s not saying things just for the sake of appearances.

So, to explain the logic of the sheet:

First column has a screenshot of something Jamil says. The second two columns give the source.

The column for whether or not this happened before or after the overblot is only really used for main story things, since event stories are kinda murky timeline-wise.

Next is whether Jamil seems to be putting on the servant mask or speaking more honestly. This is where get more to interpretation territory, and I’ve not applied it to every screenshot (either because that didn’t seem like the relevant part for that line, or because I couldn’t tell).

The last column of the sheet is where we get most to my personal interpretations. So of course you might read these lines differently than I do, and that’s completely fine, these are simply the aspects that seemed poignant to me. Some notes are simply pointing out specific word choices or style of speech, others delve more into character analysis side of things.

Totally fine if you want to copy this file or modify it to your own needs. All I ask is that you don’t pass off anything I wrote as your own thoughts.

Order of lines is based purely on the order the pics were in my screenshots folder, so guess this is also an insight on the order I played things in, lol.

Tagging some jamil peeps in case y'all find this useful:

@crystallizsch @diodellet @moonyasnow @twstgo @lex752

@majestickitty @viperbunnies

[ffxivtranslations]

Why did Haurchefant have to die? Interview Translation

I translated part of an interview with Yoshi-P and the two main scenario writers of HW, Ishikawa and Oda. It's about Haurchefant's character arc and why he had to be sacrificed. At least Oda tried to save him, bless his heart!

Interviewer: In 2.x, Haurchefant appeared to be a cheerful character, but in 3.0 his role takes a serious turn. What was the reason for this change?

Ishikawa: In the 2.x series I was in charge of his dialogue as the Character Concept designer, but in 2.55 I felt I had properly written down his important points and position in society, so I could hand him over to Oda and Maehiro for 3.0. Because of this I don’t think anything changed about him from the start; how he cares about his friend, or his essence as a knight.

Oda: I agonised over Haurchefant’s fate right until the very end… over and over I suggested plots in which he might somehow survive.

Yoshi-P: Those plots were too contrived; I couldn’t approve them! LOL In depicting this war between humans and dragons, I thought it was wrong to only have the dragons’ side experience loss after loss and not have the humans make any sacrifices. So that’s why I told them to properly decide the fate of every character. The fate of every character should have been decided early in the development phase of Patch 2.3. So Haurchefant’s fate was decided by then too, right?

Oda: Yes, that’s right. That’s why in Patch 2.4 and 2.5, when I wrote all his un-voiced lines, I was already doing so conscious of the fact that he would die later on.

Yoshi-P: Haurchefant is a character that is not just loved by players, but also loved by the development team. But since we decided on the plot twist where he would become the Warrior of Light's shield, we were prepared for the worst. Because of that we were able to write the Patch 2.5 scene, in the Falling Snows, where he reaches out to the Warrior of Light in his time of need. I think that such a long build-up led to the deep emotional impact of Haurchefant’s final moments. In that way, I think the deciding his fate early on was connected to how much importance he had to the story.

Oda: However, seeing how warmly players reacted to him, I feared that having Haurchefant lose his life would cause some players to quit the game forever, and fought desperately against it to the end…

Yoshi-P: He kept giving me re-takes of the plot where Haurchefant is able to come back to life, and eventually I remember getting quite mad at him. At one point, the 3.0 ending ceremony scene had Haurchefant appear in a wheelchair and I yelled “Hey, isn’t that the same as Thancred in ARR?!”. I’m pretty sure I shouted at him LOL

[mikaylathenerd5]

Somewhere Between Silence | Roman Reigns

Main Mainlist ৹ Join My Taglist

Summary: Over two years after a breakup neither of them recovered from, Roman runs into Nalani at a quiet grocery store—with a toddler who has his eyes. Grief, guilt, and the weight of silence crack open everything he thought he buried. Now he’s faced with a truth he never expected and a second chance he might not deserve.

Word Count: ~5.8k

Content Warnings: This story contains emotional tension, mentions of absent fatherhood, off-screen breakup and heartbreak, and grief related to missed time with a child. Nothing explicitly graphic, but the tone is heavy and introspective. Please take care of yourselves while reading.

Author’s Note: This one’s close to my heart. I wanted to explore what it feels like to come face-to-face with everything you missed—and still choose to try anyway. This is Part 1 of what’s looking like a slow-burn second chance fic, full of silence, softness, and hope that isn’t easy.

Thank you for reading—likes, reblogs, comments, or even just making it to the end means everything to me.

💌 Feel free to join the taglist or scream in the inbox. Let me know if you want a Pt. 2 🩵✨

“A man can miss a thousand moments and still choose to show up for the next one.”

The doors chimed low—barely a whisper—but Roman heard it.

He always heard the small things now—how silence could stretch and pull at you in ways noise never could. Grief warped his hearing—like a second pulse beneath his skin, tightening everything inside until he could barely think. You could be surrounded by people and still feel the absence of just one, sharp and unforgiving, echoing just beneath the surface. It was like a sixth sense he never wanted—tightening around his ribs, creeping in when he least expected it.

He didn’t know why he came in. He hated grocery shopping. Usually had someone do it for him. But this spot was tucked off a side street in the quiet part of Atlanta. No fans. No cameras. Just jazz playing low and light through the speakers and oranges stacked like sunshine in every corner. The kind of place with handwritten signs and employees who smiled with their eyes. It was the first time in weeks he felt like a man again, not a brand. Something simple. Something still.

And then he heard it.

A laugh—familiar, soft, round.

His spine went stiff.

His head turned on instinct, breath caught halfway in his chest. For a second, he thought he was wrong. That his mind was playing tricks again. That the universe wasn’t cruel enough to play this kind of game.

But then—

Her.

Nalani.

She stood in profile near a basket of strawberries, bent slightly as she steadied a toddler’s reach. Her hair was longer now, thicker curls tumbling over her shoulders, catching the light like strands of ink tipped in gold. No makeup. Gold hoops. Skin that still looked like honey beneath soft morning light. The sight of her hit like muscle memory—familiar, intimate, disarming. His body swayed forward a step before he could think better of it, as if the past had physically pulled him into its orbit. Roman’s grip tightened around the cart handle instinctively, a jolt running through his body like his nerves misfired all at once. His mouth dried, his hands freezing on the cart handle, as if time itself had stalled around his grip.

And beside her—gripping the hem of her dress with one chubby hand—was a little boy.

A chill spidered up Roman’s spine, the kind that made his fingertips go numb and his ears ring like he’d stepped into a different dimension.

The child was small. Maybe no more than two years old. Thick dark curls. Soft golden-brown skin. And something else. Something deeper.

He couldn’t stop staring.

The boy held a green toy truck in one hand and pointed with the other.

"Mama!" he chirped, voice still sweet and round. "Red ones! I want red ones!"

Mama.

Roman’s stomach twisted. Her kid?

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

He just looked like her. That was all. That had to be it. The shape of his eyes, the curve of his cheek—those could be hers, right? Roman’s brain scrambled for denial, for logic, for anything to explain away what his gut already knew. But it unraveled fast. Too fast. His thoughts spun, grabbing at any excuse—maybe she was babysitting. Maybe he was someone else’s child. Maybe this wasn’t what it looked like.

Except… he didn’t. Not entirely.

There was a shape to the boy’s mouth, a weight in his eyes.

The kind Roman saw in the mirror every morning.

He laughed softly, rocking on his feet. He furrowed his brow in a familiar, deeply embedded way.

A sharp inhale scraped his throat, like the air had turned to glass in his lungs.

"No," he muttered under his breath. "No way."

The kid bent down with his little knees and stuck his tongue out while trying to reach a loose berry.

Roman felt the air shift. His jaw clenched before he could stop it, throat bobbing around a breath that never made it out.

That was his look. His mother had teased him for doing that as a toddler. A habit he never outgrew.

And suddenly—he couldn’t breathe.

The apple slipped from his hand and hit the floor with a dull thud. In that moment, Roman felt just as bruised—something soft and broken rolling out of reach. It rolled to a stop near the boy’s sneaker, soft and bruised.

Nalani turned first to the apple, then slowly lifted her gaze to him.

Time stalled.

She didn’t gasp. Didn’t stumble. But her fingers tensed, a flicker of something passing across her face—maybe shock, maybe something more. But her fingers tightened slightly around the strap of her tote, the only crack in her otherwise flawless composure.

Just… stillness.

Her eyes locked on his like a switchblade snapping open.

She stood slowly, one hand adjusting the tote strap on her shoulder.

Roman’s knees nearly buckled. His chest moved like he’d forgotten how to breathe. He’d taken hits in the ring that hurt less than this.

He stepped forward.

"That’s…" His voice cracked. "That’s your son?"

She blinked. Once. Calm.

"No," she said quietly. "He’s your son."

Silence dropped like a blade.

Then, softer—after a long, almost cruel pause—she added:

"Roman."

The name landed like a punch to the gut—silent, wind-stealing, final.

His throat dried instantly. His jaw worked, trying to form words he no longer owned.

"You were…" he managed. "You were pregnant?"

"Yes."

"And you didn’t tell me?"

"No."

"Why would you—"

"You were already gone," she said. "You just hadn’t walked out yet."

The words hit him harder than a punch. Roman flinched, the breath catching in his throat, the ache rising so fast he had to lock his jaw to keep it from trembling. It wasn’t just a line—it was a truth he hadn’t been brave enough to admit until now.

The boy—Maleko—stooped to pick up the bruised apple. It was soft in his hand, damp from the floor. Roman’s chest squeezed watching him cradle it so gently—like even something hurt was still worth holding onto.

"I got it, Mama," he said, wobbling a little as he held it up.

Nalani crouched to take it. "Thank you, baby," she murmured, brushing his curls out of his face.

Her hand lingered there, on his tiny shoulder, and Roman’s throat went tight. A sharp ache bloomed beneath his ribs, like watching something sacred he no longer had a right to touch. Roman’s chest clenched, the weight of helplessness pressing into him like the grocery bag strap digging into his palm, unnoticed until now. Steadying. Grounding. Her thumb rubbed slow circles against his shirt, like if she let go—even for a second—she might crack open. Like she had to hold her own body together with that single touch.

Roman stood frozen.

He looked at her. Then at the boy. Then back.

"He has my name," he whispered. "My blood. And I didn’t even know he existed."

"You didn’t care to know," she said.

"I didn’t get the chance."

She raised her brow. For half a second—just a flicker—her lip trembled. But it was gone before it could mean anything.

"I gave you every chance, Roman. You didn’t take any of them."

"What’s his name?"

"Maleko."

His breath stuttered.

She’d given him a Samoan name.

Even when she hadn’t given him a single word.

Maleko looked up at Roman then, blinking. Curious. Small. The world seemed to pause in that breath—Roman’s heart thudding louder in his ears, the weight of recognition thick in the air—before the boy moved again. He squinted at him like he was trying to place a memory, and Roman’s breath hitched, a sudden sharp pull like someone had yanked the air out of his chest before he could even take the breath, then gave a shy, crooked smile—the kind that lit up his whole face without warning. He tilted his head slightly and rested one hand on his hip—exactly like Roman had just done. The echo of Roman’s stance in that tiny body gutted him.

Roman’s heart shattered in silence. In Maleko’s tilted head and crooked smile, he saw a thousand moments he’d never get back—sippy cups, scraped knees, sleepy yawns—and something deeper: a resemblance that left no room for doubt, only grief and fragile hope.

"Who dat?" the boy asked, pointing the toy truck.

Nalani crouched again, voice low.

"Just someone Mama used to know, baby."

The words split him open.

Roman’s guilt twisted into something sharp. Anger flared—not at her, but at the ache of everything he missed.

"You didn’t even try," he said, voice breaking. "You just decided for both of us."

Nalani stood, slow and deliberate. "I decided for him," she said. "And I’d do it again."

He wanted to fight it. To argue. To demand something back. But the memory of her walking away that night—her hoodie too big on her, her voice too small to stay—rose like smoke in his chest. He’d already lost that fight before he even noticed it was happening. But he couldn’t. Because deep down, he knew—he would’ve made it worse back then. He wasn’t who Maleko needed. Not then.

"I want to know him," Roman rasped. "Please."

She looked at him long and hard.

"I don’t know if I want that yet," she said. "He doesn’t know you. And I’ve spent two years keeping his world safe."

He swallowed hard.

She reached down and took Maleko’s hand.

"Come on, baby," she said. "We’ll get you a smoothie before we go home."

Roman didn’t follow.

He didn’t speak.

He just watched her walk away—her son in tow, his curls bouncing as he skipped beside her, the toy truck now dragging along the edge of the cart.

And when he finally looked down, the apple was still on the floor.

Soft. Bruised. Just like the piece of him lying on that floor—unseen, left behind. The silence that greeted him now echoed like the one he carried in his chest, sharp with grief, the same silence that had followed him in and never let go. Birthdays, first words, first steps. A lifetime’s worth of memories he’d never even been invited to. And the silence she’d left in her wake? He was still sitting in it, long after the door closed.

Roman didn’t remember leaving the store.

One second, he was standing over the bruised apple. The next, he was outside, leaning against the hood of his truck, sun beating down on him like it had a personal grudge.

His shirt stuck to his back. Not from heat. From nerves. From shame. His pulse thudded behind his eyes. Too hard. Too loud.

He couldn’t feel his hands. His fingers were curled so tight into his palms they’d gone numb, but he hadn’t noticed until he looked down and realized he was trembling.

The air didn’t help. It was warm—early spring heat with a breeze—but it might as well have been ice.

He had a son.

A son.

Two years of moments. Two years of tiny shoes and teething cries. Of midnight feedings and first steps. All of it—gone. Erased from his hands like he was never meant to hold any of it.

"He doesn’t know you."

That line repeated over and over. It throbbed. Like it lived under his skin now.

Roman scrubbed a hand over his face, then over his beard, like the pressure might make something real. But it didn’t. It just left him feeling rawer than before.

He could still hear Maleko’s voice.

"Who dat?"

He hadn’t even said Dada. Had never said it to him.

Roman’s stomach turned.

He sat down on the edge of the truck bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He hadn’t cried in years.

But now?

His throat felt tight. His vision blurred. The kind of grief that didn’t roar—it sank. Quiet. Heavy. Unrelenting.

He remembered her barefoot in his kitchen, months before the end. Wearing his hoodie. Laughing. He’d kissed her temple. Said something about "someday." The same someday she’d once believed in—the same word she threw back at him in the last message she ever sent.

Somewhere behind him, a car alarm chirped. A kid laughed across the street. Life went on, oblivious.

But for Roman, time had stopped the second Nalani looked him in the face and said, "He’s your son."

A smashed grape on the pavement near the front tire caught his eye. He stared at it too long, chest tight. Everything was soft and ruined now.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there.

Didn’t know if it was minutes or an hour before the ache moved to rage—at himself. At what he lost. At how little he could do now.

"You should’ve known," he muttered, voice hoarse. "You should’ve fucking known."

He’d missed everything.

But maybe—just maybe—he hadn’t missed it all. And if she gave him even half a chance… what kind of man would he have to become to deserve it?

Over Two Years Ago

It started with a fork.

She’d left it in the sink, and Roman, half-distracted on a conference call, had tossed it in the dishwasher with the rest of the dishes. Just another thing to cross off the list.

But when she came home, she saw it. The silver tine bent slightly. The kind of detail only someone who cared too much would notice.

And she didn’t say a word.

The silence had weight. Not tension. Not anger. Just absence.

Roman stood at the end of the hallway, watching the shape of her through the cracked bedroom door. Nalani sat on the edge of their bed, elbows on her knees, staring at nothing. She wasn’t crying. That almost made it worse.

“I ordered Thai,” he said. His voice felt too loud.

She didn’t answer right away. Just rubbed her thumb over the edge of her ring finger—bare, for weeks now.

“I’m not hungry,” she finally replied.

Roman leaned against the frame. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

Nalani shrugged.

The TV was on in the bedroom. One of those home renovation shows she used to love. The volume was low, just enough to distract, not entertain. Paint colors, crown molding—none of it made a dent in the air between them.

“Do you wanna talk?” he asked, more out of guilt than intention.

She turned her head slightly. Not to face him—just enough to acknowledge she heard. “No point.”

That landed harder than anything else that night.

He walked in. Sat at the far edge of the bed, like the space between them had always been there. The distance wasn’t just physical—it had settled into the sheets, the floorboards, the walls.

“What do you want me to say?” he muttered. “You think I haven’t been trying?”

Nalani didn’t laugh, but he heard the breath she held back. “You’ve been reacting. Not trying.”

He said nothing.

“You show up when it’s convenient. You talk when it’s easy. You love me like I’m a job you forgot you signed up for.”

That one hurt.

And maybe she meant it to. But the worst part was—it wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even a fight. It was exhaustion. Finality.

“I never meant to make you feel like that,” Roman said quietly.

“You didn’t have to mean it.” Her voice was small now. “You just did.”

They sat in silence.

The show on the TV changed. A new couple came on, smiling wide, holding hands. Roman watched it for a second. Then looked at her again.

“I don’t want to lose you.”

Nalani nodded once. “Then you should’ve held on before I started slipping.”

He didn’t know what to say to that.

“I—” he started, but the words jammed in his throat. He didn’t even know what he was trying to say. Sorry? Stay? Please?

And she didn’t wait for him to figure it out.

She stood up, crossed the room, and picked up a throw blanket from the chair. She wrapped it around her shoulders—not to leave, but to close herself off.

“I’ll stay on the couch,” she said.

Roman blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m tired, Roman. I’m tired of sleeping beside someone who feels so far away.”

Then she turned the volume up just a little, pulled the blanket tighter, and walked out of the room.

Not out of his life.

Not yet.

But close.

He sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, the remote abandoned beside him. He stared at the muted glow of the screen, at the couple smiling through drywall dust and fresh paint, and wondered how the hell everything had turned so cold.

Cold sheets. Cold air. The faint scent of her shampoo still on the pillow next to him.

He didn’t chase her that night. He thought about it—rising, saying something, anything—but the weight of it all kept him frozen in place.

Didn’t say what he should’ve said.

The hoodie she wore that night would still be in her closet over two years later, untouched. It still smelled faintly like him—warm cotton, a hint of cedar and smoke—and every time she opened the door, she pretended not to see it folded neatly on the shelf like a memory she couldn’t quite throw away.

And in the quiet, Nalani’s absence filled the room louder than any goodbye.

He sat there for a long time, staring at the wall like it might give him back what he’d just lost. She used to pull him closer in the middle of the night—just to feel his heartbeat. And it was always the hoodie she wore when she did. That same one folded neat on a shelf now, holding memories he never deserved to forget. Now, she could barely stand to share the same room.

He thought silence meant peace. He knew better now.

He hadn’t touched his dinner.

The takeout box sat unopened on the kitchen island, condensation pooling around the edge like sweat. The house was dark except for the glow of the TV playing on mute.

Roman sat on the couch, phone in hand, thumb hovering over a contact he hadn’t called in over two years.

He hadn’t saved her under a name. Just the emoji she used to sign off with: 🌙

It was still there.

He didn’t know what he thought would happen. That maybe the number would’ve changed. That time would’ve deleted it for him.

But it hadn’t.

He opened their old message thread, his thumb hesitating midair as if touching the screen might set off a landmine. His hands felt unsteady—too big, too clumsy for something this delicate. His shoulders hunched in toward the phone like the walls were closing in, breath tight in his chest as he scrolled.

The last message was hers.

“You said someday. That’s not a real date.” Delivered.

He read it over and over.

Then scrolled up. Through a hundred messages. Through photos. A blurry picture of her holding a grocery bag up like a trophy. A mirror selfie of her in his hoodie. A timestamped text from 2AM that just read: “Come home.”

He locked the phone and dropped it beside him.

He couldn’t reach out yet.

Not without something more than guilt.

He walked into the guest room. The one she’d used sometimes when they fought. Opened the closet. She hadn’t taken everything when she left. A few books. A sweater. A small drawstring bag with a cracked bottle of hair oil.

At the back of the shelf—folded too neatly to be ignored—was the hoodie.

His.

Hers.

He sat on the bed with it in his lap. Ran his hands over the fabric like it might speak.

Maleko’s smile lived in his mind now. The way he tilted his head. That voice.

“Who dat?”

Roman exhaled shakily.

He didn’t know if Nalani would let him back in.

But he knew this:

He wasn’t going to vanish again.

He got up and grabbed his keys.

Thirty minutes later, he was parked outside a familiar door—Jey’s place. He sat for a full minute, fingers drumming against the steering wheel, breath shallow. What was he even going to say? How do you open your mouth and admit you missed your own child? Eventually, he got out, walked up, and knocked.

Jey opened it in sweats, hair twisted up, one brow raised. “Yo. You good?”

Roman didn’t answer right away. Just stepped in, shut the door, and pressed a hand to his chest like he was trying to hold something in.

“Talk to me,” Jey said, already switching the TV off.

Roman sat down heavily. “I saw her today.”

Jey didn’t need to ask who.

“With a little boy,” Roman said. Voice flat. “A toddler.”

Jey’s jaw tightened.

“He’s mine.”

Jey sat down across from him. “Shit.”

Roman laughed—harsh, humorless. “She named him Maleko.”

Jey looked at him, eyes narrowing. “You sure?”

“I don’t need a test. I saw his eyes. His stance. He held himself like me, Jey. He even mimicked me.”

Jey exhaled slowly. “Damn, Uce.”

“I missed everything.”

They sat in silence.

Then Jey said, “So what now? Because I can see it’s tearing you up, and I’m not just asking for you—I’m asking for that little boy too. He didn’t ask for any of this, but now you know he’s yours. So what are you gonna do about it, Uce?”

Roman looked at him. Really looked at him. His shoulders sank slightly, a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding slipping out slow and shaky. “I think I need to earn a chance to know him. To know her. I don’t think I get to ask for it. Not yet.”

Jey nodded slowly. “That’s true. But you do get to show her you’re not the same man you were. Start there.”

Roman rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I don’t even know what that looks like. I don’t even know who I am to that kid.”

“You’re his father,” Jey said. “Not because you made him. But because you show up. Now you show up, Uce.”

Roman’s chest tightened. “What if it’s not enough?”

Jey leaned forward. “Then you keep showing up until it is.”

Roman didn’t answer. Because that he could do. Even if it broke him open in the process. Even if it meant starting small—showing up at the library’s toddler hour, researching parenting classes, or quietly googling therapists who specialized in fatherhood and reconciliation. He didn’t know what she’d allow. But he’d be ready when she did. Ready with the hoodie in his lap and Maleko’s voice in his ears—haunting him, guiding him, reminding him of everything he still had a chance to be.

Nalani hadn’t slept.

The kind of not-sleep that clings to your bones. That plays memories behind your eyes like a projector reel with no off switch. Roman’s face. His voice. That fractured expression when he saw Maleko. It haunted her in a way she hated—because it wasn’t anger that lingered.

It was ache.

She sat at the edge of the bed, Maleko’s monitor soft and green beside her, heart ticking too loud in her ears. She’d meant what she said—she had protected their son. Had done everything alone. Had been enough. She’d rocked him through fevers, cried quietly in the bathroom while he slept, held her breath through first milestones with no one to share them with. And yet…

Seeing Roman had cracked something open. Not because she needed him. But because, for a second, she saw the man he might’ve been—still could be—if he chose right. She hated that a part of her wanted him to show up. That part was still soft. Still stupid. Still his.

Her phone buzzed.

It was a number she still hadn’t deleted. One she couldn’t.

Roman: Would it be okay if I came to the library this week? Just to watch storytime. No pressure. No expectations.

Roman: Only if you’re okay with it.

He remembered once—back when they still shared Sunday mornings—how she’d talked about the little library on Peachtree. How it had beanbag chairs and soft carpets. How she used to dream of taking their future baby to storytime there. He hadn’t said much back then. Just nodded. Maybe kissed her shoulder.

But apparently, he’d remembered enough.

She typed “No.” Then erased it. Tried “Not ready.” Deleted that too. Her chest felt too tight for something as simple as a reply.

It wasn’t about forgiveness. It was about safety. About making sure her son only saw love—never its collapse.

She stared at the screen. Thumb hovered. Then, finally—

Nalani: Thursday. 10:30.

She didn’t send anything else. But when she tucked Maleko’s jacket into his little bag the night before, she added an extra granola bar.

Just in case someone else was hungry.

She zipped the bag shut like a decision. Quiet. Small. But not nothing. A hush against the noise of doubt still swirling in her chest. Like a whisper in a storm—a yes she hadn’t spoken aloud yet.

Just in case he really came.

The first thing he noticed was how loud the quiet was.

Not the kind that haunted him. Not anymore. This quiet was stitched with whispers, giggles, and the low rustle of pages. The soft squeak of sneakers on carpet. Crayons clicking in little fists. A dragon puppet swaying in the hands of a librarian with kind eyes and a lilting voice.

And there—dead center on the rug—was Maleko.

Cross-legged. Focused. Unaware.

Roman stood near the back of the children’s section. Hat low. Hands deep in his Nike hoodie. Trying to slow his breathing.

He didn’t look at Nalani right away.

Didn’t need to.

He could feel her watching him from across the room. Guarded. Tense. The kind of look that warned him she remembered everything.

He kept his eyes on the felt board. On the soft shapes and smiling faces. On anything but her.

Maleko laughed. High and full and wide-mouthed. The puppet had just mispronounced 'banana'—'blanana'—and the kids lost it.

Roman bit back his own smile.

He didn’t move. Didn’t step forward. Just stayed where he was, soaking it in. Every second. Every sound. And for a moment, he doubted whether he had any right to be here—to witness this softness, this safety—when he hadn’t earned it.

This was what he’d missed.

Not just milestones.

The rhythm. The everyday joy. The quiet miracles.

A little girl near him dropped a crayon. Roman crouched and picked it up before her mom could react. Handed it over with a quiet nod.

He didn’t realize Nalani had noticed.

She had.

Her arms were folded, but her expression had shifted—barely. But enough. She watched him crouch to hand the crayon to the little girl—a small, quiet act—but there was a softness in his smile that caught her off guard, a warmth she hadn’t seen in years. Her grip loosened. Her jaw clenched. And then Roman handed a book to a child too shy to ask for one, and she saw it again—that flicker of softness. Like she didn’t know whether to fold or brace.

Her arms were folded, but her expression had shifted—barely. But enough.

Roman looked at his son again.

He watched another dad lean in and whisper something to his daughter. She giggled, her fingers tangled in his beard. Roman looked down. He’d never even held Maleko’s hand.

He blinked hard, throat dry. His feet itched with the urge to leave—to not ruin it. But Maleko laughed again, and Roman stayed.

Then Maleko glanced over his shoulder mid-story. Brief. Innocent. A flicker of curiosity in his small face. He watched Roman adjust how he stood—and without thinking, Maleko mirrored it.

Nalani saw it. Her breath caught.

And Roman just gave the tiniest nod.

Nothing more.

Nothing yet.

But he’d come.

He was here.

And for the first time in years, maybe that was enough to begin.

They locked eyes—Nalani and Roman—just once. Sharp, unintentional, and unspoken.

That tilt of Maleko’s head—Roman had seen it in mirrors. But the calm in his eyes? That was all Nalani.

A page turned. A child yawned. And somewhere between the silence, a second chance took root.

Nalani didn’t know what scared her more—that he came, or that part of her had hoped he would.

Roman caught up with them in the parking lot. Not too close. Just enough to be helpful.

Maleko had run ahead with a burst of post-storytime energy, nearly tripping over his own feet as he made for the car. Nalani caught up just in time to steady him, murmuring soft reprimands as she adjusted the strap of his little backpack.

Roman didn’t speak at first. Just bent down and opened the car door for her.

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, but the words never made it out. She saw the effort. She looked away before it could mean anything.

“Thanks,” she said cautiously, not looking at him.

He nodded.

“Let me help,” he offered, and she hesitated—but didn’t say no.

Together, they buckled Maleko into his seat. Nalani remembered him once carrying both grocery bags and her purse after a long day, cracking a dumb joke just to see her smile. His hands had always been careful, even when his words weren’t. Now, Roman’s hands moved carefully, like he was afraid to touch anything too long. When Maleko yawned, Roman smiled and tapped the crown still perched on his curls.

“Looks good on you, little man.”

Maleko grinned sleepily. Then leaned back with his hands behind his head, mimicking a pose Roman used to take on lazy Sundays. Nalani noticed. Her jaw tightened.

Nalani watched them both. Watched the way Roman pulled back slowly, giving her space even while his eyes lingered.

She didn’t invite him in.

But she didn’t rush him away either.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, started the car, and pulled her door shut with a soft thunk.

Roman stepped back.

He didn’t say goodbye.

Didn’t have to.

He just stood there, hands in his pockets, as she backed out of the space and turned toward home.

The car was quiet.

Not heavy like it had been two nights ago—but soft. Muffled. The kind of quiet where peace didn’t mean comfort, just distance waiting to be crossed.

Maleko was in his car seat, swinging his legs and humming. His curls bounced with each kick against the fabric, and he was still clutching the red paper crown the librarian gave out after storytime.

Nalani kept her hands at ten and two, knuckles pale. The light changed, and she turned left out of the parking lot like muscle memory. They always took the long way home on Thursdays.

She glanced at him in the rearview.

He was still humming.

Still content.

He hadn’t even noticed how hard she was breathing.

“What did you think of storytime today, mi amor?” she asked softly, voice breaking the air like a ripple in still water.

Maleko nodded. “I liked it,” he said, bouncing the crown in his hands. “The lady was funny.”

“She was,” Nalani agreed. She swallowed hard. “Did you see anyone else you liked?”

Maleko’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head, mirroring the way he had in the library.

“The man,” he said.

Nalani’s fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

“What man?” she asked, even though she already knew.

Maleko looked out the window. “The one who helped the girl. He was big.”

A beat.

Then: “He looked nice.”

She wished it didn’t matter. Wished her son didn’t already know how to spot goodness in a man he hadn’t even met.

Nalani didn’t answer.

She kept driving. Past the diner. Past the park. Past the place Roman used to get his hair cut every third Friday like clockwork.

Maleko yawned, dragging the crown over his face like a superhero mask.

“He smiled at me,” he mumbled.

Nalani blinked.

The light ahead turned yellow. She didn’t speed up.

She pulled into their driveway minutes later. Didn’t kill the engine.

Maleko was already nodding off, the crown slipping off his head.

Nalani sat with her hands still on the wheel.

She didn’t cry.

Didn’t speak.

She just stared out the windshield and let the silence press in again—soft, uncertain, and not entirely unwelcome. She stared out the windshield, breath held tight in her chest, like she was waiting for the quiet to decide what came next.

Roman sat on the edge of his bed, the hoodie still folded across the back of a chair. The house was quiet, the kind that used to settle him—now it just echoed. Too wide. Too still.

His phone sat screen-up on the nightstand. He stared at it. Picked it up. Put it down. Picked it up again.

He opened a blank message thread. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Roman: I know I don’t get to ask for anything. But I’m going to try anyway.

He paused. Backspaced. Started again.

Roman: If there’s ever a day Maleko has a checkup, or a preschool visit, or even a park trip… I’d like to come. Just to be near. I won’t say anything. I won’t cross your line. You set the pace. I’ll follow it.

He exhaled through his nose. Deleted the whole thing.

Typed again.

Roman: I started seeing someone. A therapist. Just so you know. I want to learn how to do this right.

Another pause.

Roman: If you ever need help—with him, with anything—I’m here. No pressure. No expectations.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then hit send.

The message flew off like a confession, like a promise written in digital air.

He tossed the phone on the bed and pressed both hands to his face, breathing deep. Not in regret—but in weight.

This was step one.

But actions had to follow. He thought of the birthdays that had come and gone, the milestones unmarked, the hundreds of days where Maleko had gone to bed without ever knowing his name. That weight couldn’t be undone by a single message. But it could be the first crack in the wall he’d built himself into.

That weekend, Roman showed up to his first fatherhood support group. Sat in the back, hoodie pulled low, heart pounding in his chest like a damn drum. He didn’t talk much—just listened. To men who’d lost time, fumbled love, missed too many milestones. Men trying to do better. Be better.

“I missed everything,” Roman finally said when it was his turn. “But I don’t want to miss him, too.”

Later that night, he mailed a package.

Inside: a worn copy of Where the Wild Things Are. His own name scrawled on the inside cover from when he was a kid. Tucked beneath the front flap, a note written in his stiff, careful handwriting:

Thought maybe he’d like this one. Used to be my favorite. No pressure. —R

He changed his phone wallpaper that night. Deleted numbers that didn’t matter. Installed a co-parenting app, even if she never added him. Set reminders for pediatrician timelines. Milestone tracking.

And then he sat back on the edge of his bed.

The hoodie was still on the chair.

But for once, he didn’t reach for it.

Because this was still step one.

And if it took a hundred more just to earn a conversation, he’d take every one of them.

📝 Author’s Note

This one… cracked me open. I wanted to explore what happens after silence—after the missed calls, the unread texts, the words we should’ve said but didn’t. Roman didn’t just lose time. He lost moments. And sometimes, the most devastating part of healing is realizing the clock never stopped. It just kept ticking without you.

If you made it to the end, thank you—truly. For holding space for this story, for Roman’s unraveling, for Nalani’s guarded softness, and for Maleko’s quiet, everyday magic.

I don’t know what comes next for them just yet.

🩵 If this moved you, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Comments, reblogs, tags, or even just quiet feelings you’re still holding—I see you, and I appreciate you more than I can say.

✨ I love interacting with y’all. Truly. Some of the coolest, most thoughtful people I know are right here, and I’m constantly in awe of the energy you bring. Never be shy in my comments or inbox.

📌 If you’re on the Somewhere Between Silence series taglist and would like to join my main taglist for all updates, let me know in the comments or fill out my Google Form. There are so many more stories on my masterlist if you're in the mood for more heartbreak, healing, smut, or softness.

Thank you for being here. — Kayla 🩵✨

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@romanreignsluver1

[novaursa]

Hello:) I love your writing and I saw that you're still taking requests, so I wanted to ask if you'd be interested in writing about my idea??

So the whole idea is Cregan x wife!reader where (before her marriage) she was from a more southern house that's closer to Kings landing (Tyrell, Lannister etc. you can choose)

Now, the main plot is that she wants to help during the war, but she's not that good at fighting and also has no dragon. However, she wants to prove that she can help.

So she fakes/has a little argument with Cregan and then, after a cute goodbye, infiltrates the greens in Kings landing.

There, she acts as if she's no longer close to cregan because he is a black supporter and because of her previous house, she's a green loyalist (in reality, she's team black and a true lady stark)

While she's there, she infiltrates them and sneaks information to cregan and rhaenyra etc. While both of them (or at least cregan worry about her)

Larys and aemond are obvi kind of suspicious of her.

You can choose how you want this to end. If it's angsty because she gets caught or happy even though she got caught, or maybe she doesn't get caught at all. You can choose, with your writing, I'm sure you'll find a great solution:)

The whole scenario is inspired by "She Wolf" by shakira (I hope you know the song😅)

For the rating 16+/18+ depending on the violence/gore/sexual themes.

(Also I wanna thank you for actually considering and writing about my idea for your harwin story "chasing the inferno". I was the anon)

I hope the idea isn't too confusing. Have a great day :)

The Silent Game

- Summary: When your family took the side of King Aegon II, the usurper, you felt the need to support the rightful Queen and your husband, the Warden of the North. No matter the cost.

- Pairing: lannister!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: For more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I hope this is what you had in mind. 🙂 That idea you had (about Chasing the Inferno) was brilliant. And just what I needed to continue the plot, as my imagination was at the halt at that time. And I know that song. I was in my Shakira era when it came out. 😄

The North had always been a place of bold contrasts: the cold and the warmth, the silence and the howling winds, the dark nights and the flickering lights of Winterfell. You were still adjusting to these contrasts, even after months of marriage to Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North. Your union had been one of strategy, a lioness from the Westerlands joining forces with the wolves of the North. But in time, your marriage had grown into something deeper, something that transcended the cold calculations of politics.

Yet now, as the war between the Greens and the Blacks brewed, you found yourself increasingly restless. Winterfell felt like a prison, even with its ancient walls and the comforting presence of your husband. You longed to be more than just a silent supporter; you wanted to take action, to show Cregan that you were his equal in all things, that you could be the lioness who fought alongside the wolves.

But Cregan’s attention had shifted, as it often did with the coming of autumn. The Wall and its endless duty had consumed him, and the war in the south seemed a distant concern compared to the threats of the North. It was a reality you understood but did not accept. You needed to contribute, to show your devotion to him and his cause—Rhaenyra's cause.

Tonight, as you sat by the fire in your shared chambers, the flames casting long shadows across the stone walls, you decided to act. You would provoke Cregan, force him to send you away, to the very heart of the enemy’s territory—King’s Landing. There, you could serve as his eyes and ears, a lioness among snakes, sending back crucial information to the Black faction and to your beloved husband.

The plan was simple in theory, but your heart clenched at the thought of deceiving him, even if it was for a greater purpose. You had to make him believe that you no longer wished to stay in Winterfell, that you felt suffocated and out of place in the North. The thought of causing him pain was unbearable, but you knew it was necessary.

Cregan entered the chamber, his dark hair still damp from the cold air outside. His grey eyes softened when they met yours, and he offered you a small smile as he moved to sit beside you. His presence was comforting, a reminder of why you had fallen in love with him.

"You've been quiet tonight," he observed, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate with the very stones of Winterfell.

You looked into the fire, gathering your resolve. "I’ve been thinking, Cregan. About our place in this war."

He frowned slightly, not out of anger but concern. "Our place is here, in the North. The Wall needs me, and Winterfell needs its lady."

His words were reasonable, grounded in the reality of your lives, but they ignited the spark of frustration you needed to fuel the argument. "And what of the war in the South? What of Rhaenyra? Do we not owe her our loyalty? Our support?"

Cregan’s brow furrowed further as he regarded you. "We support her, but our duty is here. The North is vast and unpredictable; it cannot be neglected."

You stood up, letting your anger seep into your voice, even as it tore at your heart to speak such words. "I am a Lannister, Cregan! My brothers are in King’s Landing, one serving on the Small Council of the Greens. How can I sit here, idle, while they plot against Rhaenyra and our cause?"

Cregan stood as well, towering over you, his expression a mix of surprise and hurt. "You would leave Winterfell? Leave me?"

The pain in his voice nearly broke your resolve, but you pressed on, knowing this was the only way. "If it means contributing to this war, then yes! I am not some helpless maiden to be kept in the North while the world burns. I want to fight, to serve, to show that I am as much a Stark as I am a Lannister."

His eyes darkened, and for a moment, you feared you had gone too far. "You think I don't need you here? That I don’t want you by my side?"

You softened your tone, taking a step closer to him. "I know you do, Cregan. But I need to prove my worth, not just to you, but to myself. Send me south. Let me be your eyes and ears in King’s Landing. I can be of more use there than I am here."

He looked away, the muscles in his jaw tightening. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the battle between his desire to protect you and his understanding of the larger game at play.

"I cannot send you into the lion’s den, not when your brothers are part of it," he said finally, his voice strained.

You reached out, taking his hand in yours. "They are my brothers, yes, but they are also men who have chosen the wrong side. They may not trust me, but they will allow me close enough to gather information, to play the part of the loyal sister while serving Rhaenyra and you."

Cregan’s gaze returned to you, searching your face as if trying to find any hint of doubt. "This is dangerous. You know that."

"I do," you whispered. "But I am willing to take that risk for you, for our house, for our future."

He closed his eyes, his grip on your hand tightening. "You ask too much of me," he murmured. "But how can I deny you when you speak of duty and love in the same breath?"

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, quickly brushed away before he could see. "Then you will send me?"

Cregan opened his eyes, the decision made but the weight of it clear in his expression. "I will. But promise me, when this is done, you will return to me. I cannot lose you."

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I promise, Cregan. I will return."

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly as if afraid you would slip away then and there. You buried your face in his chest, inhaling his familiar scent, committing this moment to memory. 

When he released you, his expression was one of determination mixed with sorrow. "I’ll make the arrangements. You’ll leave within the week."

You nodded, unable to speak, your heart heavy with the knowledge of what you were about to do. But you reminded yourself of your purpose, of the love that drove you to this decision. You would prove your loyalty, your devotion, and your love for Cregan Stark, even if it meant walking into the lion’s den to do so.

The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of your chamber, casting a muted glow over the room. The warmth of the fire had long since faded, leaving a chill in the air that seemed to seep into your very bones. You had spent the night sleepless, lying in the large bed you shared with Cregan, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Today was the day you would leave Winterfell, your home, and your husband, to embark on a dangerous mission to the South.

The thought of leaving him, of being apart from the man you loved, filled you with a deep ache. But this was necessary. For Rhaenyra, for the Blacks, for Cregan. You had to believe that.

A soft knock at the door drew you from your thoughts. You sat up, wrapping your robe tightly around yourself as the door creaked open, revealing Cregan. His expression was a mixture of sadness and resolve, a reflection of your own emotions. He entered the room silently, closing the door behind him, and for a moment, you both just stood there, staring at each other.

"You’re leaving soon," he said quietly, his voice rough from the early hour.

You nodded, unable to find the words to respond. You knew that if you spoke, your voice would betray the turmoil inside you.

Cregan crossed the room to stand before you, his large hands gently cupping your face. His touch was warm, comforting, and you leaned into it, closing your eyes as you savored the moment.

"I wish there was another way," he murmured, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek. "I wish I could keep you here, safe, by my side."

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze. "I know, Cregan. But this is what needs to be done. For Rhaenyra, for the North...for us."

His jaw clenched, and you could see the struggle in his eyes. "I hate that you have to do this, that I have to send you into danger."

You placed your hands over his, squeezing gently. "You’re not sending me into danger, Cregan. I’m choosing this. I want to help, to do my part. And I know you would do the same if our positions were reversed."

He pulled you into his arms then, holding you close against his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his breath, and you closed your eyes, trying to memorize every detail of this moment. The thought of being without him, of not feeling his warmth beside you at night, was almost unbearable.

"You must be careful," he whispered into your hair, his voice thick with emotion. "Promise me you’ll stay safe, that you’ll come back to me."

You tightened your hold on him, pressing your face into the crook of his neck. "I promise, Cregan. I will return to you. I will always return to you."

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, his expression serious. "If you find yourself in danger, if things become too perilous, you must come back. The war, the cause—it’s not worth losing you."

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back, refusing to let them fall. You needed to be strong, for him, for both of you. "I will be careful, I swear it."

Cregan leaned down, capturing your lips in a tender, lingering kiss. It was a kiss full of love, of longing, of a desire to hold on to this moment for as long as possible. You returned it with equal fervor, pouring all your emotions into that kiss, as if it was the last one you would ever share.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin. "I love you," he whispered, the words carrying the weight of all the things he couldn’t say.

"I love you too," you replied, your voice barely more than a breath.

The two of you stood there for what felt like an eternity, holding each other, neither wanting to let go. But eventually, you knew the time had come. You stepped back, breaking the embrace, and Cregan’s hand lingered on yours as you moved away.

"I’ll be waiting for you," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "Winterfell will be waiting for you."

You nodded, unable to speak, your heart heavy with the knowledge that this might be the last time you saw him for a long while. But you had to stay strong, for both of you.

Cregan escorted you to the courtyard, where a horse had been prepared for your journey. The Northern wind whipped around you, biting at your exposed skin, but you barely felt it. All your focus was on Cregan, on the way his hand gripped yours, as if afraid to let go.

As you approached the horse, Cregan helped you mount, his hands lingering on your waist, his touch warm even through the thick layers of your clothing. Once you were settled, he stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours.

"You’ll have a small escort until you pass the Twins, just enough to keep you safe without drawing too much attention," he said, his voice steady despite the emotion in his eyes. "I trust you, my love. I trust you to do what needs to be done."

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "And I trust you, Cregan. I will send word as often as I can."

He gave a small, tight smile. "I’ll be waiting for your letters, but more than that, I’ll be waiting for you to return."

You looked down at him, your heart breaking at the thought of leaving him behind. But you steeled yourself, knowing that this was the path you had chosen.

"I will come back to you, Cregan," you promised, your voice firm. "No matter what happens, I will return."

He reached up, his hand brushing against your cheek one last time. "Goodbye, my lioness. Until we meet again."

With a final nod, you urged the horse forward, the sound of hooves on the stone courtyard echoing in your ears. You didn’t look back, knowing that if you did, you might lose the resolve to go through with this. Instead, you focused on the path ahead, on the journey south, on the mission that awaited you.

But as Winterfell disappeared behind you, you couldn’t shake the feeling that a part of you was being left behind, with the man you loved.

The towering walls of the Red Keep loomed ahead as your carriage (courtesy of Lady Frey when you rested in the Twins) rolled through the gates of King’s Landing. The familiar, oppressive weight of the capital settled on your shoulders the moment you crossed into the city. You had grown up in these streets, and while the grandeur of the Lannister seat at Casterly Rock had always called you home, there was something about the Red Keep that felt equally like a gilded cage and a battlefield. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what lay ahead.

The journey south had been long and grueling, but that was nothing compared to the task you now faced. You had to convince your brother, Tyland, that your presence here was born out of desperation and exile, not strategy and loyalty to Rhaenyra. Every word, every gesture would need to be calculated, yet natural, to ensure he believed you were truly the sister he thought he knew.

The carriage came to a halt, and before you could fully prepare yourself, the door was pulled open by a Lannister guard. You stepped down, your legs stiff from the journey, and barely had time to straighten your skirts before you saw him—Tyland, rushing down the steps of the Keep, his face etched with worry.

"Sister!" His voice was strained with concern, and he reached you in a few quick strides, enveloping you in a tight embrace.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to melt into his embrace. It had been years since you’d last seen Tyland, and despite everything, despite the sides you had chosen, he was still your brother. The scent of his familiar cologne brought back memories of a simpler time, before the realm had been torn apart by dragons and treachery.

"Tyland," you breathed, your voice trembling as you wrapped your arms around him, drawing on the emotions you needed to sell your story. "I didn’t think I’d ever see you again."

He pulled back slightly, his hands resting on your shoulders as he scanned your face, searching for any signs of harm or distress. "What happened? Why are you here? Why are you alone?" The questions came in a rapid, breathless stream, his eyes wide with worry.

You looked down, feigning shame and sorrow, before meeting his gaze with a carefully crafted expression of despair. "Cregan found out about our family’s support for King Aegon. He was furious, Tyland. He said he couldn’t have a Lannister—a traitor, he called me—living in his house. He… he exiled me. Sent me away with nothing but a few guards and this carriage. I had nowhere else to go."

Tyland’s face darkened with anger, his grip on your shoulders tightening. "That bloody Northern savage," he spat, his voice low and dangerous. "How dare he treat you like this? How dare he?"

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes as you allowed yourself to lean into the role you had to play. "He said he never wanted to see me again, that I was nothing but a stain on his honor. I begged him to reconsider, but he was adamant. I had no choice but to come here, to you."

Tyland’s expression softened, his anger giving way to concern as he pulled you into another embrace. "You’re safe now," he murmured against your hair. "You’re with your family, where you belong. We’ll protect you, I promise."

You nodded, clinging to him as if for dear life, even as your mind raced with the lies you had spun. "I was so afraid, Tyland. I thought he might… I thought he might harm me. The way he looked at me…"

Tyland pulled back, his eyes fierce with a protective fury you hadn’t seen in him before. "He’ll pay for this, I swear it. But you’re safe now. I’ll make sure of it."

You allowed yourself to sag against him, letting out a shuddering breath as you feigned relief. "Thank you," you whispered, your voice shaking. "I didn’t know where else to turn."

He stroked your hair gently, guiding you back towards the Red Keep. "You did the right thing, coming here. The war… it’s tearing everything apart, but you’re safe with us now. We’ll figure out what to do next."

You let him lead you inside, your heart pounding with the fear that he might see through your act. But Tyland was focused on comforting you, on reassuring you that you were home now, that you were safe. The gods old and new were merciful, it seemed, as he didn’t question your story, didn’t probe deeper into your supposed exile.

As you walked through the familiar halls of the Red Keep, Tyland kept a protective arm around you, guiding you towards the chambers that had been hastily prepared for you. His anger at Cregan, his love for you, were palpable, and you leaned into that, praying silently that you could maintain this charade.

When you reached your chambers, Tyland dismissed the servants, wanting a private moment with you. He led you to a chair by the fire, urging you to sit, and then knelt before you, taking your hands in his. "You don’t have to be afraid anymore. We’ll protect you. The Greens will win this war, and when they do, you’ll be safe, and you’ll have your place in the new order."

You nodded, your eyes fixed on his as you forced yourself to believe in the role you were playing. "I just want to do what’s right, Tyland. I want to support our family, to do whatever I can to help."

He smiled, a hint of the boy you once knew shining through the hard exterior he had built over the years. "And you will, sister. You will. We’ll make sure of it."

As he stood to leave, you squeezed his hand, forcing yourself to look vulnerable, desperate for his protection. "Please… don’t let anyone else know what happened. I don’t want to be seen as a failure, as someone who couldn’t hold onto their marriage."

Tyland nodded, his expression serious. "Of course. We’ll keep this between us. No one will think less of you for what that Northern brute did. You’re a Lannister, and you’re my sister. That’s all that matters."

You nodded, offering him a weak smile as he left the room, closing the door softly behind him. The moment he was gone, you allowed yourself to collapse into the chair, your hands shaking with the weight of the deception you had just woven.

The Red Keep was your tie to home, but now it was a den of enemies, a place where every word, every action, could spell disaster if you were not careful. You prayed to the gods old and new, begging them for strength, for cunning, for the ability to play this dangerous game.

You had convinced Tyland, but there were many others who would not be so easily swayed. You had to be vigilant, careful, and above all, you had to keep Cregan in your heart. You would send him word when you could, slip information back to him and to Rhaenyra. But for now, you had to be the lioness among lions, playing your part in this deadly dance.

And all the while, you prayed that Tyland, or anyone else, would never see through the mask you had so carefully donned.

The grand halls of the Red Keep were as cold and imposing as ever, despite the ornate tapestries and blazing hearths that lined the corridors. You had grown accustomed to the hollow echo of your footsteps as you navigated this labyrinth of stone and secrets, but today, the weight of your task felt heavier than ever. The shadows seemed to cling to you, whispering of the dangers that lurked behind every corner.

In the privacy of your chambers, the faint scent of burning parchment still lingered in the air. You had just destroyed a letter—one that had arrived under the cover of darkness, smuggled into your hands by a loyal servant of the North. The letter had been from Cregan, your heart's anchor in this sea of deception.

You could still feel the warmth of his words lingering in your chest, a reminder of the love that bound you to him, even across the distance. He had written of his worry for you, of the nights he spent staring out over the frozen landscape of the North, wishing you were there beside him. He thanked you for your courage, for the sacrifices you were making, even as he admitted how much it pained him to have sent you away. His words were full of love, but also fear—a fear that you would be caught, that the game you were playing would turn deadly.

My brave lioness, he had written, I know the strength you carry within you, but I cannot help but worry for your safety. Every day, I pray to the old gods to watch over you, to keep you safe in the den of our enemies. You are my heart, my soul, and I am so proud of what you are doing, even though it tears at me to think of you so far away. Return to me, my love, when this is all over. Until then, be careful, and know that my thoughts are with you always.

You had read the letter several times, allowing yourself a few moments of vulnerability as you traced the familiar curves of his handwriting. But you knew that every word was dangerous, that keeping such a letter would be a risk you couldn’t afford to take. So, with a heavy heart, you had burned it, watching as the flames consumed the last tangible connection to your husband.

Now, as you walked through the Red Keep, you carried the memory of that letter with you, tucked away in the deepest part of your heart. You had to be careful, more so than ever before. The walls had ears, and the slightest misstep could unravel everything.

As you rounded a corner, heading towards the private dining chamber where you were to meet Tyland for dinner, you caught the tail end of a conversation that sent a chill down your spine.

Aemond Targaryen’s voice, sharp and filled with frustration, echoed down the hallway. "It’s impossible that Rhaenyra could have known about the ships. Someone must have tipped her off. The fleet from the Free Cities was our best chance to cut off her supply lines at the Gullet!"

You slowed your pace, your heart beginning to race as you listened. Larys Strong’s voice, oily and calm, responded in a tone that made your skin crawl. "It is troubling, my prince. We must consider that there may be a leak within our ranks, someone feeding information to the Blacks. We cannot afford any more missteps."

Your breath caught in your throat as you realized the gravity of their conversation. Rhaenyra had been warned about the ships—a piece of information you had managed to send north discreetly through one of your own messages. If they suspected a spy in their midst, it would only be a matter of time before they began to scrutinize everyone, including you.

As you continued down the hallway, forcing yourself to remain calm, you felt a pair of eyes on you. You turned your head slightly and saw Aemond and Larys watching you from the shadows. Aemond’s single eye glinted in the dim light, his gaze sharp and assessing. Larys’s expression was unreadable, but his presence alone was enough to set your nerves on edge.

You met their gazes briefly, offering a small, polite nod as if nothing was amiss, before continuing on your way. The chill that ran down your spine was unlike anything you had felt before, a cold, creeping fear that settled deep in your bones. They had seen you, and you could only pray that they did not suspect you of anything more than passing by.

As soon as you were out of their sight, you quickened your pace, eager to reach the safety of your brother’s chambers. Your heart pounded in your chest, but you forced yourself to maintain a composed exterior. You couldn’t afford to show any sign of fear or guilt—especially not now.

When you finally reached the private dining chamber, you found Tyland already seated at the table, a glass of wine in hand. He looked up as you entered, his expression softening into a smile.

"Sister," he greeted, rising to embrace you. "You look troubled. Is everything all right?"

You returned his embrace, taking comfort in the familiar scent of your brother, but the tension in your shoulders refused to ease. "I’m just tired," you lied smoothly, offering him a weary smile. "The journey was long, and the atmosphere here… it’s oppressive and difficult to adjust in a few months."

Tyland nodded, leading you to the table where a simple but elegant meal had been laid out. "The war weighs heavily on all of us," he said, pouring you a glass of wine. "But you’re safe here, with family."

You accepted the wine, taking a small sip as you tried to push the encounter with Aemond and Larys from your mind. But the memory of their scrutiny lingered, a constant reminder of the precarious position you were in.

As the meal progressed, you made light conversation with Tyland, discussing family matters and memories of your childhood at Casterly Rock. He seemed genuinely pleased to have you back in his life, and his presence was a balm to your frayed nerves. But even as you laughed at his stories and shared in his plans for the future, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were walking on a knife’s edge.

Every word you spoke, every gesture you made, was calculated to keep up the facade. Tyland must not suspect anything—nor could anyone else. You were playing a dangerous game, and the stakes were higher than ever.

As the night wore on, you excused yourself, claiming fatigue from the journey, and Tyland kissed your cheek warmly before you left. "Rest well, sister," he said, his voice filled with affection. "We’ll speak more in the morning."

You nodded, offering him a final smile before retreating to your chambers. Once inside, you closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a shaky breath. You had made it through another day, but the fear remained, gnawing at your resolve.

You crossed the room and knelt by the hearth, staring into the dying embers of the fire. Closing your eyes, you whispered a prayer to the gods old and new, asking for their protection, their guidance. You needed every ounce of strength and cunning to survive this—to complete your mission and return to Cregan’s arms.

As the night deepened, you crawled into bed, but sleep eluded you. Instead, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of your deception pressing down on you like a heavy cloak. The memory of Cregan’s letter played over in your mind, a reminder of why you were doing this, of who you were doing it for.

No matter the danger, no matter the fear, you would see this through. For Rhaenyra, for the North, and for the love you carried for the man waiting for you in Winterfell.

But as you drifted into an uneasy sleep, you couldn’t help but wonder how much longer you could keep the truth hidden, how much longer you could play this deadly game before someone discovered the lioness in their midst was indeed a wolf.

The skies above King’s Landing were thick with the smoke of burning ships, the sound of clashing swords and the cries of the wounded echoing through the streets. The city had fallen, its walls breached by Rhaenyra's forces, and now the Blacks had taken control of the capital. The Red Keep, once a symbol of power and authority under the Greens, had become a battlefield, its halls filled with the triumphant and the defeated.

You stood in the throne room, surrounded by the black and red banners of House Targaryen, your heart heavy with a mixture of relief and dread. The mission you had embarked upon months ago had finally reached its conclusion. You had done what you had set out to do—played your part in the fall of the Greens from within their own stronghold. But the price of your success now weighed heavily on your soul.

At the far end of the hall, Rhaenyra Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne, her dark hair cascading down her back, her gaze as fierce as the dragons she commanded. Daemon stood beside her, his presence as menacing as ever, his eyes glittering with the thrill of victory. The throne room was filled with the murmurs of courtiers and soldiers alike, all of them awaiting the queen’s judgment on those who had opposed her.

As you approached the throne, your heart pounded in your chest, knowing what was about to happen, dreading it. Tyland had been captured along with the other members of the Green council, and now they awaited their fates. You had pleaded with the guards to see your brother, to speak to him, but they had refused. You had been kept away from him, kept in the dark until this moment.

"Your Grace," you said, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you as you curtsied before Rhaenyra. "King’s Landing is yours, and the Greens have been defeated. I am at your service, as always."

Rhaenyra’s gaze softened slightly as she looked down at you, a rare moment of warmth in the midst of the chaos. "You have done much for our cause, my lady. Your loyalty and bravery have not gone unnoticed. It is thanks to your efforts that we were able to anticipate their moves, to strike where they were weakest. For that, you have my gratitude."

You bowed your head, accepting her praise, but the words felt hollow. Gratitude could not ease the tension that coiled in your gut, the fear that gripped your heart as you awaited her next words.

Rhaenyra’s gaze hardened again as she turned her attention to the prisoners being brought before her, shackled and defeated. Among them was your brother, Tyland, his face pale but his expression resolute. He had always been a proud man, and even now, in chains, he refused to show fear.

"Tyland Lannister," Rhaenyra’s voice rang out, echoing through the throne room, "you stand accused of treason against the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You served the usurper Aegon and conspired to destroy House Targaryen. For your crimes, there can be but one punishment."

You felt the blood drain from your face as the words you had feared most were spoken. "No," you whispered, barely audible, before finding your voice and stepping forward, your heart in your throat. "Your Grace, please, I beg you to spare him."

The entire hall seemed to hold its breath as you spoke, all eyes turning to you. Rhaenyra’s gaze was sharp, questioning. "He is a traitor, my lady. His actions led to the deaths of many, and he must answer for them."

You sank to your knees, desperation in your voice as you pleaded for your brother’s life. "He is my brother, Your Grace. He may have been misguided, but he did what he believed was right, just as we all have. I know his loyalty was to the wrong cause, but I beg you to show mercy. Let him live, and I swear he will never pose a threat to you again. He is all I have left of my family."

Tyland’s eyes met yours, and for the first time since you had reunited in King’s Landing, you saw something break in his stern facade. The love and concern in his gaze were unmistakable, and you felt your heart wrench as you saw your brother—the man who had always protected you, who had stood by you when no one else did—now reduced to this.

Rhaenyra’s expression remained impassive, but you could see the conflict in her eyes. She was a queen, but she was also a mother, a sister. She knew what it was to love and to lose, to be torn between duty and family.

"You ask much of me, my lady," Rhaenyra said slowly, her voice measured. "Tyland Lannister’s hands are stained with the blood of my loyal followers. Mercy for him could be seen as weakness, a precedent that might encourage others to rise against me."

Daemon’s gaze flickered to you, then to Tyland, and back to Rhaenyra. His voice, when he spoke, was cold and calculating. "Mercy is a luxury we cannot afford in these times, Rhaenyra. Traitors must be dealt with swiftly, without exception."

Tears blurred your vision, but you refused to let them fall. You couldn’t afford to be weak now, not when your brother’s life hung in the balance. "Please, Your Grace," you implored, "I will do anything you ask of me. Anything. Just spare him. I will leave the capital, return to the North, or anywhere else you command. I will serve you however you wish, but please, do not take him from me."

The silence that followed your plea was deafening. Rhaenyra looked at you, truly looked at you, and you could see the wheels turning in her mind, weighing your words, considering the options. You held your breath, praying that the love you had for your brother, and the service you had given to her cause, would be enough to sway her.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Rhaenyra spoke. "Tyland Lannister has committed grave crimes against the realm, crimes that warrant death. But in recognition of the service you have rendered to my cause, I will grant him his life." 

A gasp of relief escaped your lips, and you bowed your head in gratitude, tears now streaming down your face. "Thank you, Your Grace. Thank you."

"But know this," Rhaenyra continued, her voice stern and unwavering. "He will live, but his life will be one of exile and dishonor. He will be stripped of his titles and lands, and he will be sent to the Wall. He will live out his days in the service of the Night’s Watch, far from here. He will never again set foot in the South."

You nodded, unable to speak, overwhelmed with a mix of relief and sorrow. It was a harsh sentence, but it was life. Tyland would live, and for that, you were endlessly grateful.

Tyland was led away, his eyes lingering on you until he disappeared from view. You rose to your feet, still trembling, and Rhaenyra gestured for you to approach the throne. 

"You have done much for me, and for that, you have my thanks," she said quietly, so only you could hear. "But remember, this mercy I have granted comes with a cost. Loyalty must be earned and maintained. See to it that you do not waver."

You met her gaze, understanding the weight of her words. "I will not forget, Your Grace."

With that, you turned and left the throne room, your heart heavy but filled with a sense of purpose. Tyland would live, and that was more than you had dared to hope for. But the road ahead would be long and treacherous, for both of you. You had made sacrifices, and you would have to make more. But as long as you could keep the people you loved safe, it would all be worth it.

As you walked through the halls of the Red Keep, the echoes of your footsteps accompanied by the distant sounds of a city under new rule, you prayed once more to the gods old and new. You had survived this day, but there would be many more challenges ahead. And through it all, you would need to stay strong, for yourself, for your brother, and for the North that still awaited your return.

The road to the North was long and arduous, the chill of autumn creeping steadily into the bones of everyone who traveled it. The once green fields had turned to barren landscapes, the sky a constant blanket of grey. You sat in the carriage, wrapped in furs, the bitter cold seeping through the heavy fabric. Beside you, Tyland sat quietly, his expression unreadable as he stared out the window at the bleak countryside.

The silence between you had stretched on for days, the weight of everything that had happened in King’s Landing hanging heavy in the air. You had saved his life, but at a cost. Tyland had lost everything—his titles, his lands, his place in the South. And now, he was being sent to the Wall, to a life of exile and duty in the farthest reaches of the realm. You knew he struggled with the reality of his new fate, and the words he had not yet spoken weighed on your heart.

As the carriage rumbled along the rough road, you finally mustered the courage to speak, breaking the silence that had settled between you like a shroud. "Tyland," you began, your voice soft but steady, "I know this is not the life you envisioned for yourself. I’m sorry for what has happened, for the choices that led us here."

Tyland turned his gaze from the window to you, his eyes searching your face for a moment before he sighed, a heavy sound filled with all the emotions he had kept bottled up. "You did what you thought was right," he said finally, his voice tinged with bitterness but also a hint of resignation. "You always were the clever one, the one who saw the bigger picture. But I can’t say I’m not angry, or that I’m not filled with regret."

You nodded, understanding his feelings all too well. "I had to make a choice, Tyland. I couldn’t let you die, not when there was another way. But I know the Wall is not what you wanted, and for that, I am sorry."

He leaned back against the cushioned seat, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to wipe away the weariness of the past few months. "The Wall," he muttered, almost to himself. "It’s a place for criminals, for bastards, for those who have nothing left to lose. And now I am one of them."

"But you’re alive," you said gently, reaching out to take his hand in yours. "And you’re still a Lannister, no matter where you go. The North may be harsh, but there is honor in serving at the Wall, especially now that winter is coming. The realm will need men like you, strong and capable, to defend it."

Tyland looked at your hand in his, then back at you, a shadow of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "You always did have a way of making the worst situations seem bearable. I suppose that’s why you’re still alive, too."

You smiled back, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "We do what we must to survive, Tyland. But that doesn’t mean we have to face it alone."

The rest of the journey was spent in a tentative peace, the bond between you and Tyland slowly beginning to heal, though it would never be the same. He had accepted his fate, though with a heavy heart, and you had accepted the burden of knowing that your actions had brought him to this point. But as the carriage drew closer to Winterfell, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief.

When Winterfell finally came into view, its ancient walls standing tall against the sky, you felt a wave of emotion wash over you. This was home now, the place where you had found love and purpose, and where you would begin the next chapter of your life. As the carriage rolled through the gates, you could see the figures waiting in the courtyard—Cregan among them, his tall, broad-shouldered form unmistakable.

The carriage came to a stop, and before you could even step out, Cregan was there, pulling the door open and helping you down. His hands were warm, his touch grounding you as he pulled you into a tight embrace. You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and cold air that clung to him.

"I missed you," you whispered, your voice muffled against his furs.

"And I you," he replied, his voice thick with emotion as he held you close. "Every day, every night, I thought of you. But now you’re here, and that’s all that matters."

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up into his eyes. "I brought Tyland with me. Rhaenyra spared his life, but she sent him to the Wall."

Cregan’s gaze shifted to where Tyland was stepping out of the carriage, his expression unreadable. He nodded in acknowledgment, though there was no warmth in his eyes. "Lord Lannister," he greeted, his tone respectful but formal.

Tyland straightened, meeting Cregan’s gaze with a mixture of pride and resignation. "Lord Stark," he replied, bowing his head slightly. "I’m here to serve, as ordered."

Cregan studied him for a moment, then nodded. "The Wall is not a punishment, Tyland, but an honor. The Night’s Watch may be seen as a place for those with no other options, but the truth is, it’s a place for men who understand the weight of duty. The realm needs protectors, especially now, with winter coming. You will find purpose there, and in time, perhaps even a sense of belonging."

Tyland’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he nodded in agreement. "I will do my duty," he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of determination. "If this is my fate, then I will embrace it."

Cregan’s expression softened slightly, and he extended his hand to Tyland. "Then you have my respect, and the respect of the North. You are welcome in Winterfell until you take the black."

Tyland accepted the handshake, and for a moment, the two men stood in silent understanding. You felt a sense of relief wash over you—there was no animosity here, only a shared understanding of the burdens they both carried.

As the three of you made your way inside Winterfell, the warmth of the great hall enveloped you, the familiar scents of wood smoke and roasted meat filling the air. You felt a sense of peace settling over you, knowing that you had done what you could to protect your family, and that here, in the North, you would find the strength to face whatever came next.

That evening, you and Cregan sat together by the fire, the weight of the past few months slowly lifting as you shared stories of what had transpired. Tyland joined you, his demeanor more relaxed than it had been since his capture. The three of you spoke of the future, of the challenges that lay ahead, but also of the hope that lingered just beyond the horizon.

As the fire crackled and the shadows danced on the stone walls, you felt a deep sense of contentment. The North was harsh and unforgiving, but it was also a place of honor, of loyalty, and of love.

The warmth of the fire had long since faded, leaving only the soft glow of embers to illuminate the room. The heavy furs that covered the bed provided a cocoon of warmth, sheltering you from the cold that seeped in through the stone walls of Winterfell. Outside, the wind howled, a reminder of the harshness of the North, but here, in Cregan’s arms, you felt only the warmth of his body against yours.

The two of you lay entwined beneath the blankets, your skin still tingling from the intensity of your lovemaking. It had been so long since you had been together like this, since you had felt the press of his body against yours, the way his hands knew every curve and hollow of your form. You had missed this—missed him—with an ache that had grown unbearable during your time apart.

Cregan’s fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine, his touch light but possessive, as if he was reminding himself that you were truly here, that you were his once more. You pressed closer to him, your head resting on his broad chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. It was a sound that had become your anchor, a reminder that you were home.

"You’re quiet," Cregan murmured, his voice rough with the remnants of sleep. His hand slid up to cup the back of your neck, his thumb brushing gently against your skin. "What’s on your mind, my love?"

You closed your eyes, savoring the warmth of his touch, the safety of his embrace. "I’m just… grateful," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath. "Grateful to be here, with you. I missed this, missed us."

Cregan shifted slightly, rolling onto his side so that he could face you, his dark eyes searching yours in the dim light. "I missed you too," he said, his voice low and full of emotion. "Every day you were gone, I thought of you. Wondered if you were safe, if you were thinking of me as much as I was thinking of you."

You reached up, your fingers brushing the stubble on his jaw, feeling the roughness beneath your fingertips. "You were always on my mind," you confessed, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of your emotions. "There were times I didn’t know if I’d make it back, but the thought of you, of us… it kept me going."

His expression softened, and he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment. "You’re here now," he whispered against your skin. "And I won’t let anything take you away from me again."

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer, needing the reassurance of his presence. "I don’t want to be apart from you ever again," you said, your voice fierce with determination. "I’ll do whatever it takes to stay here, with you, in the North. This is where I belong, where we belong."

Cregan’s hand moved to cradle your face, his thumb brushing away a stray tear that had slipped down your cheek. "You’re my wife, my love," he said, his voice steady and sure. "Nothing will keep us apart again. We’ve been through too much, and we’re stronger for it. This is our home now, and we’ll face whatever comes together."

You nodded, feeling a sense of peace settle over you. It was true—together, you could face anything. The challenges you had overcome, the dangers you had braved, had only strengthened the bond between you. And now, here in the safety of Winterfell, in the warmth of Cregan’s arms, you knew that you could finally allow yourself to rest, to trust that you were where you were meant to be.

Cregan’s lips found yours again, the kiss slow and tender, full of the love and longing that had built up during your time apart. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you deepened the kiss, wanting to lose yourself in the warmth and comfort of his embrace.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, you rested your forehead against his, your eyes closed as you savored the closeness between you. "I love you," you whispered, the words slipping out as naturally as a breath.

"I love you too," Cregan replied, his voice rough with emotion. "More than anything. More than the North, more than duty, more than life itself."

You smiled, feeling the truth of his words settle deep within your heart. There was nothing more important than this, than the love you shared, the life you were building together. And after everything you had been through, you knew that you were ready to face whatever the future held, as long as you had him by your side.

The two of you lay together in silence for a while, simply enjoying the warmth of each other’s presence, the quiet intimacy that had been so hard-won. The world outside might be harsh and unforgiving, but here, in this moment, you were safe. You were loved.

As you drifted off to sleep, your head resting on Cregan’s chest once more, you knew that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them with the strength of the North in your veins and the love of your husband in your heart. And that, you knew, would be enough.

[hauntedestheart]

Security Footage - Artifacts (Pt. 1)

One of Trevor & Andy’s misadventures, a more detailed account of the sort described in Security Measures - Artifacts

Another story that starts with a party- but at least this time, Trevor was the host.

The young man had plenty of cause to dislike parties. He was an introvert. Being short meant he got pushed around in crowds. Party playlists usually contained terrible songs. Nobody ever invited him to them growing up.

However the main reason he hated them was because ever since Andy had come back into his life, it felt like the only times he ever wound up at a party was when he was chasing down some unhinged body snatcher. Being exposed to the absolute dregs of the party ecosystem had really put a dampener on his college experience and caused him to swear off of soirees- which was a testament to what a good mood he was in when he invited some of his friends over to his new off-campus apartment for "a little get together."

Recently he and Andy had experienced a run-in with an individual in possession of a ring that allowed him to switch bodies by grabbing someone's hand… no points for guessing who his first target was when he arrived in their city.

The ring somehow travelled with the snatcher so in a bit of a twist on the usual formula, the guy had actually switched out of Andy's body by the time they located it, leaving another random person inside, and the couple spent several days working their way through a daisy chain of body swaps until they (and the angry mob of victims) finally cornered the troublemaker and forced him to fix everything.

And not only did everyone get their bodies back, Trevor got the ring as well.

In his mind, the ring was a major breakthrough. It was the first concrete item he'd found that would actually be able to help Andy with his condition- maybe it couldn't stop snatchers outright, but it gave them a tool to fight back with when they did strike. The end of their body swapping woes was something to celebrate, and with the ring safely tucked away in his nightstand drawer in case of an emergency, Trevor felt comfortable letting loose a little bit.

Just a little bit though, and to be on the safe side, the guest list was just a handful of close friends, and the activities were limited to card games, Mario Kart, and Just Dance. There were still drugs and alcohol though- it wouldn't be a college party without them.

The lanky white guy on the couch with the bowl of chips between his legs was RJ, a friendly stoner type who had lived next to Trevor back in the dorm days and had managed to graduate from "randomly assigned neighbor" to "friend" before they moved out. Their friendship was like a weed, in the sense that it stayed healthy even with little attention, and in the sense that they smoked a lot of weed together.

The chubby Asian guy sitting in a plastic folding chair in the corner, glaring at his phone, was Han. When Trevor had dared to venture out to a welcome event thrown by the school's (small) LGBTQ+ society in the first weeks of college, Han had been the only other gay guy in the freshman class to show up, and the two had remained in touch out of a sense of loyalty ever since.

The pretty black girl lying on the carpet was Monica, a year above Trevor but one of his closest friends. A journalism major, she'd interviewed him for a project about victims of bullying and was so charmed by him that she decided to take him under her wing- and when she found out he could match her attitude, she liked him even more. Curled up next to her was her boyfriend Alexander, a lean and laid back white boy on the track team who had to work hard to keep up with his girlfriend.

The party had been going on for an hour or so and they were playing Just Dance (switching over from Mario Kart after RJ kept thrashing everyone) so the group was treated to the rare sight of Trevor dancing- or rather, attempting to dance. There wasn't much rhythm in his skinny little body, but he gamely wiggled from side to side to the music in an attempt to prove that his hips did not, in fact, lie, and Andy was so in love with Trevor that he managed to find the awkward gyrations endearing.

"Oh yeah, shake it for me baby," he teased, ostensibly as a joke, but the way his eyes were glued to Trevor's little booty as it swung around in the air said otherwise.

Trevor finished the song with a respectable score, a sigh of relief, and thunderous applause from Andy that would have been a standing ovation if Andy wasn't worried about everyone noticing his fat semi. Down boy, he told himself. Not while his friends are here.

Trevor was red faced and embarrassed, but he smiled at his boyfriend then tossed him the controller (Andy caught it with one hand) before disappearing down the hallway towards his room. Andy lazily scrolled through options and chatting with RJ about what to pick next, but the game was forgotten when Trevor emerged a minute later holding a bong.

"Attention everyone," he announced. "We're entering into phase two."

"Sick!" RJ shouted out, bouncing up and down in place on the couch cushion with excitement and nearly crashing into poor Andy.

"That's my cue," Monica said, pressing a kiss to Alexander's cheek before hoisting herself up to her feet and heading over to the kitchen for her purse. Alexander scooted over to be closer to the coffee table, striking a relaxed pose as he watched Trevor and Andy get everything set up.

"Han, are you feeling up for some smoke?" Trevor asked, frowning when he noticed how morose his friend was. Han wasn't always the cheeriest but this was a new level of gloom, even for him- still, he grunted and dragged his folding chair over to the table that Andy had begun clearing cards off of.

Trevor set the bong down on the table, and RJ's eyes lit up when he got a closer look at it. "No shit, is that the same one you had when we were in the dorms?"

"Nostalgic, right?" Trevor shook it from side to side and the clear water inside sloshed around.

"This bong is special to you two?" Andy asked, eyeing it curiously- he'd seen Trevor used the worn (but clean) glass tube many times, but its history had never come up.

"Nope," Trevor snorted. While he did have fond memories of lying on the floor of his dorm room talking about life with RJ when they were younger and dumber, the truth was… "RJ's just impressed I still have it because he breaks all of his after a month."

"That's not-" RJ's knee knocked the bong off the table and it was only saved from shattering by Andy's quick reflexes; the athletic young man caught it inches from the floor and gently returned it to its proper place. Trevor waved his hands vaguely at RJ, as if to say, see?, and RJ lifted his own hands. "Hey, IN MY DEFENSE… I am a little drunk right now. Looking forwards to being crossfaded though."

"Nice catch man," Alexander complimented Andy- though he and Trevor were acquainted through Monica, this was his first time meeting Andy, and he'd already developed a bit of a man-crush on the big guy. "You play sports?"

"Nah, used to play some basketball in high school though," Andy shrugged. "I do a game of pick up every now and then for fun though."

"Well, you're shredded," Alexander said, eyeing Andy's arms enviously.

"What, you mean this?" Andy flexed, bouncing his grapefruit sized bicep up and down a few times, and he gave a cocky grin. "I work out every now and then."

RJ whistled appreciatively, leaning over and pressing a finger into the peak of Andy's bicep as hard as he could. "That's sick bro."

"I gotta say, it's nice to have a man around the house," Trevor joked, slipping into the empty spot on the couch next to Andy.

"Yup," Andy yanked his boyfriend close and pressed a kiss onto his head. "And I've got the best one in the world right here."

Everyone in the room groaned and looked away as Andy showered Trevor with kisses, which Trevor was powerless to stop no matter how hard he shoved Andy away so instead he just surrendered to the onslaught and accepted the love. He pulled his face out of from the spot it was nestled into Andy's chest (truthfully, he could have stayed a bit longer) and peeked up at Andy; the two gazed into each others eyes and smiled at each other like they had a secret… which, of course, they did.

Not everyone was so impressed by the saccharine display though, and Monica broke the moment by loudly clearing her throat. Trevor and Andy separated (slightly) and Monica shook the bag of marijuana in her hands like she was ringing a bell as she called the meeting to order.

"Okay, well, now that we're done with the PDA," she said, a sour look flashing on her face for a moment as she side-eyed Andy, and she loaded up the bowl while she spoke. "Since I bought the weed, I get to decide who takes the first hit, and I think it should be Trevor since he so graciously invited us all over to his new place like I've been begging him to do for weeks now, and I think he deserves a little treat for it."

"Thank you Monica, for both the weed, and the attitude," Trevor snickered, and Monica smiled at him as she passed him the bong. Trevor picked up his lighter and clicked it on, staring at the flame for a moment, then he lifted it into the air for an impromptu toast. "To things going well for once."

Everyone (except for Han, who was still moping) cheered as Trevor lit the weed and the water began heating up, and a minute later, Trevor was exhaling a plume of skunk scented smoke. Greedily, RJ tried to snatch the bong from him, but Trevor batted his hand away ("Let someone else have some before you hog it all") and handed it across the table to Alexander. Alexander accepted the bong with a smile, but instead of taking a hit, he offered it to Monica.

"Ladies first?" he said, doing a half-decent smolder that made him look rather suave, and she gasped with mock delight.

"Why thank you babe!" she exclaimed, giving him a quick peck on the lips as she grabbed the bong from him. She toyed with the stem suggestively for a moment and eyed the other boys seated across from her. "At least someone here knows how to treat a woman right."

"Ma'am, you're surrounded by homos," Trevor deadpanned.

"Exactly," Monica took a deliberate, luxurious pull from the bong, then slowly exhaled the smoke like a queen. "So you should be worshipping me."

"We got Han, Trevor, bisexual king Andy," RJ counted them up on his fingers, scrunching his forehead with exertion as he did simple math, and he pondered the three digits he had extended before lifting up his head and smirking at Alexander. "The straight boys are getting outnumbered dude."

Alexander winced and scratched his beard. "Uh, actually I'm also bisexual…"

"Nooooooooo!" RJ cried out, horrified by the betrayal. "You can't leave me alone with them! I can't be a minority!"

"Hey, you're all minorities," Trevor began, locking eyes with Monica, and the two of them finished the joke in unison. "You're in the Glee Club."

"See?" RJ's hands flailed as he watched the two of them cackle. "How am I supposed to know what that means?"

Alexander, too normal to know what to make of any of that, busied himself by taking his turn with the bong, fading into the background for a moment as Monica, Trevor, and RJ bantered back and forth. He slowly released smoke from his nostrils as Monica and Trevor made more jokes he didn't understand, and Andy caught his eye through the smoke and gestured at the three friends with a good natured (but long suffering) smile. Solidarity between boyfriends, he seemed to be saying.

Alexander offered Andy the bong, but to his surprise, the big guy politely waved it away. "Nah, I'm not into that stuff."

"Okay well if he's giving up his turn, I'm taking it," RJ said, snapping into attention the second weed was up for grabs. He snatched the bong out of Alexander's hands before anyone could protest and he leaned in to take a hit, pausing an inch away from the bong to tease Andy before going in. "I swear, you must be the one guy on the planet that those anti-drug programs worked on."

Alexander eyed Andy curiously. "Dude, you don't smoke?"

"I try to stay sober," Andy shrugged, a bit uncomfortable- the truth was, he used to partake in substances, but after a few months as a body snatcher magnet, the idea of taking anything mind altering sounded awful to him. "I just don't like anything that makes me feel like I'm not in control."

"Really?" Monica raised her eyebrow and pinched her lips tight- something she did when she smelled bullshit. "Because I seem to recall you going pretty wild at a bar downtown a few weeks back."

The pointed undertones of her comment were not lost on anyone, and the mood in the room instantly became a lot tenser. Andy's shoulders fell, and Trevor winced- Monica had made it clear to him many times that she had a lot of issues with Andy, but he'd thought that she would behave herself at a party and not take the chance to bring it up to the poor guy's face. And apparently he wasn't the only one who felt that way.

"Monica, honey, don't," Alexander grabbed his girlfriend gently by the shoulder and murmured in her ear, glancing over awkwardly at Andy and Trevor. "You promised."

"What? I'm just saying," Monica brushed him off and waved her hands in the air like she was presenting invisible evidence. She glanced around the room, waiting for someone to challenge her. "The man says he doesn't drink or do drugs, meanwhile half of my girlfriends have stories about him getting plastered and grinding up on them. Am I wrong?"

She wasn't wrong- she was just missing a few crucial details.

"I… wasn't myself then," Andy answered diplomatically, and Monica hummed.

"Seems to happen to you a lot," Monica said with a disapproving glare. "A little bit too much for a guy with a really nice boyfriend."

Andy couldn't meet Monica's eyes and instead looked glumly at the coffee table, a boulder of guilt pressing down on his back. The couple had decided early on that it would be safest to keep Andy's "condition" a secret- if word got out, it could put him at even more risk than he already was -but the downside of this was that the boys had no explanation for why "Andy" would periodically ditch Trevor to go on wild sprees… or for why Trevor kept taking him back afterwards.

As far as anyone was concerned, Andy was just an incurable playboy who relapsed often, and Trevor was the sorry sap who was letting himself be treated like shit.

As usual, when Andy wasn't able to defend himself, Trevor stepped in. Resting one hand on the small of his boyfriend's back for support, Trevor put on his most stern voice. "Monica, we've talked about this. I know it seems weird but Andy and I are happy, and I really don't like it when you talk badly about him."

"I'm just looking out for you Trevor," Monica placed a hand on the table and leaned in, her voice softening to what Trevor liked to call her "mom voice," and Trevor bit his lip. "You're young and you're innocent-"

RJ pause his toke to interrupt her. "Uh, you're like a year older than us."

"Exactly, babies," Monica said without missing a beat. "And mama here has seen tons of guys like this who think that just because they're hot shit that they can toy around with guys and girls, and it never works out. You can't trust a player, and I think you deserve someone who's going to be there for you."

Her eyes snapped suddenly to Andy's with such intensity that everyone else flinched, and she glared at him like a lioness. Andy was a foot taller than her and twice as broad, but that didn't seem to phase her in the slightest. "Which is why I want you to know that, I see you, I am watching you, and if you keep playing around with my sweet boy then I'm gonna have to end you."

"Monica! Too far!" Alexander put his hand on her chest and gently reigned her back in; she allowed him, but kept her eyes on Andy. Monica's beleaguered boyfriend rushed to apologize. "Dude, I'm so sorry-"

"No, don't apologize," Andy said, to everyone's surprise. Despite the daggers Monica was shooting his way, he seemed calm, and he looked her dead in the eyes. "She's just looking out for him because she loves him, I get that. I love him too." One of his hands drifted down to Trevor's, and the two laced their fingers together. Andy focused on the warmth of their connection, and smiled sadly. "And I really wish that I could be a better man for him."

Monica stared at their interlocked hands for a second, eyes narrowing, then she leaned back. Apparently appeased for the moment, she pulled the bong away from RJ and began to reload it in a gesture of goodwill. Trevor let out a sigh of relief and slumped into Andy's shoulder.

"Hey, Han, is your date coming?" Trevor said, eager to change the subject, and all eyes shifted towards the silent young man. "He was invited too."

"Oh yeah!" Monica jumped in, sounding much more cheerful now that she was no longer in attack mode. "Rex, right? I saw his picture on the LGBT+ Society's page, he's cute! When's he getting here?"

Everyone stared at Han expectantly, and his eyes flicked from face to face. Clearly a bit uncomfortable, he shuffled in his seat and clutched his phone so tight that knuckles whitened, and then he scowled.

"Rex actually dumped me because he was, quote, 'kinda bored with me,'" Han said bitterly. "So no, don't think he's coming."

Silence settled over the room, punctuated only by a few coughs from RJ, who had inhaled too fast.

"That sucks dude," the stoner wheezed out, then he extended the bong towards Han. "You can have the next hit, sounds like you need it."

Han grabbed the bong and took the biggest, angriest hit anyone in the room had ever seen, and then jumped to his feet and stormed out of the room. Trevor rose to follow but Monica put her hand on his arm and stopped him- the guy definitely needed a moment to cool off before he was ready for any sort of human interaction.

"Okay I'm officially banishing this negative energy," RJ declared, exhaling another puff of smoke that no one realized he'd been holding in. "Let's smoke until we all forget everything that just happened."

Murmurs of agreement from the other partygoers, and Monica fished another baggie out of her purse.

In truth, Han didn't want to be a party pooper, but it was difficult for him to be around happy people when he was feeling so miserable. Han had always been unlucky in love, something he bitterly attributed to being an Asian who didn't fit into the neat stereotypes of "soft and submissive twink" or "dominant bro" that all the guys expected. People didn't want plain, chubby dudes like him. They wanted big hunks like Andy, or pretty little twinks like Trevor. And who was he to blame them? He wanted the same things.

He'd thought he'd found a kindred spirit in Trevor when they'd met freshmen year, but just when he'd finally worked up the courage to ask the other boy out, Andy had materialized out of thin air and snatched him away. Stupid, impossibly handsome Andy who was bigger and better than Han would ever be or could ever hope to compete with. In a desperate bid for companionship, Han had thrown himself into a string of failed relationships, but no matter how low he lowered his standards, things never worked out for him.

Han threw open the first door that he found which was, ironically enough, Trevor's bedroom. It figured that the only time he would ever end up in Trevor's bed was when he was plopping himself down on it to stew in his bitterness. The young man buried his head in his hands and sighed, then a glint of light out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Momentarily distracted from his doom spiral, Han glanced over at Trevor's nightstand and saw a ring sitting on top of it.

That's strange, he thought. Trevor doesn't wear jewelry.

Curious, he scooped it up for a closer look. A thick band of smooth, shiny gold with intricate patterns carved into the interior and a few clear gems dotting the outside at strategic points, and Han found himself mesmerized by the way the stones caught the light and twinkled. It was a beautiful ring but not Trevor's style- perhaps it was a gift from Andy, a sign their relationship was getting more serious.

The thought made jealousy bubble up from his belly and his head swam- the weed must be hitting him harder than he'd thought. The metal of the ring felt tingled against his skin and for some reason, he put it on, to feel for a moment what it would be like to have what he wanted in his grasp. Then the door flew open and when Han looked up, he saw Trevor's boyfriend standing there, with a stupid smile on his stupidly handsome face, with his stupidly big muscles, and his-

"Oh hey dude I…" Andy blinked, whatever thought was in his head disappearing into a puff of smoke. "I completely forgot what I came in here for."

The ring glimmered on his finger.

Do it.

Han reached out.

---

"Is it too much to ask for one normal night?" Andy yelled at the universe, grunting as he threw his body into door. "Or at least that I switch into somebody with some muscles?"

It had all happened so fast. One second he was sitting on the couch with Trevor, then it seemed like he blinked and he was alone in Trevor's room with his weird friend Han, and then Han had the ring, and then… he was trapped. In Han's body, and in Trevor's room, because Han (who had been thrilled with his new digs) had jammed a chair or something on the other side of the door and now Andy couldn't get it open. He could have busted down the door in a second if he were himself, but unfortunately, all of his hard earned muscles had been commandeered by a creep, so he had to make do with what he had.

Which isn't much, he though to himself, glaring down at Han's weak body with distaste.

Andy was an open-minded guy who did his best not to judge other people- he was blessed, he knew that! Not everybody had the time and genetics to build the kind of body that he had. But it was hard to be body positive when stuck with a body that wasn't his own, and once again, he was short and fat. Before puberty hit him like a sledgehammer and transformed him into an Adonis, Andy had been a chubby kid, so being in Han's body made him feel like he was twelve again. Small and powerless.

Andy channeled his frustration into another charge at the door and succeeded at nudging it open another inch, although the force of the blow made his borrowed shoulder throb. Nasty bruises were already forming, but hey- not his body.

He needed to get out of there now. Andy would freely admit that he was the jealous type and he'd never liked the way that Han looked at his boyfriend- Trevor was like the sun, who could blame the guy for developing a crush? But Trevor was his, and now that Han was him, there was no telling what he would do. The thought of that creep using his body to take advantage of his sweet little guy… using his muscles to sweep the twink off his feet… working Trevor open and fucking him with the massive cock he'd stolen while the real Andy was stuck with a little nub…

The rush of anger gave Andy the push he needed tackle the door at full strength, finally knocking the chair out of the way and sending him stumbling into the hallway. Light, music, and voices filtered down the dark hallway, and Andy scrambled to his feet- only to go crashing right back to the floor when he failed to vault over the fallen chair. (Han's body couldn't make the jump.) Cursing in pain, he half-crawled/half-stumbled down the hallway to the living room and burst in in a panic.

"Trevor, listen, Han found the ring and-"

He blinked as he registered the scene that laid before him- utter chaos.

RJ was running around the room at top speed, ducking and weaving around the furniture as he tried to escape Alexander, who was in hot pursuit behind him and gaining ground fast. They nearly plowed into Andy's own body, which Andy was standing dumbstruck in the middle of the room, both hands buried in the front of his jeans as whoever was in it fondled his with a dazed expression of shock. Poor Monica was pacing back and forth, babbling to herself as she grabbed her own breasts, while Trevor was standing dumbly by the entrance to the hallway, munching on a bag of chips.

Andy grabbed him by the shoulder. "Trevor?"

"Huh?" Trevor droned, looking at Andy with dumb, bloodshot eyes. He snickered at something funny in his head and slumped over onto Andy's shoulder. "Han, dude, I'm so high right now. I hallucinated I was the Hulk for a minute there, like, I was ripped. Everyone's gone crazy, lol."

Okay so not Trevor, Andy thought to himself. This must be the real RJ, which meant the one being chased by Alexander's body must be someone else- the golden ring glinting off of his finger confirmed it. But who was it? Was Trevor still trying to get the ring from Han? Or had Trevor already gotten it, and was now trying to keep it away from him? His questions were answered when "Alexander" caught up to "RJ" and managed to grab him by the waist.

"You can't stop me!" RJ's body taunted, struggling against his captor. It was clear that RJ's body was no match for Alexander's track and field trained muscles, but when Han stretched RJ's long arm out as far as it could go, he managed to grab onto Andy's body. With a flash, he was free, and he finished his sentence with Andy's voice. "With this ring, I can be anyone!"

He made a break for the door, but Trevor (the real Trevor, using Alexander's body) tossed RJ's body aside and dove for Han's legs, managing to send them both crashing to the ground. The two tussled for a moment, and while Andy's body clearly had the upper hand in terms of strength, Han was uncoordinated and caught off-guard, so he elected to retreat by hopping over to Monica's body as it passed by.

This turned out to be a mistake as he could barely walk in her shoes, and he wasn't able to hobble far before Trevor was upon him- but Han managed to catch Trevor unaware and switched the two of them, leaving him as the track and field star and Trevor in heels. Trevor had the presence of mind to take one of the heels off and throw it at Han's back, and Han gave a yelp and tripped into Trevor's body, sending chips flying everywhere. Meanwhile, whoever had been swapped from Monica's body into Andy's was grabbing his crotch again, but the expression on his face was one of relief rather than confusion.

"Oh thank god," Alexander groaned, thrilled to be anatomically male again, then his eyes widened when he realized the scale of the anatomy he held. "Oh my god!"

He gaped down at Andy's cock, then seemed to register Andy's pecs were also obstructing his view, and he reached up to cup them in his hands. A grin split his face as he began flexing, doing stereotypical macho-man poses as he geeked out over the incredible musculature he now possessed. Before he could get too comfortable, he was sent crashing back to Earth when RJ's body crashed into him and grabbed him by the hand, zapping him out of his dream body. He squeezed one of his skinny new arms and sighed.

A lot happened in the next few seconds as the partygoers tussled on the floor. RJ's body had Trevor's body the arm, while Monica's body was pounding her fists into Alexander's body, while Alexander's body was trying to hobble away while Trevor's body was curled around its legs, Andy's body was trapped on the floor being stepped on by all of them, and the real Andy's head was spinning as he tried to keep up with who was who.

"Trev?" he asked. "Where are you?"

Monica's body turned to glare at him, and Andy would recognize that look on any face.

"I told you, nothing good ever happens at parties!" Trevor huffed.

After they'd gotten the ring back, fixed all of the switches, and then gaslit their friends into thinking that they'd smoked some bad weed and had a very vivid group hallucination, Trevor decided that he'd better keep the ring in a harder to find place from then on.

Part Two

[egalitarian-tomboy]

"The body language was intentional." Body Language Difference Between Sonic & Amy vs. Sonic & Tails

Although the DC x Sonic the Hedgehog 4 part mini series is non canon to the mainline story (as far as we know at least...) in one of the previews we got for the first issue we get a moment where we see Sonic grab Tails and Amy for a retreat.

However the difference in how he grabs them is interesting enough to warrant a post of its own.

ABT (Adam Bryce Thomas, artist for the crossover) said the body language was intentional and later on went on to elaborate that Sonic is simply being more gentle with one than the other and that he's not interested in shipping theories nor does he have any personal stake in that realm of fandom. He just said that it'd be more in character for him to have a little tact.

First off: HARD AGREE!

Like don't get me wrong, I've been a Sonamy shipper since I was in Middle School when Sonic X was still on 4Kids TV and SA2 was on the Game Cube but I'm against shipping theories / fan shipping wars getting heated between fans. Like y'all lets calm down these are fictional characters.

Secondly: I'm making this post specifically to talk about the body language in terms of how Sonic personally interacts with Amy vs. Tails in different situations. Because they're both close to Sonic but their bonds differ to an extent. So this is really my excuse to talk about something I've wanted to for a while.

Whether you ship Sonamy platonically, romantically, or you just consider them to be friends. I hope you can at least appreciate the observations in this post. Because it also has some appreciation for Sonic & Tails brotherly relationship as well.

So let's start off with the above body language in question and focus strictly on the hands.

The lines in the panel signify the strength of the grip he has on Amy's hand vs. Tails' wrist. With Amy, Sonic is holding onto her hand gently yet with enough grip to get her attention and to draw her close. While his grip on Tails' wrist is more firm with more like a "Get over here!" level of urgency to it. They both convey the same intention yet Sonic's touch differs depending on the person. Which it should because you don't act the same way towards everyone regardless of who they are 100% of the time. Sonic's no different. Sonic has always been protective of Amy and Tails but with Amy he won't physically harm her or act aggressively with her unless it's for her safety (Like pushing her out of harms way or keeping her from running into danger). So his gentle hold of Amy's hand is a good example of that level of softness he treats her with even though he knows how she's able to handle herself. With his grip on Tails' wrist, it's done in a way that screams "Brothers" to me. The older brother pulling his little brother out of harms way and getting his attention when he's too focused on the wrong thing at the wrong time. He's not being as gentle with him because sometimes Tails requires a bit more force to get his attention when he's invested in what he's doing. But the intention is still the same: Getting him out of danger and taking him along with Amy out of danger.

Next we have this scene from the main series:

Now in this scene, as they're confronting Eggman, the body language between the three of them says a lot more about their feelings in the moment. Sonic is ready to fight and protect, Amy is slightly concerned for Sonic, and Tails is nervous but ready to fight by Sonic's side to stop Eggman. The difference between this scene in the previous scene however boils down to Tails' junction to Sonic in the situation. Instead of being brought out of a situation, Tails is preparing himself to work as a tag team with Sonic or provide backup in a fight. For a while now Tails has been wanting to prove he can be useful to Sonic and help him on his adventures. Which is one of the big motivations for him in the first Sonic Adventure game that rolls into SA2. Most recently in Sonic Frontiers he's expressed his desire to be a hero that Sonic can be proud of, that doesn't need to rely on his help 100% of the time anymore. Which Sonic encourages but reminds him that growing up is learning also that it's OK to rely on others even when you're capable of being a hero that helps everyone. One way that Sonic is letting Tails grow into his own hero is by letting him fight with him and on his own two feet (or in his case with his two tails). Now when you focus on Sonic's body language with Amy close by, he's taking more of a defensive stance with her. Again, even though he knows damn well that she's very capable of handling herself with that hammer of hers, he is still very protective of her. One of his arms is slightly in front of her and he's positioning himself for an attack but he's also capable of taking the full brunt of Eggman's attack if he has a weapon or robot shoot at them. Just because Amy is capable of defending herself that doesn't mean that Sonic will stand by and let her be attacked.

One more scene from the mainline series and then I wanna wrap up this post by talking about the inherent difference between Sonic's relationships with Tails and Amy.

After everything is said and done with the Phantom Rider arc, when they all prepare to head home, Sonic puts his hands around Tails and Amy as they smile and leave together. The thing I want to point out is, similar to the difference in where Sonic grabs them in the DC crossover first issue, Sonic's hand placement is tactful yet at the same time very indicative of his relationships with them. Albeit maybe even a little subconsciously. With Tails his arm is wrapped around his shoulder with his hand wrapped around his arm. Very big brother like and sweet, the clear difference in height is also more pronounced in this interaction. Overall if you were to look at them acting like this and Amy wasn't there it gives the air of two brothers who just got done on an adventure. But when you look at his hold on Amy, you can tell Sonic has a different kind of relationship with her compared to Tails. First off his arm is behind her back with his hand either firmly on her lower back or just close enough to be around her waist. Generally speaking it's traditional for a guy to escort a lady with a hand on her back or around her waist to keep her protected and close so she's safe until she gets where she's supposed to be. But it's worth pointing out that Sonic is becoming more comfortable with his physical interactions with those he's close with. He's a very private guy who doesn't do a lot of PDA with friends, especially with Amy when he knows that she's in love with him and he's "runned away" from her advancements in the past. But after everything is over and the battle has been won, he happily holds her close and walks with her back home. And look at her! She's so happy that he's safe and sound she leans her head against his with her eyes closed. Like she's enjoying the fact he's holding her so tenderly and protectively. If this shot was just him and Amy walking together like this, you would say his smile here was a comfortable yet nervous smile like we've seen in the past where she's given him a hug and he looks a little nervous yet happy.

There are many moments in the Sonic Franchise where we get glimpses into the personal relationships Sonic has with his friends and unfortunately there are a lot of people who think that body language doesn't matter when it comes to understanding a relationship. But body language plays such a huge part when it comes to SEEING how close characters are to each other and how they truly feel about each other. With Tails, Sonic's relationship is that of a brotherhood by bond rather than blood. Sonic's always been there for him and yet he respects and encourages his desire to become more independent as he grows up. He will always be there to help him when he needs help and he will always stand up for him but he won't stop him from becoming a hero himself to fight by his side on equal footing in his own way. Sonic calling him "Little Brother" and "Little Bro" openly and more frequently truly shows how he really considers Tails his family.

With Amy, there is a friendship with her but he doesn't view her in the same sibling way he sees Tails. She's straightforward in her love for him and has openly asked him in the past if he would marry her. She's confessed her love for him openly and maturely to him in the IDW series saying she loves him and she doesn't WANT to change him. He's offered her to come with him on his adventure at the time but she had to help out with the struggling resistance. For Sonic, shyly telling her it isn't ALL or NOTHING is HUGE. Because he wasn't against the idea of her being by his side or adventuring with him after she candidly said she loved him for him. After that there's been a lot more flirting from Sonic's end that can be read as just being playful like he is with others. But when you consider in the past he wasn't the type to flirt back or first AT ALL with Amy, there is an inherent romantic undertone to their interactions. But it shows...if ever so slowly (how ironic)...that Sonic is either becoming more comfortable / open to the idea of a public romantic relationship with her or he's becoming more honest with himself since he's always been interested in her but has always been too shy to confess.

If that was too long for you, TL;DR end summary: Sonic's relationship with Tails is a brotherhood, Sonic's relationship with Amy is a slow burn love story.

Hope you enjoyed reading that because I had fun writing it.

[ceoandslutler]

Prospero & Ariel vs Ciel & Sebastian | Part 2 (Romance Edition)

What did the comparison in Chapter 216 really mean?

Please read Part 1 before this and Part 3 after.

What I love here is that Ciel does not deny he and Sebastian are akin to Prospero and Ariel but rather he expresses the fact he is troubled by the fact Sebastian has had a prior relationship with Modri Vladis (if that is true). He instead calls back to the end of the previous chapter where he had straight up said he is cleaning up after Sebastian's past affair. He's sort of rubbing the fact that he is doing something for Sebastian's sake in his face. Anyway, the relationship between Prospero and Ariel is not explicitly* romantic or parental. But it is fascinating.

*Well... I'll get to that.

In the final act, Prospero regards letting go of Ariel as setting them free but also calls them very fondly. He does so multiple times in this scene.

Kuroshitsuji calls The Tempest a romance. The main plot of this Shakespearean story is not romance. In fact, it is more of a tragicomedy than anything. The side plot however is a romance. Miranda, Prospero's daughter, and Ferdinand, Prince of Naples, develop a romance and end up together. But these two characters are quite obviously foils for Prospero and Ariel whose relationship is trapped in the mould of master and servant; while Miranda, despite ending up at Ferdinand's wife, says she is willing to be his servant if he does not take her as his wife.

Miranda, unlike the inherently tragic relationship between Ariel and Prospero that remains secret and ends with separation, ends up marrying her love Ferdinand, rather than ending up his servant. But, despite this, she still treats Ferdinand as a master even as they play chess and she accuses him of cheating, calling him 'Sweet Lord' (Ariel also calls Prospero 'my lord') and claiming she does not care if he cheats and takes over the world. Sebastian is also shown as Miranda in the chapter cover.

Her attitude of servitude in their game of chess is rather familiar. It echoes the way Sebastian and Ciel engage in chess, Ciel breaks the rules and cheats while Sebastian supports him wholeheartedly. In Prospero and Ariel's case, Prospero too is cheating against his enemies using Ariel.

Not much more to say. I'll leave you all with this.

Very cute of a comparison, considering these two were... romantically charged. To say the least.

"Do you love me, master, no?" (Act 3, Scene 1) / Ariel claims Prospero is tender, causing him to forgive his brother (Act 5, Scene 1) / Ariel dresses Prospero and after being given an order, says he will return before Prospero's heart beats twice (Act 5, Scene 1)

Highly recommend reading this and how Ariel's one-sided love changed Prospero.

It is Ariel's very love that makes possible Prospero's forgiveness, his return to the fullness of his humanity. In her love for him, for his humanity that she alone can fully perceive, Ariel becomes the protagonist of forgiveness. Prospero, through this love that comes as total gift, completes Ariel's lines. Ariel's love converts, opening up Prospero to the value of "virtue" above vengeance. The ease through which Prospero forgives is not itself the result of magic. It is instead the power of Ariel's love, which was forming Prospero throughout the play, that makes possible a return gift of love upon the part of Prospero. In this sense, perhaps The Tempest is actually Shakespeare's greatest love story. It reveals a love, which cannot be consummated (for a spirit cannot unite with body), that nonetheless makes possible the "comedy" of The Tempest. It is a love that opens up Prospero to a world of values, which only slowly (throughout the play) become his own. Such love ironically is offered by a non-human character, who nonetheless humanizes the protagonist. The genius of Shakespeare's comedies (and The Tempest is at least kind of one of these) for the Christian is that it opens us up to the manner in which love humanizes the world. It manifests to us in dramatic form what happens when a kind of "divine" love leads to conversion. — Timothy P. O’Malley, August 30, 2016

[lilyinavalley]

𝕷𝖊𝖋𝖙 𝕭𝖊𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖉 - 𝕿𝖆𝖎𝖌𝖆 𝕳𝖔𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖇𝖆𝖒𝖎 🐯

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 1 - 𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℜ𝔬𝔬𝔪

Do you want to know what happened with Taiga in the cut scenes of episode 16? Then check it out...

Taiga Hoshibami x reader Ao3 Ao3 versione italiana Contents! romance, sexual tension, slow build, explicit language, flirting, sharing a bed, sleeping together, sharing a room [Masterlist] A reimagining of certain parts of the main story — in particular, you'll see what happened the night our protagonist shared a room with Taiga, an additional part in the second scene at the restaurant, and finally what would have happened if, at the end of the mission, Taiga and the protagonist had returned to the academy by taking a walk together. Enjoy the read!

Romeo: “So, what’s your plan?”

“Huh?”

Romeo: “Don’t give me that blank stare. There are only two rooms, so you’ll have to share with one of us. I’ll let you decide.”

“Oh! Um, then… I’ll stay with Taiga. Is that okay with you?”

Taiga: “Why are you asking me? … Oh, I see. What a dirty mind you’ve got, kitty-cat”

(I have a feeling I won’t be getting much sleep tonight.)

The room is even smaller than I expected. From the too-close side walls seeps an almost nauseating air of decay.

At the back of the room, there’s a single, small, round, half-open window.

(Probably broken too. I guess tonight we’ll be falling asleep to the noise of the street — as if the paper-thin walls weren’t enough already.)

There’s no furniture to speak of, aside from a termite-bitten wooden table on one side and a bunk bed on the other.

(At least the sheets look clean.)

The bathroom, of course, is shared, so I drop my duffel bag, pull out my change of clothes and toiletry bag, then turn around to get ready for the night.

Taiga: “Running off already, kitty-cat?”

With an amused smirk, Taiga is still leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his duffel bag abandoned on the dirty floor.

“I’m just going to change in the bathroom. You should change too while I’m gone.”

I take a few steps, hoping he’ll move out of the way, but he remains in that arrogant pose, not moving an inch.

My face ends up just centimeters from his chest, and still, he doesn't budge. I look up, ready to voice my irritation, but he silences me by gently taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger.

The room is lit only by a bell-shaped ceiling lamp, its bulb flickering like it could go out any second, along with the dim neon glow from the nighttime city filtering through the small window. This mix of soft lighting reflects in Taiga’s feline eyes, clear enough that I can see my own reflection.

Taiga: “Where did all that courage from earlier go? Change here. In front of me.”

There’s a teasing, provocative tone in his voice, but he's serious enough to expect I’d actually go through with it.

(He’s messing with me again. But two can play at that game.)

“Alright.”

Pretending not to see his shocked expression, I lay my clothes on the wobbly table, I slowly bring my hands to the first button of my pink qipao and begin to unfasten it.

“Well? Aren’t you changing too? After all that talk, you freeze up the moment I start undressing. Are you shy?”

Giving in to the provocation, Taiga pulls off his jacket and throws it onto the top bunk, quickly unfastens his crop top, and just as he lifts it over his head, I take advantage of the second his vision is covered and his arms are occupied to slip out of the room.

(All those times I had to escape during the missions with the ghoul finally came in handy.)

Without looking back, I close the door behind me and dash to the bathrooms.

(I should’ve chosen to stay with Ritsu…)

Still, Taiga’s bare torso lingers vividly in my mind, and a blush creeps onto my cheeks. I try to wash away these intrusive thoughts with cold water, then lock the stall and start getting ready for the night.

After washing off the fatigue of the day and changing clothes, I head back to the room.

Before going in, I pause at the doorway, take a deep breath, and hoping not to find Taiga in one of his chaotic moods, I turn the key and push the handle down.

Taiga: “Welcome back, kitty-cat. That little stunt you pulled earlier was pretty funny.”

Taiga says this with a loud laugh the moment I walk in.

(He took it well and seems to be in a good mood. That’s a relief.)

He’s lying sideways across the top bunk, feet against the wall, head dangling off the edge. His red-and-white bangs fall downward, revealing his forehead and giving him a more innocent, childlike look.

I throw him a playful glance and start putting away the clothes I’d taken off. His duffel is now on the table too. I turn to see he’s actually put on a pajamas while I was gone.

“Don’t you need to use the bathroom?”

Taiga: “Already did. Do you have any idea how long you were gone?”

“You’re exaggerating. I wasn’t gone that long.”

I shoot him a disapproving look and slide under the covers.

“Good night.”

Taiga: “What?! You’re going to sleep already?”

“Exactly. We’ve done more than enough today — I’m exhausted.”

A yawn escapes my lips, and from above, I hear a quiet grumble.

Taiga: “So boring…”

After that brief exchange, I switch off the light next to my bed, close my eyes, and finally, silence follows.

Minutes pass, but sleep still doesn’t come. Maybe it’s the street noise, the horribly uncomfortable mattress, or the thin walls letting in the neighbors’ voices — either way, my exhaustion makes way for other thoughts.

In this dark room, the worries I’ve been carrying for months resurface in my weary mind.

The day when Kyklos’ curse takes over is drawing closer. I’ve been on countless missions and gotten nowhere. I keep pretending to stay positive, not to drown in despair, but now the shadow of death is slowly tightening around my throat, stealing my breath more each day until it finally takes it all on judgment day.

Taiga: “Your thoughts are so loud I can’t sleep either.”

I jolt at the sudden sound of his voice breaking the silence.

“What?!”

I see a movement near the top bunk, but my eyes aren’t yet used to the dark. After a moment, I manage to make out an arm reaching down.

Taiga: “Give me your hand.”

I hesitate in silence, trying to process what he just said.

(He seriously wants me to give him my hand? Something’s fishy here…)

A tingling flutters in my chest, but despite my suspicion, I hesitantly reach up. The moment my fingers brush his — strangely bare of rings — he grabs my wrist and, with ridiculous strength, yanks me into the air, throwing me onto the top bunk.

A startled scream echoes in the room, immediately muffled by Taiga covering my mouth with his other hand.

Taiga: “Shhh, you don’t want to wake the neighbors up don't you. If you ruin Lulù’s beauty sleep, he’ll be in a bad mood all day.”

And just like that, I find myself straddling Taiga, his face a breath away, my lips pressed to his palm.

I wriggle out of his grip and whisper angrily.

“Are you insane?! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

Up here, the darkness is slightly less oppressive. The lights from the building across the street shine through the window, letting me see his sharp teeth peeking through a cocky grin.

(Useless question — of course he’s insane.)

The closeness between us starts making me nervous. A swarm of butterflies stirs in my stomach, and my ears burn.

(Good thing it’s dark — I must be as red as a tomato.)

I try to shift, but Taiga grabs my arms tighter, keeping me still.

“Taiga, let me go. Right now.”

Taiga: “I don’t feel like it.”

“Then what do you want?”

Taiga: “Lie down next to me, kitty-cat. Be my hot water bottle.”

With an exasperated sigh, I drop beside him. He finally lets go, but things don’t get better — we’re now pressed together in a bed clearly not made for two adults.

The butterflies flutter harder. My breathing quickens. Taiga always affects me like this. Maybe the curse is already eating away at my humanity, because the rational me from before would’ve never felt this way for someone like him — a guy who makes you think of words like insane, psychopath, killer, mobster, gambling addict, and so on. And yet, here I am, beside him, by my choice, when I could’ve been with Romeo or Ritsu.

“So you dragged me up here just because you’re cold?”

Taiga: “Get under the blanket.”

(Not answering, huh?)

I do as he says, slipping under the covers, now warm from his body heat.

We lie there silently, side by side, eyes wide open, staring at the cracked ceiling less than half a meter above.

All the dark thoughts that had begun clouding my mind minutes ago were scattered by Taiga’s sudden stunt. Now, though, I can’t sleep for a different reason…

“Why can’t you sleep?”

Taiga: “Mmmh, because this place sucks. And like I said, your thoughts are too loud.”

That stupid line makes me chuckle softly.

“Oh yeah? Then what was I thinking about?”

Taiga starts tracing the knuckles of the hand closest to him, then glides down, brushing each finger one by one. A shiver runs up my arm, raising goosebumps.

Taiga: “You’re afraid of dying, aren’t you?”

He turns on his side, resting on one elbow, leaning closer.

His fingers leave my hand, trailing slowly over my wrist bones, up my forearm, reaching my shoulder, outlining the curve of my collarbone, and finally stopping at my throat. His hand wraps lightly around my neck, resting there without pressure.

Taiga: “Can you feel how fast your heart’s beating. Is it fear? Or something else?”

He whispers. And he doesn’t need to tighten his grip. My breath is already caught.

His hand glides along my jaw, then to my cheekbone. My eyes narrow into slits, lashes brushing against his fingers.

(I feel like I’m dying.)

I’m frozen in place, unable to move. Right now, he could do anything to me, and I wouldn’t stop him — because deep down, I want this.

Every touch of his sends adrenaline surging through me. Every word makes my chest tremble with pleasure. His closeness, his warmth — it makes me lose my mind.

I inhale. Exhale. Try to take back control.

Suddenly, sharp banging and an angry shout from the other side of the wall snap us out of it.

Romeo(?): “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to sleep!”

Romeo’s unmistakable angry voice cuts through the wall and echoes into our room.

After the outburst, silence returns. Taiga groans and pulls me into his arms, pressing my head against his chest.

Taiga: “Close your eyes and stop thinking, kitty-cat. In the end… it’ll end how it ends.”

(It’ll end how it ends…)

And so, lulled by the sound of his heartbeat and his steady breathing, I finally fall asleep.

(Sleeping in someone’s arms… isn’t bad at all. Now I get why he always wants me to be his hot water bottle…)

NEXT-> The Restaurant

Dividers by: @dollywons and @strangergraphics-archive

[men-i-find-attractive-yaps]

So as a resident thinker and Tumblrite, I've been seeing a lot of posts/essays of what ppl think will happen from here on out and I have my own thoughts that are pretty different from what I've been seeing around lately

I've seen a lot of posts saying that the groups are going to get messed up at some point, which I do agree with, but I disagree with the part that the Clusterfucks (the objectively funnier name for Annabel's group) are going to get closer together and the Misfits are going to break up (and here's why:)

In the story, it's clear that the current arc is meant to muddy the waters between the "good" (the Misfits) and the "evil" (the Clusterfucks). Previously in the story, the Misfits have been shown as a loyal group willing to stick their necks out for eachother for no other reason than the bond they share while the clusterfucks have been shown to be a lot less willing to help their own. This, combined with Monty being a conniving little bastard, has painted them as the evil of the story with the Misfits being the good of the story.

But, in this arc, it's almost been like a role reversal. Annabel and Prospero both went back to help Ada (someone they both have no reason to help/like other than "she's one of our own") while the most chalant nonchalant guy to ever exist (monty) saved AND EVEN COMFORTED Will for no other reason other than gayness loyalty. Meanwhile, the Misfits got split up and they, in all their perceived goodness, left Will to die as he begged for someone, anyone to help him.

Now, don't get me wrong, this isn't a hate on the Misfits post, since I still love them with all my heart, but it's just to point out the role reversal. The Misfits are no longer fully good and the Clusterfucks are no longer fully evil.

Now, I can see how this could lead to the conclusion that I disagree with, but I would like all of y'all to stay with me for a moment as I explain how it won't tear the groups apart entirely, but instead combine them.

First off, both leaders of each group (Lenore and Annabel) have now been shown to have similar motives and/or ideals. Annabel specifically, as she now has been shown to care about both Ada and (to an extent/less confirmed) Prospero. She could have left them to die but instead SACRIFICED THE RING SHE GOT FROM LENORE to save them all. You can't honestly look me in the eyes and tell me that's someone who's just gonna leave her group to rot in exchange for her wifey who has been shown to be willing to leave her if she can't bring her friends along.

Second of all, no one group has the moral high ground now. Both groups are veryyyy morally grey now with all the stuff mentioned previously. The Misfits can't claim to be morally better because yes, they did leave Will to die, and the Clusterfucks can't be condemned as absolute villains because when push came to shove they defended their own.

Third of all, let's just talk about it from a plot standpoint real quick. I can not forsee an ending where the entire main cast (minus the inevitable casualties) doesn't get redemption. I could be wrong, but it'd be a very unfulfilling end if they (Annabel and Lenore, our beloved mcs) just left one of the main cast back at Nevermore to rot and die while they skipped off into new life. We know and are supposed to care ENTIRELY too much about these characters for that to be the case. (also, side note, the groups gotta combine at least to a point cause Annabel and Lenore ain't gonna get together if they never interact)

So, yes, I believe that the groups are gonna combine for both general plot reasons and for the simple fact that this arc is proving that they aren't so different after all. I'm not saying this will happen immediately, don't get me wrong, but I do think that end game will 100% be one big group fucking off into new life while I CRY when any of them die 😭😭

[whimsquirksandstuff]

hi! i was wondering if i could possibly ask you, the resident fandom expert, something (or several things, really), as i'm considering writing an essay on the topic. what makes sports anime, haikyuu and free in particular (as they are by far the most prevalent), so gay? why is it that fans don't seem to need to read very far into the source material to find "proof" to at least suggest that there is queercoding in the relationship, regardless of whether it was deliberate? why did fans latch on these characters and shows and relationships more than others? my working idea is that it might be the power of friendship stuff combined with the coming of age story, but i've been wondering why these fanon queer relationships feel like much less of a stretch in sports anime (and anime at large, although it is much more there in sports anime) as opposed to both other genres of anime and western media/other media?

sorry if this was poorly worded or a weird question!

This is a really good question!

The "power of friendship" & "coming of age" angles definitely play a role, I think. But what really grabs my attention when it comes to the characters in sports anime is how close they are with each other. Whether they're on the same team or opposing sides, they're always in each other's faces, thinking of one another, sometimes almost obsessively! Rivals, revered teammates, etc. There's a close proximity between characters both physically and mentally almost constantly, on the court or during slice of life adventures. Sports in general are touchy, whether it's slapping your bro on the shoulder or getting into his head with something like "why do you swim, my dude?" Channeling the "Free!" dub heavy here.

The sports genre really lends itself to offering settings/situations where character relationships are tested time and time again, and on top of all that they're competing with/against each other. And competitions can be, as you can imagine, pretty intense. Goodness knows how many internal monologues and brain game speeches we've seen from sports anime protags and side characters! So, high stress situations with high stakes (winning a race for instance) + close proximity (physically and mentally) = a pressure cooker environment that serves up tension, and is the perfect foundation for reading into relationships in the show on a deeper level. It's like an "only one bed" scenario but the floor is also lava. Fight! Talk! Kiss already, damn it!

And this tension is delicious because not only is it felt for the ships that come out of these shows, but individual characters too. There's so much introspection going on inside each character's mind (well, at least for the main cast, maybe not like nameless rando opponent #6). Their goals, motivations for playing the sport, backstories, etc make us root for them to win, or at the very least help us understand them and be gracious when they lose.

It's raw, and a breath of fresh air when characters with rich internal worlds interact, and when those worlds clash or combine in funky new ways, it feels like that scene in "Ratatouille" when Remy sees that symphony of flavors after combining ingredients. In a lot of other media, unfortunately we don't often get that same level of introspection/rich internal world exploration for both characters in a ship; it's usually just one, or it's half-assed for one or both of them.

And to finish this incredibly long answer off, much of the lessons learnt in sports anime can be applied to real life! The same goes for the relationships that bloom too. The relatability of every takeaway message from games won or lost, getting along with teammates, bonding with people who are so different from you and finding common ground, yadda yadda. It makes it easy to connect with the characters that much more, makes you become invested in the outcomes of games, and that gets you locked in to the dynamics between characters because it can affect the outcome of said games. Or vice versa, the outcomes of those games affect characters and thus the relationships they have with other characters. Everything is laid out in the open, on the court, right there. Hard not to pick up on even if you're not a shipper, you know?

This got wayyyy longer than anticipated lmao, but I hope it was useful! It's honestly just the tip of the iceberg cause if we talked about sports anime shipping in depth we'd be here all day :,)

[colorfulwastelandvoid]

Mel and the future of Noxus

I’ve been seeing people voice their concerns over the future of Mel and the Noxus show. It’s not without merit, Mel (and Jayce) despite being one of the core characters and an interesting individual is routinely shafted is in interviews and press. I will say a lot of said shafting comes from fan geared events, which is also a problem. The official stuff that does come out mentions Mel, at least when Christian Linke is heading it. Regardless people are worried.

Let me offer some “levity” for those worried. While the other Noxians are vastly more popular than even the Arcane characters, Noxus centers itself with Leblanc,Swaim, and Mordekeiser. It’s clear that the big bad and major conflict will be with Leblanc ( as usual given Noxus lore). Mel will be the opposing side. I predict that Mel will likely be mentored by Swaim and in turn be allys with Darius (Melrius rejoice!) and Katarina. Two of the most popular characters in the regions. Leblanc, who is also immensely popular, now has her story tied to Mel, and given Leblanc’s voice lines to Mel she has invested interest in our Banished Mage ( three cheers for toxic yuri!). Mel and the Medardas will be at the center of whatever conflict is going to happen in Noxus, and probably beyond since the Welcome to Noxus trailer they have been hinting at an even bigger bad.

Also not to be that person but the “fans” who clearly do not like or are uninterested in Mel, especially a certain ship and character stans, aren’t even going to watch the show. They’ve literally said as much. If that white man is not centered they not coming for real. So atleast the Noxus fandom might grow a couple of IQ points and actually be fun to be in.

The Noxus show will probably closely resemble the fight for the throne like Game of Thrones or The House of the Dragon, multiple big houses fighting and making alliances. It was like this in Ambessa’s book. They could also use whatever Greek tragedy, play or history since Noxus is clearly inspired by Greece and Rome.

Call me delusional but I think Mel and her story is going to be fine.

It’s still insulting that she is featured so little in interviews though. Mel is quite literally the bridge between Arcane and the rest of League of Legends lore and content. Her and Ambessa’s inclusion in lore has changed everything in main lore. Mel is the reason Jayce isn’t the same egotistical asshole as he was in pre Arcane lore. Hell without her there would be no Hextech.

[gyllenhaalstories]

CHOKEHOLD — ELWOOD DALTON

summary: dalton is a triple threat: he’s got sexy tattoos, a thick neck and he’s terribly needy.

warnings: reader is gender neutral!, smut (quickie, masturbation, choking  handjob, edging, subby dalton vibes). 18+ NO MINORS.

word count: 1430

photo credits: me @/gyllenhaalstories) / divider credits: @/firefly-graphics

notes: i'm the captain (conductor? driver? main cheerleader who's been thirsting for dalton since the beginning? choose your fighter) of the the dalton hype train. grab your train ticket and join us! choo-choo! 🖤 thank you for reading & REMEMBER TO REBLOG!

You knew what he was up to. You had your suspicions from the start, when he told you he wanted to grab something from the bedroom with a smile on his lips. There was a hint of mischief camouflaged under a layer of fake innocence, a mix that was so characteristic of him.

Dalton was not being subtle about it either. His moans, grunts and whimpers were loud enough to echo from the bedroom to the hallway, from where you were standing. Truthfully, the whispered pleas, muffled begging and “yeah, just like that, fuck” gave everything away.

You knew he was alone, at least physically. You also knew that he was thinking of you while he was doing whatever it was that kept him too busy to answer when you called out his name.

He loved to tell you how much he thought about you. Whether he was quickly jerking off in the shower after training to release some of the pent up energy that ran through his veins, or when he was taking his sweet time to enjoy himself — he was dying to tell you all about it. 

You started to wonder what turned him on the most between the act of sharing his filthy thoughts or watching you as your brain slowly melted away, detail after detail, until you had to recreate whatever jerk off story he was telling you. Knowing Dalton, it was most definitely both of those. And knowing Dalton, he was putting on a show for his own pleasure, the fact that you enjoyed it just as much was the cherry on top.

He caught a glimpse of your head peeking in the doorway. He tightened his fist around his cock and jerked off faster, focusing on his tip that already started to leak.

You stared, immobile, except for how you bit on your lower lip.

"Come on, don't be shy."

His invitation succeeded in being too tempting to resist. You walked in the bedroom and admired his body some more. The way his chest rose and fell heavily with every breath he took captivated you.

Dalton cut you off before you started drooling at the sight of his small, perky nipples. He was now standing up, the rest of his naked body exposed to you. He erased the distance between the two of you, his mouth searching for yours to exchange a kiss that you denied him.

"You wanted to get off?" He nodded, then tilted his head to the side. "So I'll get you off."

His hands, glistening with the spit and precum he used as lube, abandoned his cock and reached towards your clothes. He was eager to touch your body, to feel your warm skin on his.

Again, you denied him of this privilege. You clicked your tongue, telling him off. "No touching, babe." He pulled his best game of puppy eyes in an attempt to win you over, but he failed. "I just wanna make you feel good."

He earned a kiss when he surrendered and you let your hands fall on his shoulders and caress down his chest, his abdomen and to his waist.

Your fingers traced over the defined muscles of his hips before you broke contact to spit on your hand, getting it ready for his throbbing cock.

He threw his head back when you wrapped your hand around his shaft, revealing his neck that looked so sad without its usual marks.

You remedied the situation by leaving kisses on and around his Adam's apple, hickeys soon followed while you jerked him off so painfully slowly.

Dalton did not want to warn you about how close he had gotten himself before you caught him, he wanted to get lost in the feeling of your hand stroking him from the base to the tip. You cupped his heavy balls with your other hand. It felt heavenly, proven by the droplets of precum that trickled down his cock.

"Feels good, yeah?"

He nodded eagerly, you looked down between your bodies and noticed how he was flexing his hips, trying to fuck your hand faster. "I need you so bad, baby..."

"I know," you cooed at him. "I know you do. I can see it. I can feel it." You laughed softly, not mocking him about it just yet.

"I wanna be inside you." He mumbled, his moans getting louder when you swiped your thumb over his sensitive tip. "Please, please, please..."

His begging was cut short when your hand wrapped around his thick neck. You choked him lightly, giving him one more chance to listen to what you said moments ago.

Only, it only made him crave the feeling of you even more. "Come on," he repeated his words from earlier. "You know you want it too."

"Oh, I do." You smirked at your man. "But not yet. I want to make you earn it."

You took him by surprise when you jerked him off faster, harder, bringing him closer than he did on his own before until you felt a breath getting stuck in his throat. You pulled your hand away from his cock and looked down as it throbbed again.

Dalton caught your attention when he chuckled, the adrenaline rush of the first edge kicking in.

In return, you caught him off guard by tightening your grip around his neck and taking his cock in your hand again. You guided him, forcing him to walk backwards until his bare back met with the wall. You pinned him up in place, secured with the chokehold around his neck.

"You're so fucking hot." He managed to whisper, the praise convinced you to loosen your hand for a few moments. You let him catch his breath before you choked him again, before you edged him again.

He was being so good for you, and you told him so many times, while he took two more edges in this position. You felt Dalton pulsate in your hands, all of the veins bulging underneath your fingers. "Do you think you earned it?" You asked with a condescending tone. "Do you wanna cum? I think you do."

You blurred his mind, he was lost in confusion between begging to cum right now or waiting until he could finish inside of whatever hole you would offer him. He tried to think with his mind, but he failed miserably.

"Please let me cum!"

You added another layer of agony by letting go of his neck for a few moments, so you could push him towards the bed this time.

His body relaxed as the bed sheets and cushions safely welcomed his weight. And yours too, while you climbed to kneel by his side.

Your hand jerked him off fast again while he was fighting against how sensitive he felt, how close to his release he truly was. "You wanna cum for me baby? You wanna make a big mess for me?"

He wanted it so fucking bad and you knew it. You granted his wish and kept jerking him off until you could no longer hear the slick sounds of your hand around his shaft. The noises were replaced by his grunts of pleasure that resonated in the room.

Pleasure that turned into a complaint when you pulled your hand away at the perfect time. You made him cum without the final strokes of your hand that he craved so badly. Your other hand, though, was still choking him. You held him right there, in that sweet spot of euphoria while he finished riding the wave of his orgasm.

The vein on his temple looked so perfect, and you planted a loving kiss on it, tasting the beads of sweat that were on his skin. He came down from his high, both satisfied but still in desperate need for more.

You released his neck for the final time and replaced your hand with a trail of kisses all over his skin. You tried to follow his movements while he panted, recovering from the limited oxygen he had received these past minutes.

He watched you closely while your mouth abandoned his neck and, instead, followed the ropes of cum that he painted on his tan and toned stomach. Drops of cum dripped down his puffy abs and you licked all of it clean.

"Next time you want to jerk off, will you ask for my help instead?" You asked, crawling up the bed so your faces met for a heated kiss.

He moaned against your lips at the taste of him. "Next time, I'll just use you to jerk off instead."