#i was stunned into silence i fear | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rizzanon · 2 months ago

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04 | UNTIL IT’S NOT

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“What?” You froze, her words barely registering at first. Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Caitlyn, what do you mean? What happened?”

“I—he—” Caitlyn’s voice trembled, her words coming out in a flurry. “I don’t know exactly! His parents called mine early this morning—he was rushed to the hospital, something happened last night—I don’t—” She sucked in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself. “He’s not okay, (Name). They said he’s in critical condition.”

The blood drained from your face. Your phone felt heavy in your grip as you sat on your bed, stunned, Caitlyn’s voice a distant hum in the background.

Adrien. In the hospital.

Critical condition.

Caitlyn kept talking, her panic spilling over, but you couldn’t process anything else she was saying. The words circled in your head, loud and deafening.

Why? Why’s Adrien in the hospital? You don’t remember this happening back in your first life.

Why?

Why did this happen?

“(Name)? Are you still there?” Caitlyn’s voice broke through, desperate for an answer.

“I—yeah,” you managed, though your voice sounded distant, hollow. “I’m here.”

“You have to come. Please.”

“…I–I know—I’m coming right now, send me the location of the hospital,” you managed to choke out, though your body felt frozen in place.

As Caitlyn’s frantic breathing filled the silence, your mind raced. Adrien. One of your closest friends—someone you thought was safe.

And now he wasn’t.

The call ended, but you didn’t even realize it at first. You sat there in the dim light of your room, staring at your phone, your pulse roaring in your ears.

Adrien’s in the hospital.

He’s in critical condition.

This didn’t happen before.

This shouldn’t have happened.

You scrambled out of bed, phone clutched tightly in your hand as your mind raced. Adrien’s in the hospital. Critical condition. You couldn’t stop the words from repeating in your head, pounding with every heartbeat.

You didn’t bother changing. Your sleepwear—a pair of loose sweatpants and an oversized shirt—was good enough. Grabbing your phone and wallet, you shoved them into your pockets, your hands trembling as you threw open your bedroom door. You didn’t even bother turning on the lights as you stumbled down the halls of Wayne Manor, adrenaline and fear propelling you forward.

You turned a corner sharply, only to collide with something—or someone—solid.

“Miss (Name)?” Alfred’s voice, steady and composed as always, was the first thing you registered. You blinked up at him, disoriented. He was already up, wearing his pristine suit as if the day had already begun. He must’ve been starting his morning duties.

“Where are you off to so early, child?” Alfred asked, concern flickering in his gaze as he took in your appearance—the disheveled hair, your bare feet, and the look of absolute panic on your face.

“I—I…” You tried to answer, but the words caught in your throat. Your chest tightened, and you gasped for air as your hands shook.

He’s in the hospital.

Critical.

The more you tried to explain, the more the words tangled and refused to come out.

“Miss (Name)?” Alfred’s voice softened, his brows knitting together as he stepped closer. “What’s happened? Please, take a breath.”

You shook your head rapidly, clutching at your hoodie. You couldn’t breathe. Why couldn’t you breathe? Adrien’s face flashed in your mind—his smile, his laugh, the stupid jokes he told when he knew you were down. And now—now—

“Adrien—” you finally choked out, your voice trembling, tears burning at the edges of your eyes. “He’s—he’s in the hospital. I—critical—”

Alfred froze, his usually calm expression shifting as worry etched deep lines across his face. “Adrien?” he repeated softly, his voice steady but tinged with concern.

You gripped his arms suddenly, your fingers clutching the fabric of his suit, desperation pouring out of you. “Alfred, I—I need to go—now! Please. I need to go see him!” Your voice cracked, breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.

Alfred gently placed his hands on your shoulders, trying to steady you. “Miss (Name), you must calm yourself. You’ll only make yourself ill if you continue like this.”

“No!” you almost shouted, shaking your head violently. “I don’t have time for that! He—he’s—” You stumbled over your words again, your chest heaving as you fought to calm down. “I have to go, Alfred. Please.”

The pleading in your voice finally seemed to register. Alfred’s gaze softened, though his concern didn’t waver. He nodded, his voice low and reassuring. “Very well. I’ll take you there.”

Your hands loosened their grip on his arms, and you exhaled shakily, a mix of relief and urgency pushing you forward.

“Let’s get you to the car,” Alfred said firmly, guiding you toward the door. “I’ll have you there in no time.”

You nodded silently, following him as he grabbed the keys and led you out to the car. The cool morning air hit you as you stepped outside, but you barely felt it. All you could think about was Adrien—lying in some hospital bed, fighting for his life.

This didn’t happen before. Not in your first life.

Your hands curled into fists in your lap as Alfred started the engine, his steady driving the only sound filling the silence. You stared blankly out the window, the familiar streets of Gotham blurring past.

Alfred glanced at you through the rearview mirror, his voice gentle. “We’ll be there soon, Miss (Name).”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. The weight of everything sat heavy on your chest. Hold on, Adrien.

Please.

The car hadn’t even fully stopped before you flung the door open and stumbled out onto the pavement, adrenaline carrying you forward. The hospital loomed in front of you, the stark white of its walls and harsh fluorescent lights far too sterile for the storm of emotions crashing inside of you. You barely registered Alfred following close behind as you rushed through the glass doors, your breath shallow, heart pounding in your chest.

You practically skidded to a stop in the hallway, eyes darting around in a frenzy until you spotted her—Caitlyn. She was sitting in one of the waiting chairs, her head bowed, shoulders shaking. Next to her stood her older brother, his hand resting protectively on her back. Further down the hall, Adrien’s parents were speaking quietly to a doctor, their faces pale and drawn with worry.

“Caitlyn!” Your voice broke as you called out to her, and her head snapped up at the sound. The second she saw you, she was up on her feet, rushing toward you. You met her halfway, and she threw her arms around you, her sobs muffled against your shoulder as you clung to her.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she choked out, her voice shaking. “I—I don’t know what to do. I just…”

You tightened your arms around her, trying to steady her even though your own hands were trembling. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Alfred quietly approaching, his presence a steady anchor even in moments like this.

“What happened?” you managed to ask, your voice uneven as you pulled back to look Caitlyn in the eyes. Her face was pale, tear tracks streaking her cheeks, and her lip quivered as she tried to explain.

“Adrien…” She took a shaky breath, gripping your arm as if afraid you might disappear. “His parents called mine early this morning. There was—there was a bombing.”

Your heart stopped. What?

“The Riddler.” Caitlyn swallowed thickly, her voice strained. “One of his bombs went off, and it caused a few buildings to collapse—including Adrien’s apartment block.”

What?

“He was home alone. His parents weren’t there last night, so Adrien—he got caught in the debris when the building fell. The doctors said he was lucky to even be pulled out alive…” Her voice cracked. “A lot of people got hurt. Luckily no one died, but Adrien—he’s one of the ones who were seriously injured. They said he hit his head in the collapse. He hasn’t woken up since.”

You stared at her, the world suddenly muffled and distorted as if you were underwater. Caitlyn’s words echoed in your head, but it didn’t make sense. A bombing? Buildings collapsed? No. That shouldn’t have happened. In your first life, you remembered this incident—you were there. You knew the Riddler’s patterns, the locations of his bombs. And not a single one had detonated. Your family dealt with all the bombs before they detonated. Batman dealt with all the bombs before they detonated.

So why had a bomb gone off this time?

Your pulse roared in your ears, your mind racing to piece together fragments that refused to fit.

What changed?

Surely it can’t be because—

You tried to breathe, to ground yourself, but the floor beneath you felt unsteady.

No. It can’t. You made things worse before when you went ahead and tried to help. But no one got hurt then—

A noise pulled you from your spiral—footsteps. The heavy sound of a door swinging open. You turned, your eyes snapping to a doctor emerging from down the hall. It was the same door Adrien’s parents had been pacing near.

Everyone froze. The doctor removed his surgical mask, his expression carefully measured, though there was a flicker of weariness in his eyes. Adrien’s parents rushed forward, and Caitlyn gripped your hand tightly as you both waited, holding your breath.

“How’s my son?” Adrien’s mother demanded, her voice strained, her hands clutched together in front of her chest.

The doctor offered a small, cautious nod. “We’ve managed to stabilize him. He’s out of critical condition.”

Relief flooded the small group like a breaking dam. Adrien’s mother let out a small, broken sob, her husband catching her shoulders to steady her. Caitlyn’s grip on your hand relaxed slightly, though she didn’t let go.

“But,” the doctor continued, and the word sent a fresh wave of tension through the air. “He’s still unconscious. There was some head trauma from the collapse, and we’ll need to monitor him closely for the next 24 hours. Right now, it’s too early to say when he’ll wake up, but the worst seems to have passed.”

The worst seemed to have passed.

Those words rang hollow in your ears as you stared blankly at the doctor. Adrien was alive—for now. He was out of danger—for now. But it didn’t feel right. Nothing about this felt right.

The bombing. The destruction. Adrien’s injuries. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

You barely heard Caitlyn whispering, “Thank God,” beside you, or the murmured reassurances exchanged between Adrien’s parents and the doctor. Your mind was miles away, replaying the facts over and over again as if looking for cracks.

Because something had changed. And you didn’t know why.

Or worse—what it meant.

Alfred Pennyworth had seen many things in his time—far too many for a lifetime, truth be told—but watching you now, standing tall as you comforted Caitlyn and Adrien’s parents, stirred something deep and conflicted within him. You were calm, composed, and steady, offering gentle reassurances to Adrien’s mother while quietly squeezing Caitlyn’s hand when her voice trembled. To anyone else, you would appear unshaken, a pillar of support in the chaos.

But Alfred knew better.

His sharp, observant gaze hadn’t missed the way your hands trembled ever so slightly when no one was looking, how you clenched your jaw just a bit too tightly when Adrien’s condition was discussed. He couldn’t forget the sight of you earlier that morning, wide-eyed and shaking as you struggled to form words. That desperation, that fear—it had been raw, unguarded, and entirely unlike you. It unsettled him deeply to see you bottling it all up now, setting aside your own fear and grief for the sake of others.

And Alfred—loyal, caring Alfred—wanted to step forward. He wanted to remind you that you didn’t always have to be the strong one, that you too had the right to feel scared, to cry, to crumble if you needed to. You were still just a child in his eyes, no matter what life had thrown at you. But before he could take that step, the distinct vibration of his phone pulled him back.

He fished it out of his pocket, glancing at the caller ID.

Bruce.

Alfred exhaled softly through his nose, stepping to the side of the waiting area as he answered the call. “Master Bruce.”

“What happened?” Bruce’s voice was sharp and direct, though there was something else buried beneath it—something tight, almost concerned. “Where did you take her, Alfred?”

Alfred blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the question. “You saw us leave?”

“I did. From my study.” Bruce’s tone left little room for evasion. “Where did you take her?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Alfred sighed, his voice lowering as he said, “I brought her to the hospital, sir.”

The line went quiet. Alfred could hear Bruce’s breath hitch on the other end.

“Is she hurt?” Bruce’s voice was quieter now, strained.

“No, sir.” Alfred quickly reassured him. “She’s alright. Physically, at least.” He paused, glancing back at you where you still stood, gently rubbing Caitlyn’s back as she cried softly. “One of her friends, I’m afraid, got injured. A boy named Adrien.”

“…What happened?” Bruce asked after a beat, his voice carrying the faint edge of something heavy and unspoken.

Alfred relayed the situation succinctly, his tone measured and professional despite the somber nature of his words. “The boy was caught in the aftermath of last night’s bombing. His apartment block was one of the few that collapsed. He’s out of critical condition now, but he remains unconscious. The doctors are monitoring him closely.”

Silence stretched on the line, and for a moment Alfred wondered if Bruce had disconnected.

Then Bruce spoke, his voice low and firm. “What’s the hospital’s name and room details?”

Alfred furrowed his brow slightly, confused. “Why do you ask, sir?”

“I’ll ensure his treatment isn’t lacking,” Bruce replied simply, but Alfred could hear the underlying intent. “I’ll upgrade his care—better equipment, the best specialists, whatever they need. I’ll make sure he gets through this.”

Alfred blinked, momentarily stunned. Even after all these years, Bruce still had a way of surprising him.

“Very well, sir.”

Regaining his composure, Alfred quietly supplied the hospital’s name and Adrien’s room number, his voice softer now.

There was a brief pause before Bruce added, almost as an afterthought but with unmistakable weight, “Make sure she gets home safely, Alfred.”

Alfred allowed himself a small, reassuring hum. “Of course, sir. I’ll see to it personally.”

Bruce said nothing more before the call clicked off, leaving Alfred staring down at the phone in his hand for a moment longer. Upgrade his care, Bruce had said. Alfred knew Bruce’s methods—he would leave no expense spared. Adrien would have the best Gotham’s medical resources could offer, a quiet gesture of concern through Bruce’s ever-practical means.

But the question is, why? Why was he doing this? Was it out of guilt because he was unable to prevent the events that happened? Or was it because of you..?

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Alfred turned his attention back to you. You were still standing with Caitlyn, your hand resting on her shoulder as you murmured soft words of comfort.

And though Alfred didn’t say anything, he resolved, then and there, to keep a closer eye on you. Because while Bruce would ensure Adrien was cared for, Alfred would ensure you didn’t carry this weight alone.

Bruce sat in his study, the phone still gripped tightly in his hand long after the call with Alfred had ended. The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of the city outside, but his mind was anything but still. Instead, it replayed the events of the night before—the chaos, the explosion, the terrified screams of civilians.

His jaw tightened as he leaned back in his chair, the weight of it all pressing down on him. He’d failed. Again. He wasn’t fast enough. He wasn’t quick enough.

The Riddler’s attacks had been calculated, vicious. And though he had managed to subdue him in the end, Bruce couldn’t shake the fact that it hadn’t been clean. Civilians had been caught in the aftermath—innocent people whose only crime was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. No lives had been lost, thank god, but injuries… the injuries were still on him. Their blood might not have stained his hands, but their pain still sat heavy on his shoulders.

Bruce rubbed a hand over his face, the exhaustion catching up to him. How could he have let this happen? He was supposed to be better than this—always ten steps ahead, always anticipating every possible outcome. That’s what he prided himself on. Yet last night, he’d miscalculated. He missed out a bomb. And because of that, people got hurt. Adrien, an innocent boy who had nothing to do with Gotham’s darkness, had paid the price.

But what rattled him even more was you.

He exhaled slowly, his thoughts shifting to the scene he’d caught through the window earlier—Alfred ushering you into the car, your movements frantic, your posture tense and rigid with fear. Bruce hadn’t been able to make out what was said, but he didn’t need to. He’d seen enough. Your hands were shaking, your breathing uneven, panic rolling off you in waves. It was like watching a dam break—something he hadn’t wanted to see from you.

That terrified him.

Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk as his fingers steepled under his chin. Was this why you quit? Was this what drove you to leave behind the life you’d built alongside him and the others? To leave the Batgirl mantle behind? Or was there something else he was missing?

You’d always been resilient. Stubborn, even. You fought to be Batgirl and he gave it to you. He’d seen you face horrors most adults wouldn’t survive and come out the other side unscathed. Or at least, that’s what he’d believed. Now, though… now he wasn’t so sure.

Was this too much for you? Bruce had thought you wanted to stand alongside him, to carry the weight of the Bat symbol as much as he did. But maybe… maybe he hadn’t considered what that weight did to you. To your life.

And now this boy. Adrien. Someone close to you, someone you cared about, had been hurt. Because of Gotham. Because of him. He pinched the bridge of his nose as a wave of guilt rolled through him. Was this what finally made you want to quit? The fear of seeing the people you cared about dragged into the dark, hurt simply for being a part of your life?

The thought hit him harder than he cared to admit.

Bruce let his hands fall to the desk, the soft thud breaking the silence of the room. He glanced at a framed photograph sitting just out of arm’s reach—a rare picture of the family taken during a quieter time, years ago, when things felt simpler, almost normal.

Almost.

You were there, smiling brightly as you tugged Jason and Dick into the frame. Bruce hadn’t smiled, but even he couldn’t deny the fondness in his expression. You were about 8, or 9 in the picture? He can’t recall.

But now, the photograph mocked him.

What was he doing?

What had he done?

What hadn’t he done?

Bruce slumped back in his chair, his eyes heavy with the weight of his own failures. He could handle the cost of this life when it came to himself. He’d made that choice long ago, and he bore its consequences without hesitation. But when it came to you, or any of his children—his family—it was different. And somehow, in his stubbornness, in his mission-driven focus, he’d lost sight of that. He’d lost sight of you.

Bruce’s gaze fell to his hands. Strong hands. Calloused hands. Hands capable of so much. But incapable, it seemed, of protecting the people he loved most.

Last night’s events was a cruel reminder that no matter how hard he tried, Gotham’s darkness would always bleed into their lives. It was inescapable. It tainted everything.

And now Bruce couldn’t help but think of you, sitting in that hospital, holding strong for others. Just like he would. He hated that. Hated that he’d let you shoulder that kind of weight. Hated that he was one of the reasons you had to go through that pain.

He knew what Alfred would say—that you were stronger than you gave yourself credit for. And that was true. But even the strongest people had limits, and Bruce feared you’d reached yours long before he noticed.

Bruce inhaled deeply, straightening slightly in his chair. Your friend would get the best care Gotham had to offer; he’d make sure of it. It was the least he could do.

But this?

You..?

It was a good thing that you decided to quit this life of fighting crime.

But what does this mean for you and him?

The room lit only by the faint glow of the fire crackling in the hearth. The shadows stretched across the walls, mirroring the thoughts that gnawed at the edges of his mind. The silence was heavy, suffocating.

He’d told himself that this was what you needed—to leave the life of Batgirl behind. To be free of the darkness, of the violence, of him. It was what any father would want for their child, wasn’t it? A normal life, a safe life. Something better than the path he walked every night.

It was what he wanted for you. But you didn’t want that. At least, not until now.

But now… he sees you pulling further and further away.

You were slipping through his fingers, and he didn’t know how to stop it.

What was he supposed to do?

What could he do?

Bruce knew he needed to fix this. Needed to find a way to reach you. To pull you back in before you closed yourself off entirely.

But did he have the right?

Bruce knows he hadn’t always been the best father he could be for you. But he tried. Keeping you at a distance had been his way of protecting you. Or so he told himself.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

For now, though, all Bruce could do was wait—and hope that when you finally came home, he’d know what to say.

Would he know what to say?

He wasn’t sure.

It’s been three days. Three days since the bombing, since Adrien had been pulled from the rubble.

Yet, he still hasn’t woken up.

Your hand gripped the strap of your bag tightly, your nails pressing into the skin of your palm as you fought to keep your breathing even.

Why is this happening?

It wasn’t the first time you’d asked yourself that question, but today, the weight of it felt suffocating. The answer clawed at the edges of your mind, a whisper you’d been trying to ignore: It’s because of you.

You swallowed hard, trying to push it down, but the thoughts wouldn’t stop.

If you hadn’t quit, if you hadn’t chosen to abandon your role as Batgirl, maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe you could’ve helped prevent the attack, maybe you could’ve been there to stop the bomb from exploding before Adrien got hurt. But you had quit, and because of that—

You shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut. No. That couldn’t be true. You didn’t plant the bomb. You didn’t cause the building to collapse. Logically, you knew this. But still, the guilt sat heavy in your chest, an unbearable ache you couldn’t escape.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

In your first life, your family had dealt with all the bombs even though you intervened and accidentally caused more mess for them to clean up.

But now, you’ve changed something—you quit being Batgirl, and that somehow shifted the timeline. It altered events—and now changed the outcome of the future you once thought you knew. Because of that, people you cared about were paying the price.

Things took a turn when you learned Adrien had been moved to a better room in the hospital. A room with state-of-the-art care, better equipment, and a team of top-tier specialists monitoring him around the clock. When Caitlyn told you, her voice shaky but relieved, you didn’t quite understand what she meant—until Adrien’s parents pulled you aside.

“We can’t thank you enough,” his mother had said, her voice breaking as she gripped your hands. “We heard it was your father who arranged all of this. Without him, I don’t know what we would have done.”

Your heart had dropped into your stomach. “My father?” you’d echoed dumbly, the words barely audible.

“Yes, he’s been so generous,” Adrien’s father added. “We’re truly grateful.”

You’d managed a weak smile, nodding at their words, but you weren’t hearing them anymore. Your mind spiraled, their voices distant and muffled as though you were underwater. Bruce did this?

It had to have been Alfred who told him.

There was no other explanation.

And yet, you couldn’t figure out why. Did he feel guilty? Did he think he was responsible for what happened to Adrien, or was this his way of making up for something he couldn’t fix?

Whatever his reasons, it left you even more conflicted. And as the days stretched on and Adrien remained unconscious, that conflict turned into a heavy silence you couldn’t shake.

You kept to yourself more. When Caitlyn asked if you were okay, you’d nod and insist you were fine. When Alfred gently prodded, offering you tea or trying to draw you into light conversation, you brushed it off with polite refusals. “I’m alright, Alfred,” you’d say, forcing a small smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Really, I am.”

You visited the hospital with Caitlyn every day, sitting quietly at Adrien’s bedside. You’d watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, hoping—praying—for any sign that he would wake up soon. Caitlyn would talk to him softly, telling him stories or complaining about school, her voice filling the quiet room. You mostly listened, offering small smiles and half-hearted reassurances, though your thoughts were always elsewhere.

Damian was trying to avoid you. Trying being the key word here.

Avoiding you was supposed to be easy. Simple, really. After the argument days ago, Damian Wayne had decided he didn’t want to deal with you—at all. You were emotional, irrational, and completely insufferable. That was his reasoning.

And yet, for some reason, whenever he tried to avoid you, he ended up seeing you everywhere.

Somehow, every time he turned a corner, you were there. Sitting in the library with a book you didn’t seem to be reading. Wandering the halls aimlessly, shoulders slouched. Staring out the window like you were waiting for something—or someone—who wasn’t coming. Every time he spotted you, his stomach twisted with a frustration he couldn’t name, and he’d quickly duck out of sight before you noticed him.

But avoiding you didn’t mean he didn’t see.

You were moping around. For days. He didn’t know why that irritated him so much. It shouldn’t, he told himself, but it did. Truth be told, after Jon came over and, like an insufferable optimist, suggested that he should make up with you, Damian had actually considered it. He’d thought about approaching you—begrudgingly, of course—and try to settle things after your argument.

That was until he saw you pat Jon’s head.

It was as if something short-circuited in his brain at that moment. The fond way you ruffled Jon’s hair, the soft smile you gave him—why had you never smiled at him like that? Why show it to some half-Kryptonian idiot when clearly he, Damian Wayne, was far superior in every measurable way?

He scoffed at the memory, gritting his teeth as he stalked through the manor. “Whatever. If she’s not going to beg me for forgiveness, then why should I?” His voice echoed off the empty walls, and he immediately regretted muttering it out loud. He wasn’t being petty. Definitely not.

But still, the image of you looking miserable stuck in his head like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

He needed to talk to someone about this. Logically, he reasoned, that was the next step.

His father? No, he was tied up with League business and had been away for days. Richard? He’s in Blüdhaven—there was no way he was going all the way there to have this conversation. Timothy? Cooped up in the Cave being useless as usual.

Which is how Damian found himself breaking into Todd’s apartment.

Jason was lounging on his couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, when Damian casually strolled in through the window like he owned the place. Jason didn’t even flinch, though his eyebrows did twitch slightly at the intrusion.

“You know,” Jason said, deadpan, “the front door exists for a reason.”

Damian ignored him entirely, stepping into the apartment like he belonged there and inspecting a nearby bookshelf. “You read?”

Jason sighed and sat up, placing his coffee mug down. “What do you want, Damian? Lemme guess—got into it with Bruce, so now you’re here sulking?”

“No,” Damian replied tersely, shooting him a glare.

Jason blinked, frowning slightly. “Huh.” His tone was flat, but there was a note of curiosity underneath. “Then why the hell are you here?”

Damian’s posture stiffened, his voice slightly defensive. “I need to ask you something.”

Jason raised a brow. “About what?”

“…. (Name).”

Jason froze, his expression unreadable as he processed the answer. Then, he groaned loudly, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re here because of her? Seriously? Out of all the people in Gotham, I’m the one you came to??”

Damian didn’t so much as blink. “You were the most logical choice. Father is unavailable, Grayson is in Bludhaven, Cain and Pennyworth are busy, and Drake is…” He waved his hand vaguely.

“Being Drake. So it’s a perfectly good reason to be here.”

Jason deadpanned. “No. It’s really not.” He shifted on his couch to face the younger boy.

Silence hung between them for a beat before Jason’s curiosity got the better of him. “So what do you want to know about her?”

Damian shifted, his eyes narrowing. “You were close to her once, no?”

Jason blinked, a muscle in his jaw tightening. “Why are you asking me? You’re the one who practically lives in the same house with her. Why don’t you ask Alfred or Bruce?”

“I’m asking you because you were actually close to her.”

Jason scoffed, leaning back against the couch, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. “No I wasn’t. If anything, you should be asking Dickhead about her.”

“You’re lying,” Damian countered, crossing his arms. “I’ve seen the photos. The two of you were close.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “….What photos?”

Damian smirked slightly, like he’d caught Jason in a trap. “The ones in the Manor. And the ones she keeps in her room. You were always together when you were younger. It doesn’t take a detective to see it.

Jason scoffed. “That was then. Not now. And for the record, you need to mind your own damn business.”

Damian, of course, wasn’t about to let it drop. He moved closer, relentless as ever. “Why aren’t you close anymore?”

Jason groaned again, louder this time, as if the sheer volume might scare Damian off. It didn’t. He shot him an irritated look. “Why do you even care?”

Damian froze for half a second, caught off guard by the question. His face betrayed nothing, but Jason saw the falter in the boy’s gaze, the tension in his shoulders. “I don’t. I’m simply curious.”

Jason barked a short, humourless laugh, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Yeah. Sure. Totally believable.”

Damian glared at him, clearly irritated now. “Tt. You’re avoiding the question.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Jason shot back, pointing a finger at him. “Why do you care what happened between me and her?”

Damian scoffed, cheeks faintly pink, though he masked it well. “Don’t deflect, Todd.”

Jason exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He stared at Damian for a long moment, debating whether to shut him out entirely or give him something—anything—to make him leave. “Fine! You want to know why we’re not close anymore? It’s becaude she’s in over her damn head.”

Damian frowned, clearly unsatisfied with that answer. “Explain.”

Jason’s eyes darkened, his voice hard. “When she decided to pick up the Batgirl mantle, she didn’t think it through. You think this life is all capes and heroics? It’s not. It’s hell. I know what it does to people. What it did to me. And yet she just threw herself into it like it wouldn’t chew her up and spit her out.” He gestured vaguely toward the window. “I couldn’t watch that happen. I couldn’t…” His voice trailed off, the words dying in his throat.

Damian tilted his head slightly, his tone cutting. “You don’t get to decide what she does or doesn’t do with her life. She’s capable of making her own decisions.”

Jason’s gaze snapped to him, irritation flashing in his eyes. “You don’t get it, kid. I’m not gonna stand there and watch her throw herself into this crap like it won’t destroy her. I’ve seen it happen. I lived it.”

Damian didn’t back down, his voice steady but sharp. “She’s not you, Todd.”

Jason barked a humorless laugh. “You sound just like Bruce.”

“Perhaps he’s right,” Damian retorted. “You don’t get to decide what she wants to do. You don’t get to control her life just because you’re scared of what might happen.”

Jason stared at him for a long moment, anger flickering across his face before it faded into something more tired. He ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “You really don’t understand.”

Damian scoffed. “Maybe I don’t. But at least I’m trying to understand. What are you doing? Nothing, that’s what.”

Jason froze, his jaw clenching as Damian’s words hung heavy in the air. Ok, that really ticked him off. Neither of them spoke for a long beat, the tension thick between them. Finally, Jason let out a long sigh, slumping back against the couch.

“You’re relentless, you know that?”

“Of course,” Damian replied smugly, the ghost of a smirk on his face.

Jason waved him off with an irritated glare. “Go bother someone else, brat. I’m done talking.”

Damian didn’t argue, though he didn’t seem entirely satisfied either. Damian turned to leave, his cape swishing as he headed for the window. Just before he climbed out, he glanced back at Jason, his expression serious. “You were close once. Maybe you should try fixing that.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving Jason alone with his thoughts.

“Stupid kid.”

Jason let out a long, slow exhale, the kind that seemed to drag the weight of the room with it. His gaze fell to the old photo sitting on his bookshelf—the one Damian had no doubt found evidence of. He hadn’t meant to keep it out in the open. Hell, he hadn’t meant to keep it at all.

But there it was.

Jason stood up, as though pulled by an invisible string, and walked over to the photo. He picked it up, holding it carefully in his hand, the edges worn from years of handling. The image was faded, but it was clear enough—him and you, younger, smiling like idiots. You couldn’t have been more than ten, wearing that ridiculous oversized jumper that used to belong to Dick no doubt, sleeves practically swallowing your hands. And him? He’d had one arm slung over your shoulder, his grin cocky and confident, though it softened just a little in the way his gaze turned toward you.

Jason felt something twist in his chest, that familiar ache that clawed its way up whenever he thought about you. He used to cherish this photo. He still did. He used to look at it and remember a time when things were simple—when the world wasn’t so goddamn broken. Back when you looked at him like he was invincible. Like he was your hero.

“This is stupid…” he muttered again, though his voice had lost its bitterness, softening into something heavy and tired. He ran his thumb along the edge of the frame, the ghost of a memory clawing at the back of his mind.

You’d always been clinging to him back then. Always trailing after him no matter what. Back then, he didn’t mind. He never minded. He’d liked being the one you looked up to, the big brother you trusted most. He let you tag along, let you sit in on his antics because—deep down—it felt nice to have someone who looked at him like that. With so much admiration and joy.

But then Ethiopia happened.

He died.

And when he came back, everything had shifted.

You’d still tried. You still looked at him like you believed there was something good in him. There wasn’t. And for a while, he’d let himself believe that too—that maybe he could still be the big brother you needed. That maybe you wouldn’t look at him like everyone else did—like a disappointment. Like a maniac running loose.

But then he found out you’d picked up the Batgirl mantle.

Jason’s grip on the frame tightened as the memories blurred together, anger mixing with guilt until he couldn’t tell the difference. He hadn’t been able to stomach it—seeing you put on that suit, throwing yourself into this life like it wouldn’t chew you up and spit you out the same way it had done to him. To all of them. You were smarter than that, weren’t you? But no, you were stubborn. And he couldn’t stand that.

Couldn’t stand how much you reminded him of himself.

So, he’d pushed you away.

He had to.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Jason sat back down on the couch, the photo still clutched in his hand. He stared at it for a long moment before letting out a bitter laugh under his breath. “What the hell am I doing…?”

Why was he so worked up over this?

Admitting that this was what he had to do felt wrong. Like the words were jagged shards cutting into his throat. But it was the truth. You reminded him too much of himself—of the kid he used to be before his death, before everything went to hell. And the thought of watching you get hurt, of losing you to the same path that tore him apart, made his stomach churn.

But now…..

Now you had quit. You left the mantle behind. What does that mean for him? What does that mean for everyone?

You weren’t that same kid he knew anymore, the one who tripped over your own shoelaces and laughed like that fall didn’t hurt. You’d grown up. And he? He hadn’t been there to see it. He was dead for the most part, and when he did come back, he’d pushed you away, shut the door between you because he thought he was protecting you.

And now, here he was, talking to a photograph like it could fix the mess he’d made. Bridge the divide he caused.

Jason stared at the image for another long moment before setting it face-down on the table. He didn’t want to look at it anymore. Didn’t want to see what he’d let slip away.

“Stupid kid,” he said one last time, though now it was hard to tell who he was talking about—you, or himself.

The hospital’s fluorescent lights felt too bright as you sprinted down the hall, Caitlyn’s text echoing in your head. You barely processed the directions to the room, you barely paid attention to the nurses or other visitors around you, your legs just carried you as fast as they could.

You skidded to a stop outside the door, your heart pounding against your ribcage. For a second, you couldn’t bring yourself to open it. What if Caitlyn had gotten it wrong? What if—

You shoved the door open before your thoughts could spiral further.

And there he was.

Adrien was sitting up in bed, his light hair a tousled mess, the familiar spark of life in his eyes as he talked with Caitlyn. His parents were beside him, his mother gripping his hand tightly, his father resting a hand on his shoulder. It was real. He was here. He was awake.

“…What’re you standing there for?” Adrien’s voice cut through your shock, his teasing tone so familiar it sent a rush of relief flooding through you.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you bolted forward, crossing the room in two strides and throwing your arms around him. Adrien laughed, though the sound came out scratchy and hoarse. “Whoa, whoa! I just got out of a coma, try not to break me.”

“You’re an idiot,” you mumbled into his shoulder, your voice thick with emotion. “A complete idiot.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, his tone softer now as he hugged you back. “Missed you too.”

You pulled back reluctantly, giving him a quick once-over. He looked… well, not great, but better than the last time you’d seen him, lying pale and motionless in this very bed. The relief in your chest was overwhelming.

“See? I told you,” Caitlyn chimed in, grinning. “He’s too stubborn to die.”

Adrien rolled his eyes but smirked. “Guess I couldn’t leave you two alone, huh? Who else is gonna keep you out of trouble?”

“Oh, please,” Caitlyn said, leaning back in her chair. “We’d be fine without you.”

Adrien raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening. “Would you, though?”

“Don’t be fooled. She cried just as much as I did.” You pointed out, crossing your arms.

“(Name)!! You weren’t supposed to call me out like that..!!”

Adrien and you just laughed, the boy shaking his head. “Thought so.”

You sat down in the chair opposite Caitlyn, the tension in your shoulders finally easing. “How’re you feeling?” you asked, your voice quieter now.

Adrien shrugged, wincing slightly at the motion. “Like I got hit by a truck. But, y’know, alive. So that’s a plus.”

“Understatement of the year,” Caitlyn muttered, earning a weak laugh from Adrien.

His parents stood then, his mom brushing her hand over his hair. “We’re going to speak with the doctors for a moment. We’ll be right back, okay?”

Adrien nodded, giving them a reassuring smile. “Yeah, sure. Take your time.”

As the door closed behind them, a comfortable silence settled over the three of you. Caitlyn broke it first.

“So, Adrien,” she started casually, “how does it feel to cheat death?”

Damn.

Adrien snorted, shooting her a dry look. “Fantastic. You should try it sometime.”

“Hard pass,” Caitlyn replied, smirking. “So, you’re stuck here for how long?”

Adrien groaned, tilting his head back. “Probably a couple more days. They’re all freaked out about my concussion or whatever. Something about observation.”

Caitlyn snorted. “Guess you’re stuck eating Jell-O and pudding for a while.”

“Don’t remind me,” Adrien grumbled, though he couldn’t quite hide the grin tugging at his lips.

You shook your head, smiling faintly as you listened to them banter. For a moment, it felt like everything was normal again. But then the image of Adrien’s unconscious form from that night crept back into your mind, and your stomach tightened.

“What happened, Adrien? How—” You faltered. “How did you make it out?”

Adrien’s face softened, his usual joking demeanor giving way to something quieter. “It was… close,” he admitted, his voice low. “Honestly, I thought—I didn’t think I was gonna make it.”

Caitlyn shifted uncomfortably, her smirk fading. “Yeah, well… you scared the hell out of us.”

Adrien gave her a faint smile before turning his attention to you. “But then Robin showed up.”

You blinked, the name catching you off guard. “Robin?”

“Yeah,” Adrien said, his tone tinged with awe. “He got me out of there. I don’t even know how he did it, but one second I’m stuck under some rubble, and the next he’s pulling me out like it’s nothing. If it weren’t for him…”

Your heart skipped a beat. Robin. Damian.

Caitlyn let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “Damn, the little guy came through, huh?” she said, leaning back in her chair. “Guess he’s more than just Batman’s sidekick.”

Adrien chuckled, nodding. “Way more. He’s the reason I’m still here.”

Caitlyn leaned back, shaking her head in disbelief. “Well, color me surprised. Thought he’d be too busy sulking on a rooftop somewhere.”

But you weren’t laughing, you barely heard her. Your mind was racing, the pieces clicking into place.

Robin. Damian.

Damian had saved Adrien. Damian.

The same Damian you’d been at odds with just days ago. The same Damian you’d snapped at.

The realization hit you like a freight train, leaving you stunned. You owed him. Damian Wayne, the one person who always seemed to get under your skin, was the reason Adrien was alive.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. How were you supposed to face him after this? What were you supposed to say?

But one thing was certain: you had to at least thank him.

You pushed open the heavy door of Wayne Manor, the familiar creak echoing through the grand entryway as you stepped inside. The weight of the hospital visit lingered on your shoulders, but it was lighter now—your chest no longer tight with worry. Adrien was awake. Adrien was okay.

You exhaled a deep breath, shutting the door behind you before making your way toward the stairs. But as you turned the corner, you collided with a solid figure.

“Watch where you’re—oh.” Damian Wayne, in all his brooding glory, stood in front of you, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he looked you over. His usual scowl was firmly in place, though there was a flicker of surprise beneath it.

You blinked at him, equally startled. “Damian?”

He crossed his arms, as if trying to reassert his usual air of annoyance. “What are you doing here?” he asked, as though it weren’t painfully obvious that you both lived under the same roof.

You raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure I live here. What’s your excuse?”

“Tt.” He scoffed, looking like he was already regretting bumping into you. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned on his heel, clearly intending to stalk off, but before he could, you reached out and grabbed his sleeve.

“Wait.”

Damian froze, his head tilting slightly as if he couldn’t believe you’d stopped him. “What is it now?” he asked, his tone sharp but not as biting as usual.

You hesitated for a second, your grip on his sleeve loosening. Then, you spoke. “Thank you.”

He blinked, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second. “…What?”

“Thank you,” you repeated, your voice steadier this time. “For saving Adrien.”

Damian turned fully to face you now, his expression briefly betraying his surprise before he covered it with his usual scowl.

“Who?”

Oh right, he probably doesn’t know who Adrien is.

“My friend. He told me what you did.”

Damian’s eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. His posture tensed, though he didn’t pull away from you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, though the faintest hint of color touched his cheeks.

“Don’t play dumb, Damian,” you said, crossing your arms. “Adrien told me what happened. You saved him. During the whole, Riddler bombing situation.”

The younger boy’s gaze softened slightly, recognition briefly passing through his eyes, before he scoffed, glancing to the side. “Tt. It was nothing. I would’ve done the same for anyone.”

“Maybe,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But it wasn’t just anyone. It was my friend. And because of you, he’s alive.” Your tone softened, the sincerity in your voice clear. “So… thank you.”

Damian’s gaze flickered back to you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, and you wondered if he was even going to acknowledge your words. But then he spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

“I didn’t do it for you,” he said, though there was no malice in his tone.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “I know. You did it because you’re a hero, even if you’d never admit it.”

Damian bristled at that, his cheeks darkening just slightly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Damian stood there, his eyes fixed on yours in a way that was almost unnerving. The silence stretched between you, heavy and awkward, until it felt like you had to say something—anything—to break it.

You cleared your throat, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Look… I’ve been meaning to say this.”

Damian tilted his head, his expression unreadable but still sharp. “What?”

“I…” You hesitated, your gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. “About the other day, when I snapped at you in my room—I shouldn’t have. I was frustrated, yeah, but it doesn’t mean I should’ve—”

“Stop.”

His voice was quiet but firm, cutting you off mid-sentence. You blinked, looking up at him. Damian’s gaze was softer now, though his brows were still furrowed.

“You don’t need to apologize,” Damian cut in, his voice stiff. He looked uncomfortable, as though the words he was about to say were physically painful to him. “I was… out of line. I shouldn’t have said the things I did.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. Damian Wayne, apologizing? You never thought you’d see the day. But the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, and you felt your chest ache slightly at the vulnerability he was trying so hard to mask.

“I was… wrong,” Damian mumbled, his voice barely above a grumble. His cheeks flushed faintly, and he avoided your gaze entirely, staring determinedly at the floor instead. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

You blinked at him, stunned into silence.

You couldn’t help it—you just stared at him. “Oh wow,” you said, your voice teasing. “So you can apologize.”

Damian’s head snapped up. “Don’t make it a big deal!” he snapped, clearly flustered. “I’m just being… reasonable.”

“Right, reasonable,” you repeated, biting back a grin. “Noted.”

Damian stiffened, his cheeks darkening just slightly. “You’re insufferable.”

“Me?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re the one acting like this is the most painful thing you’ve ever done.”

“I simply don’t see why this needs to be drawn out into some… melodramatic moment,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze.

You snorted. “Right. Because you never make anything dramatic.”

Damian glared at you, though the faint blush on his face betrayed his usual cool demeanor. “I don’t know why I even bother with you,” he muttered under his breath.

“Because deep down, you actually like me,” you said, smirking as you stepped closer.

“Incorrect,” Damian shot back immediately, though he took a small step back, clearly flustered.

You let out another laugh, shaking your head. Without thinking, you reached up and ruffled his hair. “Don’t sweat it, Damian.”

His eyes widened, and he batted your hand away almost immediately. “Hey! Stop treating me like a child!”

“Aw, but you are a child,” you teased, grinning at his indignant expression.

“I am not,” Damian huffed, his voice dripping with irritation. But he didn’t storm off like he usually might have. Instead, he lingered for a moment, his hand brushing over his hair where you’d ruffled it.

“You keep telling yourself that,” you said with a wink before turning to head up the stairs.

Damian stayed where he was, watching you go with an unreadable expression. Finally, he muttered under his breath, “Ridiculous.”

But despite his best efforts, the corner of his mouth twitched upward, just a little.

The Batcave hummed with the sound of Tim’s furious typing, the clatter of keys echoing through the cavernous space. Monitors surrounded him, each displaying fragments of information from the Riddler’s last attack: building schematics, bomb blueprints, maps of Gotham. His face was set in a hard line, his jaw tight, his eyes bloodshot from hours of obsessive work.

He couldn’t shake it—the image of the buildings destroyed, the civilians being pulled from the wreckage. All because he’d missed one.

One bomb.

It shouldn’t have happened. If he’d been sharper, more thorough, more focused, those people wouldn’t have been hurt.

His fists clenched against the keyboard. Bruce hadn’t berated him, not exactly. But being “grounded” from fieldwork and told to “reflect” felt worse than a lecture.

Why had he been distracted?

Because of you.

Tim scowled, his typing slowing as his thoughts spiraled. Stephanie had said you just needed time, but time hadn’t fixed anything. You hadn’t returned to being Batgirl yet. The passion you’d once shown, the drive you had—it was like it had vanished. He couldn’t understand it. Why weren’t you fighting to come back?

Why weren’t you acting like you again?

“Tim.”

The soft voice broke through his storm of thoughts. He turned, startled, to see Cassandra standing behind him, her arms crossed, her dark eyes unreadable.

“Cass,” he said, his voice a little hoarse from disuse. “What are you doing here?”

She walked closer, her footsteps quiet as ever, and stopped beside him. “What are you doing?”

Tim frowned. “Working.”

She tilted her head slightly, her gaze steady. “More like punishing yourself.”

“I’m not—” He stopped himself, exhaling sharply. “I just… I missed something. People got hurt. I can’t let that happen again.”

“No one died,” Cass said simply, but her tone wasn’t dismissive. It was calm, grounded, like she was trying to anchor him.

“But they could have,” Tim snapped, his frustration spilling over. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. “I failed. I can’t afford to fail like that again. Ever.”

The cave was silent, but from the corner of his eye, Tim could see Cass’ lips curving into a faint, knowing smile.

“You’re just like Bruce.”

Tim froze, her words hitting him like a punch. His eyes widened as he turned to look at her. “I—no, I’m not.”

“Sure,” Cass said, her smile growing.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Please don’t say that.”

She chuckled softly, patting his shoulder. “Come on. Get some fresh air.”

“I don’t need—”

She didn’t wait for him to finish, grabbing his wrist and tugging him toward the staircase.

“Cass,” he protested weakly, but he didn’t resist. She was undeniably stronger than he was, and, honestly, he was too tired to fight her.

As they emerged from the cave and into the manor’s main hallway, Tim rubbed the back of his neck. “This is stupid. I should—”

“Shh.” Cass held up a hand, her attention drawn to the corner ahead.

Tim followed her gaze, his brows furrowing. He was about to ask what she was looking at when he heard voices—your voice, accompanied by a quieter, gruffer one.

Curious, Cass crept closer, pulling Tim along with her. They peeked around the corner, and what they saw made Tim freeze.

You were standing there with Damian.

Talking.

Like, actually talking.

Tim blinked, his brain short-circuiting. Damian, who had been avoiding you like you carried the plague, was now… engaging in a conversation? And you weren’t just tolerating him. You were smiling. Fondly.

As if that wasn’t shocking enough, you reached out and ruffled Damian’s hair.

Tim’s jaw dropped.

Cass tilted her head slightly, watching the interaction unfold. You and Damian were… comfortable? The thought made her brows pinch together in faint confusion. The last she remembered, the two of you weren’t exactly at ease with each other. And yet, here you were, smiling like you weren’t at each other’s throats days ago.

Cass didn’t know if the scene tugged at her heart in a good way or a bad way, but it did tug.

Meanwhile, Tim was outright flabbergasted. His mouth opened and closed, no words forming, as his brain tried to piece together the impossibility in front of him.

You. Damian. Talking normally.

Not only that, but you’d smiled at him—fondly, as if he hadn’t been the same brat who’d made your life hell since the day he arrived. And Damian… Damian was letting it happen. Not scoffing or sniding, but actually standing there. Engaging.

And then you reached up and ruffled Damian’s hair.

Tim’s jaw unhinged.

“What?” he whispered under his breath. “What… what?”

Tim’s heart skipped a beat. He could’ve sworn he imagined it, but no. For the briefest moment, as you walked away and Damian watched you go, he saw it.

A smile.

Not the smug, cocky smirk Damian loved to wear when he thought he’d gotten the upper hand. Not the sarcastic quirk of his lips when he made one of his snide comments.

A genuine, soft smile.

“What the fu—”

“Language,” Cass interrupted softly, cutting him off before he could finish.

Tim turned to her, eyes practically bulging out of his skull. “Cass.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her behind another wall, further from where Damian could hear. “What was that?”

Cass tilted her head at him, her expression calm. “What was what?”

“That!” Tim gestured wildly in the direction of where you and Damian had been. “Damian smiled. Did you see that? He smiled.”

Cass shrugged. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Tim repeated, incredulous. “That’s all you’re going to say? Yes?”

“Why are you overreacting?” Cass asked, her voice as measured as always.

Tim froze. “Overreacting? Me? No. I’m just… concerned.”

Cass raised an eyebrow. “Concerned about a smile?”

“It wasn’t just the smile!” Tim hissed, lowering his voice when he realized he was getting loud. “It was the whole thing! They’re talking! Like normal people! You saw it! And she—she patted his head!”

Cass tilted her head, her lips twitching as if she was trying not to smile. “Is that a problem?”

Tim threw his hands up. “Of course it’s a problem! This is Damian we’re talking about. Damian. When has he ever been this… this…”

“Obedient?” Cass supplied, amused.

“Exactly!” Tim said, then paused. “…Wait, no. That’s not the point. The point is—what even happened? Last I checked, they weren’t on speaking terms. Now they’re all… sibling-y?”

“Isn’t that normal?” Cass asked, her tone still maddeningly calm. “For siblings to act like that? Even if they fight?”

Tim opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He froze, staring at her, his brain scrambling to process her question.

Normal. Siblings.

He’d never thought of it that way.

Sure, they were all technically siblings, but Tim couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually tried to build that kind of bond with you. Sure, you were his sister by name. But did he even know what that was supposed to feel like? He knew what his bond with Dick is like, what his bond with Cassandra is like. Hell. he even knew what his bond with Jason and Damian is like. But what about you?

Cass studied his silence, her expression softening. “It’s okay,” she said quietly.

Tim shook himself out of his thoughts. “No, but—wait—this still doesn’t explain how they’re suddenly on good terms. Last time I checked, Dick said they had some huge argument.”

Cass smiled faintly. “People change.”

Tim ran a hand down his face, exasperated. “What the hell happened while I was cooped up in the cave?”

Cass didn’t answer, simply grabbing his wrist again. “Come. Let’s go.”

“What? Wh—”

“Food,” she said simply, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Tim sighed, letting her drag him along to the kitchen. He couldn’t even focus on the fact that he was hungry. His thoughts were too tangled, replaying what he’d just witnessed.

Damian. Smiling.

You. Smiling fondly back at him.

Have you ever smiled at him that way?

He swore he wasn’t confused jealous. Definitely not.

…Right?

dw i’m definitely not killing off people this early 🫣🤭 have this fluff instead 😇🫶🫶 (definitely not planning for anything worse)

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wanders-in-wonderland · 1 year ago

Text

Pay to Play

The last thing I remember is a van pulling up to the sidewalk and two men grabbing me. I vaguely recall a syringe going into my arm and the pain of an injection but that’s all that I can remember of when I wake up. I’m in a dark room, tied to a chair, and gagged. There are several other girls in the room as well, all tied and gagged just like I am. The fear is palpable as we look between ourselves. Some are crying and most of us are squirming and struggling to no avail.

Suddenly, the door to the room we’re in swings open and several men walk in. No one says a word as the men go towards the girl closest to the door and pick her up, chair included. They leave with her, just as suddenly as they arrived, leaving the rest of us in stunned silence.

I feel tears well up in my eyes, the fear and confusion becoming too much for me to process. One of the girls screams behind her gag and another one joins her. A few more join in but no one beyond the door seems to notice and eventually, we all quiet again, each of us trying to cope in our own ways.

An unknown amount of time passes and suddenly the doors slam open again. The men return but there is no sign of the first girl. They head towards the second girl and grab her the same way, ignoring her wails from behind the gag and her desperate struggling against her bonds. They leave with her, just like before.

It becomes a pattern. The men come and take the next girl in line every so often and none of us know what to expect or how to stop it. Soon, I’m up next. It’s been so long since I woke up that I’ve stopped crying already. My arms are sore from being tied up and my legs are numb from sitting.

The doors slam open again and I’m carried away. I’m brought to a room surrounded by lights, the sudden brightness making me squint and blink. When my vision focuses again, I realize the men are gone and I’m alone. I’m surrounded by cameras, and there’s a large screen in front of me playing a live feed of the room, and I see myself. My hair is tangled, my eyes are red from crying, and I look terrified. What’s next to the footage is what makes my blood run cold. It’s a chat box, and I can see the comments coming in. Comments about how I look, about how excited viewers are for the “show,” and how much they think I’m worth. I realize in that moment that I’m being livestreamed and about to be sold off to the highest bidder.

A door opens and a man walks in. He’s wearing a mask that covers most of his face and he has on a microphone that I can only assume let’s him talk to the stream’s viewers.

“Welcome! Our next lovely girl is here with us now. You all know the rules, if you win the auction, you must transfer funds immediately and she will be prepared for shipment or pick-up, depending on your preference. Let’s begin.”

He walks toward me, and I whimper behind the gag, terrified of what’s to come. He pulls out a pair of scissors, and swiftly cuts away at my clothes, pulling them off my naked body and I’m crying now. I can see myself on the screen, my sobs making my body shake as I try my best to curl into myself.

The comments start to flood into the chat box now, people discussing my body, my tits, my pussy. I see bids start to come in too, and part of me is shocked to see the amount of money these people are throwing out.

The man comes back into my view and he’s holding a vibrator in his hand. I wail behind the gag, shaking my head and struggling uselessly in my bonds. He isn’t deterred and I watch as he clicks it on. I’m straining to close my legs but the ropes are too tight and chair too unyielding. He brings the vibrator between my legs and I wail when I feel it touch my clit. He doesn’t give me time to adjust, he presses the vibrating head directly onto my clit and holds it there, letting the vibrations batter me.

I scream behind the gag as I feel the sensation overwhelm me. At first, the fear dampened any pleasure but as the seconds dragged on and the vibrator stayed pressed up against my most delicate area, I could feel my body reacting. Waves of stimulation crash over me and I can feel the first inklings of an orgasm starting to build. The man keeps the horrible vibrator on my pulsing clit and my tears are now in response to the unbearable pleasure that I never wanted, and certainly not like this.

The vibrator pushes my body closer and closer to a wrecking orgasm, and I can’t do anything other than feel it happen. I arch my back and squirm as much as I can when the incomprehensible pleasure crescendos and I shatter. I can feel my pussy clenching around nothing and gushing out my release, my clit pulsing in time to my heartbeat, and my mind fading to a haze of pleasure and pain as the vibrator continues to ravage me.

“Orgasm in one minute and 37 seconds, and she’s a squirter,” the man announces matter-of-factly. “Let’s see how hard we can push her.”

I look up from tear-blurred eyes, seeing the comments flood in on the chat box on screen. I’ve always been sensitive post-orgasm and the fact that the man hasn’t pulled away the vibrator is pushing me into a painful overstimulation that’s making my stomach clench in fear. He reaches down with his free hand and maneuvering around the vibrator to pull back the soft skin that normally surrounds my clit, protecting it. My eyes widen and I let out a guttural scream behind the gag as the overwhelming, horrible vibrator now decimates my clit with nothing to soften the nerve-fraying stimulation.

I feel my eyes roll up into my head and my body is thrown into a second orgasm with no preparation. Just pure, unstoppable pleasure that burns every single nerve in my body. I can’t even breathe or scream or cry as my entire being is locked in a soul-shattering explosion that seems to go on forever.

I have no idea how much time passes or how many orgasms that terrible pleasure is able to tear from my body before the vibrator finally moves away. I’m shaking, crying, gasping for air and my clit is burning and twitching from the continued stimulation.

When I finally gather myself enough to open my eyes and see the on-screen chat box, I feel my heart stutter when I read some of the things people are saying.

“Fuck, she’s hot like that, I wonder if she’d survive a day strapped to a fucking machine.”

“I want to string her up and see how good of a whipping she could handle before she begs.”

“Her little clitty looks perfect for a piercing, and I could run electricity through it and really make her scream and cum.”

That last one makes me whimper and I pull my attention away from the screen, hoping that this nightmare is almost over.

“Now for a change of pace,” the man says from across the room. My eyes dart over to him and see that the men who’d brought me here are back again, rolling in a different chair, this one built like a gynecologist’s exam table with stirrups. I shake slightly in fear as they approach me and untie me before manhandling me into the exam chair. I’m too weak to even resist as they strap my body down, my feet going into the stirrups and my legs, arms, and body immobilized with straps.

The men leave and I look up at the livestream of myself, seeing how fear has made my eyes wide with gruesome anticipation. I can see clearly in the video, my clit looking so red and angry while my pussy still drips from the torment of pleasure they’d subjected me to moments before. I watch as the masked man approaches me, wheeling over a tray containing more horrible toys and devices.

He pulls a metal speculum off the tray and comes to stand before me. I’m shaking with terror, desperately trying to beg from behind the gag. He’s uncaring as he slides the device against my pussy, pushing the cold, hard metal inside of me. My back arches as my pussy fills and I whine, wishing that I didn’t find this violation pleasurable.

The man starts to crank the handle of the device, the motion forcing the speculum to open me up. I can’t help but moan, feeling an unbearable fullness start to build as the device pushes my pussy wide open. Eventually, he stops and takes a step back.

I watch through the livestream as he grabs a long, thin wand from the tray and comes back. I can feel my pussy pulsing around the speculum holding me open, and I know there’s nothing I can do to prevent whatever deranged thing he plans on doing next.

“Let’s see how she reacts to some internal stimulation.”

Without any other warning, the man slides the thin wand into me and presses a button that makes it start emitting a low pulsing vibration. He brushes against the walls of my pussy and I shake at the onslaught of pleasure. The speculum gives him easy, perfect access and the thin wand means he has every bit of precision at his disposal as he targets my most vulnerable places.

I choke on a gasp when he finds my g-spot and presses into it with heart-stopping accuracy. I feel my toes curl and my eyes roll to the back of my head as painful, unbearable pleasure overwhelms me. He turns up the wand to an unimaginable intensity and drives it into the tenderness of my pussy. I cum immediately. My pussy gushes and my juices flood out of me as the pleasure ravages my body with no mercy.

Just like with my clit, the man doesn’t let up. I’m locked in this impossible pleasure and overstimulation as my vision goes white and my body feels ripped to shreds by every orgasm that pours out of me.

When he finally stops, I don’t even feel human anymore. My mind is empty, there is absolutely nothing left other than the pure pleasure that laid waste to my entire being. I’m vaguely aware of the man announcing final call for bids but I’m too incoherent to really register what is going on around me. Suddenly, I feel a prick on my arm and slowly turn my head to watch a syringe pull out of my arm. My head spins and I feel sleep encroaching on my mind.

Just before my darkness overwhelms my vision and I sink into unconsciousness, I catch a glance of the screen and see how much money was spent on me. There’s a muted sense of astonishment. It’s more money than I could even fathom, more than I could make in a lifetime. And someone just spent it on me, in exchange for my complete ownership.

#nsft concept #overstim kink #dark fantasy #cl1t torture #mind break #rap3 fantasy #kidnap fantasy #overstim nsft #rough kink #medfet #cl!t torture

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pseudowho · 7 months ago

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Nanami Kento was not a father; not strictly speaking. Not technically speaking. Not metaphorically speaking. The absence of paternity, however, did nothing to eschew him of the shackles he wore with pride, wearing them as a mantle; a medal of honour.

For one with such a black hole in his life, Itadori Yuuji would not notice Kento's absence unless something took Kento away from him, so natural was it that the void was filled.

Nanami Kento's priorities altered so dramatically, with such quiet consideration, that he had no real words to explain his situation to you when he first took you out for dinner. Or, when he took you out to the beach. Or, when you took him to that art gallery. Or, when you came over to his, tumbling through the door into stumbling kisses, all hands and groans and desperation.

For Nanami Kento was not a father. He ensured that his relationship with Yuuji did not overlap with his relationship with you, fearful that you would reject the burden of not-parenthood.

Kento was so introspective in his attempts to hide his not-parenthood, that he failed to see how blatantly-fucking-obvious he was. As if you wouldn't notice that dinner was always made for three, with a portion put aside or frozen for a hungry visitor. As if you wouldn't notice that Kento browsed the teenage boy sections in clothes stores, making note of what he would come back for later. As if you had not seen Kento listed as "I.C.E." on Yuuji's phone screen at school one day.

As if you were not a mother. As if you were not fully prepared to be.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento was stalking through the belly of the beast when he spotted two missed calls; one from Yuuji, and one from Shoko. His heart leapt into his mouth, his blade hanging dumbly by his side as he cursed internally at his lack of signal. Torn by conflicting responsibilities, he focused on the task at hand, but as a noticeably sloppier Sorcerer when worry gnawed at the bones of him.

An hour later, finally free, he jogged to his car, panting. He slipped into his seat, and called Yuuji-- no answer. He called Shoko-- no answer. He swore again, hurrying to start the car...and his phone buzzed.

He looked at the screen, and opened a message from you. He sat, staring at it, a cold trickle of worry down his spine. A photo; of Yuuji's characteristic shoes, beside your own, with the caption:

Picked up a wounded stray. He looks hungry. We'll be at yours soon!

Kento churned through emotions, trying to read your tone on the screen. Angry? Cheerful? Exasperated? Would you want to talk about his deceit later? Technically he hadn't lied. Or, he had. A lie by omission perhaps? She's angry. She's disappointed at least. Is that worse? That's worse.

Kento stewed, the whole drive home.

+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+

Kento continued to stew, when he arrived home to an empty house. He paced, and sat, and paced, and sat. He cursed himself for not maintaining tighter boundaries between Nanami-Kento-the-Boyfriend and Nanami-Kento-the-Not-Father. So deep was he in his self-flagellation, he jolted to hear the door open, and two familiar peals of laughter rolling through.

"--Ieiri-san told me I should have waited for Ino to arrive, but I just had to do something, y'know--"

"--not jump through a damn window, Yuuji, that's excessive--"

"--not stupid if it worked though--"

"--as your Not-Mother, I cannot condone this."

Kento stood, watching the scene unfold in wonder. You and Yuuji, bantering. You reaching for the grocery bags, and Yuuji insisting he carry them instead. You directing Yuuji to the bag with the snacks. Yuuji totally bypassing Kento, jogging past him to the kitchen.

As if this was his home. As if Kento was his home. As if you were his home.

Kento was still stunned into silence when you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

"Hey! Sorry we're late. Yuuji was hurt on a mission, so I picked him up, but I wanted to get ice cream, and I noticed we didn't have enough in for dinner for three, and--"

Your words cut off with a muffled "mmf!" as Kento leaned down, pulling you in by the back of the neck, and small of your back, silencing you with a kiss which tasted of all the gratitude for which he had no words. By the time he'd released your lips, his forehead pressed to yours, you felt the air rush back to the vacuum he'd left behind.

"...Kento, are you oka--"

"I love you."

The air rushed straight back out of you, leaving you light and giddy. Your lips puckered, threatening tears, so long had you been wondering if he'd ever confess the depths of his feelings.

"...you love me?"

"I love you. I love you. I absolutely love you. And I'm sorry I didn't--..."

"...didn't think I'd be happy with you looking after a boy with no parents, who needs some?"

You let your question hang, so Kento could soak in how much of a fool he'd been. He sighed, tense and looking over at Yuuji rustling through grocery bags in the kitchen.

"...I didn't want to assume that you'd accept it."

"Would you choose someone like that, though?" Kento looked unsure, and you clarified. "I mean, would you choose someone who felt jealous of you looking after an orphaned child?"

Kento's gears turned. "...no."

You smiled up at him, cupping his cheek in your palm. "Exactly. So, like I was saying...I put fresh sheets in his room. I'll go and make dinner. Yuuji will pick a movie. And you should have a word with him about jumping through plate glass windows to get to a Curse faster."

At that, Kento's head snapped up, fixing Yuuji with a frown that had Yuuji dropping bags of snacks on the floor.

"Yuuji."

"Shit, I'm sorry Nanamin, I--"

"Language."

"Shit, I'm sorry Nanami-san, I--"

You headed to the kitchen, pulling on an apron and stifling laughter at the Not-Father and Not-Son bickering in your wake.

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kitkatscabinet · 1 year ago

Text

Don't feed him he'll come back

simon riley x neighbour! reader

summary: The ghost that lives in your apartment is a solitary man, people tend to stay out of his way, giving him a wide berth. You can't help but think he seems a little bit lonely, cue pestering him with bad jokes and food.

word count: 1.6k

part 2 here

There’s a ghost that lives in your apartment block. Though it feels more accurate to say he’s an occasional visitor. He comes and goes, like a lost spirit, unsure and aimlessly wandering. He slinks silently through the hallways like a wraith in the few instances when he is there.

The first time you see him is just a glimpse from the corner of your eye, a large hulking shadow standing at the door next to your apartment as you step out from yours.

Your feet stutter to a stop, the landlord had mentioned a neighbour but in the 3 months you’d lived there you’d never seen him. As if sensing your eyes lingering curiously on his form, deep brown eyes turn to meet yours. You can make out no other details of his face, the black material of his balaclava obscuring most of his features.

A century could have passed in those few seconds and you doubt you’d have noticed. Despite the weariness in his gaze, you found yourself pulled into the deep pools of those stunning eyes. Like a predator, his gaze never moves from your body, even as you offer him a friendly smile and wave before walking down the hall to continue your day.

You’d heard the uneasily whispered tales of the Ghost that haunted the apartment next to yours from some of the older tenants, though you’d never put much stock into the idle gossip. His burning gaze bores into your back and follows until the doors of the elevator close and you suppose you should feel intimidated.

It’s hard to conjure up any such feelings, even with the knowledge of the wariness he elicits in others. It’s hard to fear the hulking figure of the Ghost when he had such sad eyes.

He hid it well but you recognised the loneliness that lined his shoulders, the bone-deep exhaustion for life that managed to slip through tiny cracks in his self-imposed shield.

You suppose at that moment that even Ghosts can be haunted.

Maybe that’s why you found yourself knocking on his door later that evening with the tray of pasta bake. Initially, you’d made a large batch to have a few days left over for yourself. Yet just as you opened your fridge you’d hesitated, mind flashing to the man next door. Did he have any food for himself? There was likely nothing fresh, and he’d seemed too exhausted to pull himself to the grocery store during the brief encounter earlier.

Donning your Crocs, you’d marched over and knocked on his door before it properly registered that you were in pyjamas. The door swings open and your eyes trail up, the balaclava is gone, replaced with a simple black face mask letting you glimpse blond hair.

“Sorry if this is a bit intrusive, but I figured you probably didn’t have any food so…” you trailed off, pushing the tray towards him, expectantly waiting for him to grab it. It took a few seconds before he robotically took the tray, probably out of sheer confusion more than anything else. Stepping back before he could return the food you offered one last smile before fleeing to the sanctuary of your apartment.

Two days later you exit your apartment to an empty and cleaned tray, a small note with a simple ‘thank you’ placed within.

His name’s Simon, and apart from an introduction and the occasional dish left at his door, you don’t actually interact with him again until nearly a month later. And that had simply been a case of forced proximity a la broken elevator style.

Simon remained unflappable as ever, and it’s at that moment you decide to try and get a reaction that isn’t stoic silence.

“A bear walks into a bar and says give me a whiskey and …cola” Brown eyes turned to look at you curiously, brow raised to let you know he was listening. “Why the big pause? Asks the bartender. The bear shrugged. I’m not sure, I was born with them.”

The joke doesn’t land, silence is the only reward for your comedy genius. “Ok, playing hardball. Alright then… Why did Susan fall off the swings?” Again, there is no answer, but a glance at his relaxed posture indicates he’s listening. “Because she had no arms.”

No laugh but you blaze ahead.

“Knock knock.” It takes a few seconds but with a playful glare, he responds quietly and with a tinge of amusement.

“Who’s there?” It’s not the first time you’ve heard his voice, but it still births a serious case of butterflies in your gut that takes more than a few seconds to fight down and regain your composure.

“Not Susan.” You can’t stop the peal of your giggles at that one, and while you swear you see the corner of his cheek curve upwards a little it’s not enough for you to be satisfied.

“I can’t believe it’s come to this, but I guess it’s time for the big guns. You better prepare yourself Riley 'cause I’m done holding back.” You pause for a few seconds to let the anticipation settle.

“What is… Whitney Houston’s favourite type of coordination?” You take a deep breath before positively belting out, “HAAAAAAAND-EEEEEYE.” Whether it’s the shock from the sudden musical number or the joke itself you’re finally rewarded with a faint chuckle.

“Aha!” you shout in triumph, a smug grin splitting your face, “I heard that laugh, you can do more scowl!”

The doors suddenly open with a ding and Simon pushes off the wall, but not before rolling his eyes playfully your way. Silence once again descends during the walk to your respective apartments, yet it’s not uncomfortable. Swiping your key card it’s just as you step through the threshold that you hear it,

“Why did the chicken go the seance? To get to the other side.” Whipping your head around, you are met with the sight of his door closing behind his large frame, but a win is a win and you celebrate mentally over the exchange.

The next time you leave a dish at his door it comes with a written joke. Sure enough, a few days later you received one back. The months start to blur, and your Ghost comes and goes, but the jokes remain.

Month three sees you snagging his number, a daily joke sent his way even when he can’t respond. Because as much as Simon Riley tried to hide his hurts from the world, he couldn’t hide them from you.

You’ve loved a soldier before in your brother, can see the signs and smell the gunsmoke and blood from miles away. Apart from his team, it becomes obvious the man has nobody left, and believes he doesn’t deserve to be cared for.

You’re not foolish enough to think you can be that for him, but you are understanding enough to give him the choice. So you continue to send him jokes, puns, pictures of your cat Bingbong and anything that you think will get him to at least smile.

Three months turns to six turns to eight. He’s not physically there most of the time but you take every opportunity he is to coax him from the loneliness of his apartment like a stray kitten.

Once-a-week dinners at least. Freely sharing your life’s story without expecting anything in return. One evening you’d plopped your chunky tuxedo cat down on his lap and watched him freeze, hands hovering with wide eyes as he considered the ball of fur making biscuits on his thigh.

It was cute. He was cute. Even when he whipped around to glare when you took a photo, the corners of his lips downturned and tugged at the scars on his face. His bare face wasn’t necessarily a new sight but it causes your breath to hitch nonetheless.

Something you think he notices given the way his lips quirked up suddenly in a smirk. Rolling your eyes you huffed before plonking yourself down next to him on the couch. Bingbong doesn’t scramble onto your lap like you expect, instead deciding to remain on his new favourite human, traitor.

You pay very little attention to the movie even though you’d chosen it, too acutely focused on the large bulk of Simon next to you. Your shoulder rests against his arm, his body heat emanating from beneath his hoodie and absorbing into your skin.

You’ve never been one to fall asleep during movies, but there’s something about Simon’s presence that soothes you, lulling you into a restful slumber as you slump against his chest. Bingbong meows his discontent as you accidentally squish him, jumping away with a huff, none of which you notice.

It’s the sun shining straight onto your face through the open blinds that wakes you the next morning, a groan of confusion leaving your lips as you stretch and look around to orient yourself.

Sitting up, the blanket that you just now realised covered your form fell down to your waist. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes your phone falls to the floor when you stand, the screen flicking on to display the time.

It’s not until you sleepily stumble into your bedroom, plugging your nearly dead phone in and face-planting onto your pillow that you realise Simon must have tucked you in. The smile that covers your face is so wide it is painful and you fall asleep once more, dreaming of the phantom sensation of his arms wrapped around you.

#x reader #cod mw x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost mw2 #ghost cod

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hotyanderedaddies · 1 year ago

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The School Bully Loves You, Pt. 1:

Yandere Bully Forces Nerdy You to be His

[I hope you all enjoy my first semi-series on here!]

[Yandere! Bully x GN Nerd! Reader]

·゜·:.。..。.:·☆·゜·:.。..。.:·☆

Everyone at your high school knew that it was best to avoid Blake.

The upperclassman was a bully, plain and simple. He had a habit of beating people down if they dared get in his way, or even if they just looked at him in a manner he didn't appreciate.

You were on the complete opposite of the spectrum: a grade-A nerd. You were a goody two-shoes to boot, always volunteering after school and helping your fellow classmates study whenever they struggled with a subject. The captain of the Mathletes team and one of the star columnists in the school newspaper, you were the epitome of nerd.

However, even with your good nature, you avoided Blake as best as you could, fearful that you'd face his wrath and have him beat your face into a pulp. You'd heard the stories, and you'd seen enough teen movies to know that bullies and nerds do not mix, at all.

Unfortunately, one Friday morning, you walked out of the front door to your house to head towards the bus stop-- but you immediately froze when Blake was in your driveway, leaning casually against his car.

"Bl-Blake?" you coughed out in surprise. "What are you doing--"

Blake just grunted and opened up the passenger side door, gesturing at it. When you didn't make a move, his frown deepened on his face.

"Get in!" he barked, the forcefulness of his deep voice making you jump.

Afraid of making the bully even angrier, you scurried over towards the car and practically leapt inside. "Um, wh-where are we going?" you trembled as soon as Blake got in and started to drive off down the street.

Blake cocked his eyebrow at you in confusion. "School," he scoffed, as if it should've been obvious.

You wanted to ask why the school bully was driving you to school, but you were too concerned with how he placed his arm over your small shoulders in the tight confines of the car.

You were stunned silent at first, but then something popped into your head that you couldn't ignore.

"How did you know where I live?" you asked Blake, your voice small and barely audible over the loud music playing over the speakers.

"Huh?" Blake asked, turning the volume down a bit before shaking his head. "Don't worry about it."

"B-but..."

Blake turned the volume back up, effectively silencing you. You kept your lips pursed for the rest of the drive to school, anxiety seeping out of your every pore. When Blake finally parked in the parking lot, you thought about bolting as fast as you could, but your legs were like jelly.

You nearly crawled out of the car and cautiously began to walk towards the entrance when a tight visegrip swallowed your hand.

Blake interlocked his fingers with yours, giving you a sneer when you attempted to pull away. He was much stronger than you, and when you kept trying, he leaned down closer to your ear.

Thanks to his proximity, a lot of the other students began to gawk at the two of you, their eyes widening and many of them murmuring to another as they saw the school bully holding hands with the nerdiest person in class.

"You're smart," Blake smirked as he whispered in your ear, "so I need you to comprehend this: You're mine."

A cold shiver traveled down your spine, and you tried to pull away once more; but Blake was much stronger than you, and he gave you a rough tug, making you topple into him.

"That's one," Blake sneered, even holding up one of his fingers to count. "When I get to three, I'll have to punish you. So make sure you behave and be my sweet little angel, got it?"

Swallowing hard, you nodded, fearful of what was in store for you.

To be continued...

#yandere boyfriend #yandere boy #yandere daddy #yandere x reader #yandere x you #obsessive love #possessive boyfriend #yandere bully #yandere bad boy #bad boy #bad boy x nerd #nerd you #Blake #my oc #Blake the Bully

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geneviveleocardius · 30 days ago

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sevika’s journey to motherhood

wlw

sevika never imagined herself in this situation—married, settled down, and now about to be a mom. when you first talked about having a baby, she hesitated. not because she didn’t want it, but because she wasn’t sure she deserved it. but the moment she saw the positive result, she swore to herself she’d give you and the baby the world.

she keeps her affection low-key but constant. she isn’t one for big, dramatic gestures, but you’ll notice the way she starts keeping healthier snacks in the kitchen (even though she complains about how boring they are), how she always carries an extra blanket for you on the couch, or how she’s suddenly interested in researching baby stuff online (though she grumbles about the “stupid forums”).

sevika makes sure the apartment is baby-proofed well before you even hit your third trimester. you laugh when you find her arguing with some handyman she hired about how “these outlet covers are trash,” but she’s dead serious about making the place safe.

she’s not outwardly soft, but her actions speak volumes. she doesn’t say much when you’re feeling nauseous or exhausted, but she’ll quietly rub your back, hold your hair, and bring you water without needing to be asked. she also won’t let you lift a damn thing once your belly starts to show.

during your pregnancy, she works fewer hours, despite hating to take time off. she doesn’t say it’s because of you, but it’s obvious. “can’t trust those idiots to handle things while i’m gone,” she mutters, but she’s home almost every night for dinner now, something she rarely did before.

when she feels the baby kick for the first time, she freezes. you tease her for looking so stunned, but you can see the emotions she’s trying to hide. later that night, you catch her resting her hand on your belly while she thinks you’re asleep, a rare, unguarded moment of pure tenderness.

once the baby is born, sevika is more hands-on than you expected. she’s a natural at holding them, rocking them to sleep, and she insists on taking over night shifts when she’s home because “you’ve been through enough already.”

she’s fiercely protective of both you and the baby. the moment someone so much as raises their voice in your apartment, her glare alone could silence them. “this is my family,” she says firmly. “no one messes with that.”

despite her gruff exterior, sevika is surprisingly gentle with the baby. she talks to them in a low, soft voice while changing their diaper or feeding them, and you’ve caught her humming under her breath while holding them in the rocking chair.

her favorite moments are when the three of you are together. whether it’s a quiet evening on the couch or a rare weekend where she doesn’t have to work, she’s happiest when you’re all there, safe and content. she’ll never admit it out loud, but it’s the most at peace she’s ever felt in her life.

sevika has always liked adding glitter to her cigars—it’s a strange but oddly charming habit. but once you’re pregnant, she quits it cold turkey. “i don’t want that stuff getting anywhere near you or the baby,” she says gruffly. she even starts avoiding wearing heavily scented cologne, just in case.

sevika’s biggest fear after the baby is born is accidentally hurting them with her prosthetic arm. when you hand the baby to her for the first time, she hesitates, staring down at her mechanical hand like it’s an alien thing. “what if i’m too rough? what if i hurt them?” she mutters. it takes a lot of reassurance—and a quiet, heartfelt moment when the baby grabs one of her fingers, metallic and all—for her to start trusting herself.

when you suggested the reciprocal IVF method, sevika had a moment of vulnerability. “you really want my kid growing inside you?” she asked, voice low, almost disbelieving. the idea of combining your DNA with hers made her feel more connected than she could put into words, though she didn’t say that outright. after the procedure worked, she was in awe—and also ridiculously smug. “looks like we make a good team,” she’d say with a smirk, though you could see the pride in her eyes.

sevika teases you mercilessly about your cravings but secretly loves indulging them. she’ll grumble about how ridiculous it is to find fresh strawberries at 2 a.m., but she’ll still show up with a basketful. when you catch her snacking on the leftovers, she’ll just shrug and say, “figured i should see what all the fuss is about.”

you weren’t the only one nesting. sevika pretended she didn’t care much about decorating the baby’s room, but she’d come home with little things—a mobile, a soft blanket, even a tiny stuffed animal that looked suspiciously like the one she used to have as a kid.

she wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it, but you found her poring over baby books late at night. “i’m just checking something,” she said gruffly, shutting the book when you walked in. but you noticed her making mental notes about things like swaddling techniques and babyproofing hacks.

when your contractions started, sevika was unshakable—or at least she tried to seem that way. she held your hand through every step, though you could see the tension in her jaw. she hated seeing you in pain but didn’t leave your side for a second. when the baby finally arrived, she was speechless. the only words she managed were a low, reverent, “you’re amazing,” as she held your hand tightly.

sevika takes postpartum care seriously. she makes sure you’re eating, sleeping (as much as possible), and not overexerting yourself. “you’re not doing this alone,” she tells you firmly. she’s the type to massage your back after a long day or remind you that it’s okay to cry when things feel overwhelming.

the first time the baby laughed was because of sevika. she was making a silly face—completely out of character—and the sound of the baby’s giggles was enough to make her stop and blink, caught off guard. you swore you saw her eyes get a little misty, though she’d never admit it.

despite her rough exterior, sevika starts creating traditions for your little family. movie nights where she insists on holding the baby, cooking dinner together (she’s surprisingly decent in the kitchen), and quiet mornings where she lets you sleep in while she takes the baby for a walk.

when you both take the baby out for the first time, sevika is on high alert. her eyes scan every stranger, her body instinctively positioning itself between you, the baby, and the crowd. she even growls at someone who bumps into the stroller. “relax,” you whisper, but you can’t help feeling a little safer with her there.

sevika isn’t the type to get overly sentimental, but she does think long and hard about what the baby should call her. eventually, after some quiet reflection, she decides on “mama”—simple and solid, just like her. she likes the sound of it, and the thought of her kid calling her that makes her chest tighten in a way she can’t quite explain.

as for you, she insists on “mommy” (or whatever variation you prefer). she thinks it fits your nurturing nature perfectly and secretly loves the idea of hearing the baby call you something soft and sweet.

when the baby starts babbling “ma-ma” first (completely by accident), sevika acts casual, but you can tell she’s beaming with pride inside. still, she’ll tease you if “mommy” comes out soon after. “guess they love us both equally,” she says with a smirk, though you can see the softness in her eyes.

#arcane #league of legends #sevika #sevika arcane #sevika league of legends #wlw post #sevika x reader

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candy69gurl · 8 months ago

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𝐇𝐘𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐃 𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄- HOW YOU MET THEM

WARNING: mentions of violence (Toji and Sukuna), flulff SYNOPSIS: Introductory post of my HYBRID JJK VERSE NOTE: Upcoming- Mating season (smut)

ᯓ★ 𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎 𝐊𝐀𝐌𝐎- BAT HYBRID

THUD

You jolt up from bed, heart racing, as the sound pierces the silence of the night. Throwing off the covers, you leap out of bed, curiosity mingled with concern driving you to investigate. Creeping to the window, you cautiously peek outside, squinting into the darkness.

There, sprawled on the ground below, lies a figure, human in form but distinctly different. Your breath catches in your throat as you discern the shape of black wings and pointed ears against the dim moonlight. With a rush of adrenaline, you dash downstairs, your mind racing with questions and apprehension.

Approaching the fallen being, you notice the unmistakable mark of fear etched on his face, accentuated by the ominous black mark on his nose. "Hey?" you call out tentatively, your voice barely above a whisper.

Startled, the creature turns to face you, his eyes wide with a mixture of fright and pain. His deep, resonant voice trembles as he speaks, "Please… help me. My wings… I think they're broken."

Your initial shock gives way to empathy as you realize the gravity of his plight. "Are you�� a vampire?" you inquire, your voice wavering with uncertainty.

He shakes his head slowly, strands of black hair falling across his pale, gaunt face. "No," he replies, his voice heavy with sorrow. "I am half-human, half-bat."

With a surge of determination, you extend a helping hand, offering to assist him to his feet. As he rises, you catch a clearer glimpse of his features - his ebony hair tied back in two distinctive edges, his pallid complexion, and the weary, haunted look in his baggy eyes.

Without hesitation, you guide him back inside your home, the weight of his brokenness heavy on your shoulders. As you lead him inside, you vow to help this mysterious being, to mend his shattered wings and perhaps, in doing so, to heal the wounds of his troubled soul.

You carefully bandage his broken wings, but upon closer inspection, you realize the damage is more severe than initially thought. With a heavy heart, you express your concern, "They don't look too good… I suppose you can't fly for a while."

He meets your gaze with pleading eyes, a silent plea for compassion. "Can I stay with you until then?" he asks, his voice tinged with vulnerability.

You pause, contemplating the implications of inviting this enigmatic being into your life. After a moment of reflection, you reply, "Fine… you can stay. It will take time for you to adjust with me."

A mixture of relief and gratitude wash over him as he pulls you into a heartfelt embrace, craving the warmth of connection. You can't help but smile at his earnestness, understanding the yearning for companionship hidden beneath his otherworldly exterior.

ᯓ★ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 & 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔- CAT HYBRIDS

You wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of chattering coming from your kitchen. Groggy and confused, you sit up in bed.

Something is definitely wrong.

You wobble on unsteady legs as you make your way to the kitchen to find out what’s causing the noise.

The kitchen light is off, but you can hear some rustling sounds. You flip on the light switch, and the noise stops. As your eyes adjust to the brightness, you see them—two large cat-human hybrids, one white and one black, wrestling on the floor.

Their eyes immediately meet yours. Milk is spilled all over the floor, adding to the chaos.

Their gazes lock onto yours as spilled milk creates chaos on the floor.

You're stunned, unable to move. The black one gestures at the white one and accuses, "It's all his fault," his voice smooth as velvet. He leans towards the white one, nudging him gently with his muzzle, provoking a growl from the white hybrid. In the dimly lit room, his eyes shine brightly, though slightly smaller than the white one, he carries a similar aura of power. His tail wags eagerly, tapping the floor with excitement.

The white one pushes his muzzle away with a paw, his white-pinkish ears constantly twitching; the action is gentle, the two clearly having a good relationship despite the light teasing, "No, this is Suguru's fault."

Confused and overwhelmed, you blurt out, "Get out of my house!"

They both give you pleading looks. The black one speaks again, "W-We just wanted some milk... We were hungry, and... your windows were unlocked... Please, can we stay here for a few days? We have nowhere else to go."

Exasperated, you sigh. "Fine, but only one of you can stay. I can't take care of both."

They cling to each other, pleading desperately. "Please, we can't be apart."

Rubbing your forehead, you relent. "Okay, but no causing trouble. Both of you can stay."

Instantly, they pounce on you, showering you with joyful licks as they express their gratitude.

ᯓ★ 𝐑𝐘𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀- TIGER HYBRID

"Come out of that cave for god's sake," you call out, waiting for the creature to emerge so you can snap a good picture. You've always enjoyed photographing animals, so when you heard about the new tiger-human hybrid at the zoo, you were eager to capture it on film. Choosing the evening when the area is deserted, you head to the enclosure, hoping for uninterrupted photography.

"Oh... Oh, I see it," you mutter, attempting to zoom in with your camera. A glimpse of pink hair catches your eye, but it's not clear. Then disaster strikes. Your camera slips from your grasp, and in your attempt to catch it, you lose your balance and tumble into the cage.

As you hit the ground, the tigers in the cage swarm around you. Panic sets in as you realize there's no one nearby to help. You curse your own recklessness as the tigers prepare to attack. But then, the pink-haired hybrid steps forward, his voice deep and commanding.

"Brave of you to jump into the tiger's cage," he remarks. The other tigers seem to cower in his presence. He kneels down to your level, his tongue darting out, saliva glistening.

"Finally, a good meal," he says, a predatory gleam in his eyes.

Desperately, you plead for mercy. "P-please, let me go. I'll do anything."

He chuckles darkly which sounds more like a roar. "Anything, you say? Hmm... Then get me out of this cage," he demands. Fear grips you as you realize the gravity of the situation.

"H-how... I don't..." you stammer, but he interrupts, seizing your throat with a deadly grip.

"Then be my meal," he growls.

Frantically, you agree to help. "F-fine... I'll help," you manage to choke out, hoping it's enough to spare your life.

With the hybrid's grip loosening slightly, you scramble to gather your wits. Your mind races as you try to devise a plan to fulfill his demand.

How can I possibly get him out of this cage? you think, panic rising like bile in your throat.

Suddenly, a thought strikes you. The gate! If I can somehow open the gate... With newfound determination, you manage to croak out, "I need... the keys... to open the gate."

The hybrid regards you with a mixture of amusement and suspicion. "Keys, huh? You expect me to believe that?" he snarls.

You nod frantically, your heart pounding in your chest. "Yes, yes! The keys! They're... they're with the zookeeper. I am thinking of a way. Just let go off me!"

The hybrid eyes you warily, then releases his grip on your throat. "Fine," he grumbles. "But make one wrong move, and I'll finish what I started."

As you struggle to come up with a plan to escape the dangerous situation you've found yourself in, you spot movement outside the enclosure. With a surge of hope, you see a zoo staff member approaching. Frantically, you wave and call out for help.

The staff member's eyes widen in shock as they spot you inside the cage. "What on earth are you doing in there?" they exclaim, hurrying over to the gate.

You quickly concoct a story, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fear coursing through you. "Someone locked me in here! I'm the vet, and I was checking on the hybrid when the gate closed behind me. Please, hurry and bring the keys!"

The staff member looks hesitant, clearly taken aback by the situation, but they nod and rush off to retrieve the keys.

Meanwhile, the hybrid eyes you with suspicion, his predatory instincts on high alert.

"Just make him faint when he brings the key. Don't hurt him, okay?" you plead, hoping to appeal to his sense of self-preservation.

"Why should I listen to you?" he roars, his patience wearing thin.

"Because I'm helping you escape," you reason, desperation creeping into your voice.

Grumbling, the hybrid reluctantly agrees, his gaze never leaving the approaching staff member.

When the staff member returns with the keys, the hybrid pounces without hesitation, pinning the unsuspecting individual to the ground. A deafening roar echoes through the enclosure, and the staff member faints from sheer terror.

Quickly, you snatch the keys from the fallen staff member's hand and unlock the gate. The hybrid bounds out of the cage, his powerful form moving with grace and speed.

As you both make your escape, the other tigers seem almost relieved to see you go, as if they're eager for the chaos to end.

Once you're safely outside the enclosure, you lock the gate behind you and return the keys to the unconscious staff member's hand. Then, under the cover of darkness, you and the hybrid make your way out of the zoo.

But just when you think you're in the clear, the hybrid pounces on you once again, a hungry gleam in his eyes. "Time for my dinner, don't you think?" he growls.

"W-wait! You told me you wouldn't hurt me! I helped you escape!" you cry out, tears welling in your eyes.

He licks your cheek with a smirk. "Well, when Sukuna is hungry, he eats anything that's in front of him."

You try to wriggle free from his grasp, but his paw-like hand holds you firmly in place. "Please... I have food at home. Don't eat me! I'm not tasty!" you plead desperately.

"Do you have meat at your home?" he asks, his tone surprisingly calm.

You nod frantically, hoping beyond hope that he'll spare you.

"Fine. I'll follow you to your home. But if you're lying, I'll eat you right there," he warns, his gaze unwavering.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach, you lead him to your home, each step heavier than the last. When you arrive, you quickly retrieve some meat from your fridge and offer it to him.

He seems content for the moment, but then he declares, "Very well. This is my new home."

You try to protest, but he cuts you off with a dismissive snort. "As long as you don't tell anybody I'm here, everything will be fine. You know what will happen if you do."

ᯓ★ 𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈 𝐅𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐎- BLACK PANTHER HYBRID

Sweat drips down your forehead as you run through the dense woods, your heart pounding in your chest. You hear the loud growls and snarls of the tiger getting closer and closer. The adrenaline rushes through your veins as you trip over a fallen log. You hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of you. You look up to see the tiger bearing down on you, its yellow eyes full of hunger.

As your fear intensifies, you can't help but think how you ended up in this situation. Why did you decide to take the shortcut through the woods instead of sticking to the paved streets? Now you're about to become a meal for a wild beast. Your mind races through all the things you could've done differently, the choices that led you here. If only you had taken a different route, your life might be different now.

Your eyes squeeze shut, preparing yourself to face your fate but soon enough an unexpected event unfolds. A massive, black form leaps onto the tiger, sending it tumbling away. The two animals engage in a furious battle, the sound of snapping teeth and growls deafening.

Your body aches and your feet throb, the injury bleeding profusely. The adrenaline is quickly waning, and you can feel your consciousness beginning to slip away. You try to run, but your body won't cooperate. The throbbing in your head intensifies, and the world starts to fade to black.

As your eyelids fall shut, you're left with the knowledge that your life hangs in the balance, an unwitting pawn in this primal struggle. The two animals continue their violent dance, oblivious to the fact that the prize they both seek is barely clinging to life mere feet away. Your breaths come in shallow, ragged gasps as blackness engulfs you, consuming your senses, and you slip into the abyss of unconsciousness.

You stir and slowly awaken in a pitch-black space. Your injured foot tingling, and you realize that a warm, rough tongue is lapping at your wound. With your heart pounding and your eyes adapting to the low light, you leap up in surprise to see a big, hybrid figure standing in front of you. Part panther, part man, his muscular form is a testament to its feline heritage. His deep green eyes pierce into you, holding an air of mystery. A scar etches a jagged line along the right side of his mouth, giving his face a dangerous edge.

Despite his menacing demeanour, there is tenderness in the way he looks at you. With a deep, velvety voice, he replies, "I don't eat humans, so don't be afraid."

Your voice trembles as you ask, "W-why did you save me?"

He responds with a casual air, "Ah, that tiger was a menace, always trying to feed on humans. Thought I'd teach him a good lesson." A flick of his panther-like tongue gently traces your cheek, as if silently asking for your trust.

Overwhelmed by the turn of events, you manage to stammer, "Can I go home now?" His face softens, and it's clear that he's reluctant to let you go. He's developed a connection with you, but yea he has to let you go so he eventually nods with a heavy heart.

"Fine, you don't look too good to go by your own. Your foot is injured, and other animals can hurt you." He looks at you with concern, his green eyes fixed on your bleedings. "I will help you return home."

With an unspoken bond formed between the two of you, he gently lifts you onto his back, using his strong, muscular arms to support you. The warmth of his body offers comfort, and you can't help but feel safe and protected, even as you're carried through the still-dangerous woods. He moves with the agility of a panther, his steps sure and confident.

His panther-like ears twitch with each new sound, alert to any potential dangers. He dashes through the woods at a breakneck speed, your directions guiding him towards the safety of your home. Your heart races in your chest as you cling tightly to his neck, grateful for his strength and protection.

The journey seems to go by in a blur, the whirlwind of events leaving you shaken. But, with every passing second, the comforting thought of returning to familiar surroundings grows stronger. The sight of your home, drawing nearer, brings a sense of relief, and you can't help but let out a breath you' have been holding. You slide off his back onto the pavement, the familiar crunch of gravel underfoot a stark contrast to the softness of the woods. You turn to face your savior, words of gratitude tumbling from your lips.

The first light of dawn creeps over the horizon, casting a soft, golden glow over the landscape. Your savior begins to turn away, the time for him to leave drawing near. Panic wells up inside you, and without thinking, you reach out and cling to him. The thought of him departing too much to bear. Your voice quivers as you plead, "Please, don't leave. Can you stay with me for a few days?"

He regards you with a mixture of surprise and concern, his green eyes holding a wealth of emotions. "I can't," he responds but your pleading eyes seem to have an effect on him, and after a moment of hesitation, he relents slightly, "All right, just for a day. After that, I'll have to return to my place."

His agreement brings a wave of relief, and you cling to him for a moment longer before stepping back, offering him a grateful smile. "Thank you," you breathe, leading the way inside your home..

Little did he know, the decision he made to spend a day at your house would change everything. As the hours pass and the day turns into night, the sense of comfort and safety he provides begins to weave its way into your heart. You find yourself growing increasingly reluctant to let him go, his presence now a much-needed source of calm amidst the chaos of your life.

ᯓ★ 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐔 𝐊𝐎𝐍𝐆- BEAR HYBRID

As you walk down the street, the cold winds bite at your skin, creating an eerie atmosphere. Suddenly, you notice several men trailing behind you. Panic sets in, and you break into a sprint, ducking into an empty alleyway. But as you reach the end of the alley, you realize there's no way out. They've surrounded you.

Alone and terrified, you feel like your luck has run out. But then, a noise startles everyone. Heavy footsteps echo in the alley, and all heads turn. A massive creature lumbers toward you, sending the men into a frenzy. "A bear!" they cry, scrambling to escape over the alley walls. Left behind, you remember a tale about playing dead to evade a bear's wrath. With trembling body, you collapse to the ground, feigning unconsciousness.

As the creature draws closer, it speaks in a human voice, catching you off guard. "Either you're playing dumb or you think I am," it remarks, its features coming into focus. It's a peculiar sight – a man with an average build, sporting short black hair styled longer on top, dark eyes, and a thin mustache. But atop his head are unmistakable brown bear-like ears, and his stature is massive, resembling that of a human-bear hybrid.

Confusion swirls in your mind. Could such a creature exist? Before you can ponder further, he chuckles and remarks, "You owe me a jar of honey."

Bewildered, you sit up, daring to ask, "What are you?"

His response is gentle, "A bear hybrid, I suppose."

You speak again, "I.. don't have any honey with me."

"Too bad," he replies with a smirk, "You seem like honey to me." Fear still grips you, but he reassures, "Don't worry, I won't eat you... yet." His mischievous grin sends shivers down your spine. Uncertain of what to make of this bizarre encounter, you cautiously accept his offer to escort you home.

Despite your initial trepidation, you find yourself trusting him, if only because he saved you from a perilous situation. And so, with this creature by your side, you embark on the journey home, your mind buzzing with questions and disbelief.

As you reach your home, his presence is somehow comforting. "My honey... dear?..." he murmurs softly, and you fidget with your fingers, trying to find an answer. "I don't have it. I will have to buy and then..."

Before you can complete your sentence, he leans in, cupping your cheeks, his lips find yours. Your eyes widen in shock at his sudden, electrifying kiss. It sends a shiver down your spine, grounded by his arrogant proclamation.

"Mhm, you are sweeter than honey," he whispers, sending a shiver down your spine. He leans closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Bet I'm gonna stay with you until my one jar is complete."

You stutter, taken aback by the unanticipated intimacy. "U-until what's complete?" You question, still trying to fully process the bizarre encounter.

The bear-man, now seemingly confident in his claim, swaggers into your home as if he owns the place. You follow hesitantly, lingering at the door.

"Until I get one jar of honey," he clarifies, sitting down on the couch, "But I bet it won't take long. Just the sight of you alone is sweet enough." His voice drips with innuendo, and you blush furiously, unsure how to respond.

"Y-you can't just barge into someone's home," you stammer.

"My apologies, but the circumstances call for it," he responds nonchalantly.

You are stunned by his boldness, yet you cannot overlook the fact that he saved you from those men. Maybe it's the thrill of this wild encounter, but you can't deny that he's charming. "I-I.. I don't know," you reply, unsure of whether you're ready to have your world turned upside down by this enigmatic creature.

ᯓ★ 𝐘𝐔𝐉𝐈, 𝐌𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐈, 𝐘𝐔𝐓𝐀 & 𝐓𝐎𝐆𝐄- BUNNY HYBRIDS

"This white one, this black one, this brown one, and this grey one... YEYYYY!" you exclaimed in pure delight as you gazed upon the adorable human-bunny hybrids in front of you. Their fluffy ears twitched, their small tails twitched, and their eyes sparkled with curiosity.

"I WANT ALL OF THEM!" you declared, unable to contain your excitement. But your parents, standing nearby, didn't seem as enthusiastic about the idea of bringing home four new additions to the family.

"Y/N, choose only two," they urged, trying to reason with you.

But you weren't having it. You wanted all of those charming creatures, each with their unique color and personality. "No, I WANT ALL OF THEM!" you insisted, jumping up and down and throwing a small tantrum.

"All four will be trouble," one of your parents sighed, exchanging a knowing look with the other. "I don't think your kid is going to listen," the latter chuckled.

ᯓ★ 𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐈, 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 & 𝐊𝐔𝐒𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐁𝐄 - DOG HYBRIDS

Before you were born, three special beings were already part of your family: Hiromi, Nanami, and Kusakabe. They're dogs mixed with humans, each with their own unique qualities. Hiromi is the oldest and wisest, Nanami is gentle but strong, and Kusakabe is full of energy and happiness.

In one word- they're family. They were already part of the family long before you arrived. When you were born, they were already there, part of the household. When they first saw you, they felt a strong connection with you, even though you're a bit different from them.

ᯓ★ 𝐌𝐀𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐎- SNAKE HYBRID (NAG)

"Big News! The nag broke free from the lab! If you spot it, call this number: 69696969696969."

You switch off the TV, muttering, "Why can't they keep a better eye on animals? They don't deserve this. But I wanna see what it looks like" You head to the kitchen for some food. Suddenly, you hear a hissing noise. "I need to clear my mind. I'm even hearing snake sounds," you smile to yourself, and then you freeze. "Wait... hissing sound?" You turn around to see a huge snake with a human-like upper body and a snake-like lower half—typically mythological character like.

You find yourself in the midst of a gripping situation. The room feels charged with tension as you stand face to face with the escaped nag. Its presence is both captivating and terrifying.

The nag towers over you, its imposing figure a stark contrast against the mundane surroundings of your home. Its upper body bears a resemblance to that of a human, but its lower half is unmistakably serpentine, coiled and ready to strike.

Its face, marked with intricate patchwork patterns, holds an otherworldly allure. Its eyes, one a deep, mysterious blue and the other a haunting shade of gray, seem to pierce through your very soul.

Long strands of grayish-blue hair cascade down its back, swaying with each subtle movement. They are neatly sectioned into three thick strands, each tied off at the end, adding to the creature's enigmatic appearance.

As it grins, you can't help but notice its fangs—two of them, each as large as a snake's, gleaming ominously in the dim light of the room.

But perhaps the most chilling sight is its tail, which coils around your body with a vice-like grip, constricting your every movement and leaving you gasping for air.

In this moment, fear and disbelief course through you as you realize the gravity of the situation. You are face to face with a creature straight out of myth and legend, and it has you firmly in its grasp.

You try to scream, but the nag's grip around your waist is too tight, choking off the sound. You can feel your breathing becoming labored, your chest constricted, the nag's tail seemingly tightening with each panicked attempt to draw in air.

Your heart races as you wait for the jagged teeth to sink into your flesh, but instead of biting, the nag's forked tongue darts out licking your teary cheek. The contrast between anticipating excruciating pain and gentle caress makes your blood run cold.

Your whimpers fade as you gaze into the creature's heterochromia eyes. "Hooman~" Its voice is like the rustling of autumn leaves, soft yet unsettling. "Not gonna hurt you if you don't hurt me."

A look of confusion crosses your face as he releases you, still gripped by confusion as to why a creature capable of such destruction is harming you not. "You escaped from the lab, right?" you ask tentatively.

The nag lets out a small pout, "They treated me very bad..." Tears begin to stream down its patchwork face, and you're left wondering if the display is genuine or nothing more than an act. "I want to be taken care of... Do I not deserve it?"

You find yourself grappling with your own emotions, the nag's pleading expression tugging at your heartstrings. You're still scared of it but somehow, you can't seem to resist its charms. Biting your lip in indecision, you finally reply, "I will tell them to take care of you in a good way. You should return there."

He shakes his head vehemently as his tail coils even tighter around you this time, almost comforting. "No... Not gonna go there AGAIN!" he protests, his voice laced with desperation. "Please... You look like a good hooman... Please take care of mee~" It presses its face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply. The nag's cold touch adds to the unsettling atmosphere.

"Are you sure... you can stay with me?" you ask, mindful of the consequences but feeling a strange kinship forming. The nag's face lights up, and you can see how desperately it wants this. "Yes... yes, please."

Given the situation, you sigh and agree to the nag's request. You realize that it's not going to leave you alone anyway. Plus, it's not like having a nag as a house pet is an everyday occurrence.

ᯓ★ 𝐀𝐎𝐈 𝐓𝐎𝐃𝐎- GORILLA HYBRID

As the sun shone down on the lush greenery of the picnic area, innocent you sat with your family, enjoying a delightful family picnic. Amidst the laughter and chatter, you decided to indulge in one of your favorite snacks - bananas. Grabbing one from the fruit basket, you eagerly peeled it open and devoured it in no time, savoring its sweet flavor.

Bananas Bananas Bananas, I LOVE BANANAS

But one banana was not enough to satisfy your craving, and you reached for another. As you peeled it open, a sudden poke on your shoulder startled you. Whipping around, you found nobody there. Shrugging off the odd sensation, you turned back to your banana, only to find it mysteriously missing, leaving only the peel in your hand.

Confused and slightly unnerved, you grabbed another banana from the basket, determined to enjoy it without any interruptions. Yet, once again, a poke on your shoulder disrupted your moment, and when you looked back, the banana was gone, just like before.

Frustration mounting, you stood up and scanned the surroundings, searching for the prankster responsible for the disappearing bananas. Your eyes fell upon a figure giggling mischievously nearby.

"You did it!" you accused, rushing towards the person, but it darted away with surprising agility, effortlessly climbing up a nearby tree.

In your attempt to follow, you ended up stumbling and falling, landing with a painful thud. As you winced in pain, the laughter ceased, replaced by a sense of guilt. The figure descended from the tree and approached you cautiously.

"Sorry," he muttered, extending a hand to help you up. Looking up, you found yourself face-to-face with an unusual sight - a hybrid creature with a big body and chest like a gorilla but the face and features of a human. Despite his intimidating physique, he seemed of your age.

"You could have asked me," you scolded, rubbing your sore limbs.

He hung his head in apology once more, explaining that he couldn't resist the opportunity to play a harmless prank.

As you talked, you realized that despite his unusual appearance, you felt a strange connection with him. He was just like you, craving friendship and acceptance.

When it was time to leave, you hesitated, not wanting to part ways with your newfound friend. Gathering your courage, you introduced him to your parents, who were taken aback by the sight of the hybrid creature.

"That's not a human," they exclaimed, exchanging worried glances.

But as you pleaded with them to let your new friend come home with you, they relented, touched by your earnestness and compassion.

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hisfavegirl · 2 months ago

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Our Fate - Aegon Targaryen x Sister!Reader

Summary : Your marriage with Aegon has a good influence on you both, Aegon changes his character to be better and you also feel the changes in him day by day.

Alicent’s screams echoed through the castle, filling the air with pain and tension. Inside her private chambers, the maester and midwives worked desperately to calm her, holding her trembling hands gently, trying to ease her pain so she could remain calm and bring her second child into the world safely.

“Calm down, Your Grace,” the maester said in a low, steady voice, though his eyes were filled with concern. “Take deep breaths. Your child will be born soon.”

Despite the comforting words, Alicent’s face betrayed the agony she was enduring. She bit her lip, stifling every scream, unwilling to show weakness in front of those around her. Yet, her body was betraying her, the pain growing more intense with every passing moment.

The midwives hurried to prepare everything needed, working as swiftly as possible to ensure the birth would go smoothly. They knew all too well, from past experience, how dangerous childbirth could be. No one could predict what might happen, especially with so much pressure surrounding the birth.

Alicent shivered, her eyes filled with anxiety—not just for herself, but for the child she carried. “I… I can’t,” her voice broke, barely a whisper. “What if something goes wrong? What if I lose this child?”

One of the midwives gently took her hand, offering reassurance. “Your Grace, you’ve been strong up until now. We will make sure everything goes well. Trust us.”

Yet, despite their reassuring words, fear still gripped Alicent’s heart. What if this was the end of it all?

The midwife checked on Alicent once more, her face focused and serious. “The baby is ready,” she said, her voice steady. "Your Grace, you need to push now. With all your strength.”

Alicent, her body trembling from the exertion and pain, nodded, gripping the sheets tightly as she gathered every ounce of strength left in her. She cried out as she pushed, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. The pain was unbearable, yet she forced herself to endure, driven by the knowledge that her child was so close to being born.

Moments later, the midwife’s voice rang out with relief, “A healthy girl, Your Grace. Your daughter is born safe and sound.”

Alicent let out a shaky breath, a sense of overwhelming relief flooding through her. The pain was still there, but the weight of it felt lighter now. She could hear the soft cries of her newborn, and for a moment, she felt like the world had lifted off her shoulders.

But then, to her shock, the midwife’s voice grew more urgent. “Wait… there’s more. Another one is coming.”

Alicent’s eyes widened with disbelief, her heart racing as the pain returned, even more intense than before. She hadn’t expected this. A second child? Another girl?

The midwives worked quickly, helping her to push once more, and soon, another baby girl was born. The room was filled with the cries of two healthy daughters, and Alicent was left in stunned silence, her body exhausted but filled with awe.

Two daughters. Twins.

She couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. The pain that had nearly broken her moments ago was now replaced with a mix of emotions—relief, joy, and a profound sense of love for these two little girls who had come into the world against all odds. But even as her heart swelled with love, the reality set in: she was the mother of two newborn daughters now, and life as she knew it had just changed forever.

You walk through the garden with your ladies-in-waiting by your side. The gentle rustling of leaves and the soft chirping of birds fill the air, creating a peaceful melody that makes the moment feel serene. The sun filters through the canopy of trees, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow on the path ahead.

Your hand rests on your growing belly, your fingers moving in slow, thoughtful circles. Every now and then, you glance down, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. There’s a quiet contentment in moments like this — when the world feels slower, calmer.

Your ladies-in-waiting walk close by, their light chatter filling the air. Occasionally, you join the conversation, sharing a laugh or offering a kind remark. You enjoy their company, especially on days like this when Aegon is away, training with Aemond on the practice field. The clang of steel on steel is distant, muffled by the trees and the gentle hum of the garden, but you know they’re there, locked in their familiar dance of blades and pride.

The scent of blooming flowers drifts past on the breeze, sweet and fresh. You pause for a moment to take it in, letting the soft fragrance fill your senses. The warmth of the sun on your skin, the steady movement of life within you, and the simple joy of being surrounded by beauty — it’s in moments like these that you feel at peace.

One of your ladies comments on the beauty of a nearby rose bush, its crimson petals so vivid they almost seem unreal. You nod in agreement, reaching out to gently touch a velvety petal. “It’s strong,” you muse softly, your eyes lingering on the bloom. “Even with thorns, it still flourishes.”

Your gaze shifts to your belly, your hand still resting protectively over it. You walk on, the sound of footsteps crunching softly on the path behind you. No matter the burdens that come with war, court politics, or the pressures of family, moments like these remind you of your own strength. For like the roses, you endure, you grow — and you will bloom in your own time.

You turn your head and see your mother, Queen Alicent, walking toward you with your twin sister, Helaena, by her side. The sight of them fills you with warmth, and a bright smile lights up your face. Without hesitation, you step forward to greet them.

“Mother,” you say fondly as you embrace her. Her arms wrap around you with the firm but gentle hold only a mother can give. For a moment, you feel like a child again, safe and secure in her embrace.

She pulls back slightly to look at you, her gaze immediately dropping to your growing belly. Concern flickers in her eyes as she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “Are you feeling tired, my sweet girl?” she asks, her voice laced with both worry and affection.

You smile softly, shaking your head. “No, Mother, I’m well. The walk does me good,” you reply, resting a hand on your belly. “The babe is calm today, too.”

Alicent’s eyes soften with relief, and a small smile tugs at her lips. “Good,” she says, glancing down at your belly with quiet reverence. “Still, you mustn’t overexert yourself. Rest is just as important as strength.”

Helaena steps closer, her gaze distant but kind as she looks at you and then at your belly. “Dreams of wings and warmth,” she says softly, tilting her head as if listening to something only she can hear. Her words are strange, but they do not unsettle you. You’ve grown used to her cryptic musings, and sometimes, they carry truths no one else sees.

“Perhaps the little one dreams, too,” you say gently, and Helaena smiles, as if you’ve understood something important.

The three of you continue to walk together, side by side, surrounded by the soft hum of the garden. With each step, you feel lighter, knowing that, no matter the trials to come, you have the love of your family to steady you.

You sip your tea, savoring its warmth as you listen to your mother, Alicent, speak. Her voice is steady, carrying the calm authority of someone who has spent a lifetime navigating courts and crowns. Her knitting needles continue their soft, rhythmic clacking, each stitch carefully crafted with love for your unborn child.

Beside you, Helaena sits on the grass, her gaze distant yet filled with quiet wonder. Her hands are outstretched, her fingers delicate as a butterfly perches lightly on them. She tilts her head, watching it closely, her lips curling into a soft smile. The creature’s wings flutter slowly, catching the golden light of the sun, and for a moment, it seems as though the world around her has stilled to match her calm.

You watch her quietly, your eyes filled with affection and a touch of curiosity. Your twin sister has always seemed connected to things others could not see or understand. It’s no surprise to see her at peace with something as fleeting as a butterfly.

Your gaze lingers on her a little longer, thoughtful. It hasn’t been long since she was wed to Aemond, and the idea fills you with a quiet hope. Perhaps soon she, too, will have a child of her own. The thought of your children growing up together — cousins but also as close as siblings — warms your heart.

“She’s always been gentle with them,” Alicent says softly, following your gaze to Helaena. “Butterflies. Insects. Small, fragile things. She understands them in a way that most people don’t.” Her tone is wistful, almost proud.

“She’ll be a good mother,” you say with certainty, your eyes never leaving Helaena. She turns her head slightly as if hearing you, her gaze meeting yours for a moment. She smiles, soft but knowing, as if she’s already seen the future and agrees with you.

“And so will you,” Alicent adds, her voice warm but firm. She gives you a look filled with quiet pride and reassurance. Her hands never stop knitting, her fingers working with steady precision. “Both of you will be wonderful mothers. I have no doubt.”

You glance down at your belly, feeling the gentle, familiar shift of life inside you. The future is uncertain, filled with so many unknowns, but here in the warmth of the sun, with your mother’s love and your sister’s quiet magic, you feel a rare sense of peace.

For a little while longer, you stay there together, letting the world outside the garden fade away. It is enough to simply be here, surrounded by love, hope, and the promise of new life.

You hear a familiar voice calling your name, firm yet tinged with warmth. Your heart lifts instinctively, and you turn toward the sound. There, walking toward you, is Aegon. Beside him is Aemond, his steps measured and precise as always, his face a mask of quiet intensity.

Aegon’s silver hair catches the sunlight, still damp from washing away the sweat of training. It clings in loose strands around his face and neck, giving him a more relaxed, almost boyish appearance. His tunic is slightly wrinkled from exertion, and there’s a hint of lingering energy in his movements, the kind that comes after the thrill of combat.

He grins as he sees you, his violet eyes locked on yours with unmistakable fondness. “There you are,” he says, his voice lighter than usual, as if just seeing you has eased something in him. His gaze flickers briefly to your belly, and his grin softens into something more tender.

Aemond walks at his side, his expression calm but watchful as his single eye takes in the scene. His hair is still perfectly in place, not a strand out of line, though there’s a sheen of effort on his skin. His gaze shifts briefly to Helaena, who is still watching her butterfly with quiet fascination. His face remains impassive, but there’s a certain softness in the way he watches her.

Aegon closes the distance between you with easy strides, his eyes never leaving yours. When he finally reaches you, he crouches slightly, his hand moving instinctively to rest on your belly. His palm is warm through the fabric of your gown, and you feel the familiar comfort of his presence. “Did they give you any trouble today?” he asks playfully, as if the baby inside could somehow be mischievous already.

You chuckle softly, your hand covering his. “Not at all,” you reply, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “Unlike you, I’m sure, causing trouble with your brother.”

Aegon raises a brow, pretending to look offended. “Training isn’t trouble,” he says with mock seriousness. “It’s noble work.”

“Is that what you call it?” you tease, your smile widening.

Aemond lets out a quiet huff that might be a laugh, though he quickly schools his features into calm indifference. His gaze shifts to Alicent, offering her a small nod of respect before his eye drifts back to Helaena.

Aegon’s attention returns fully to you, his grin fading into something softer, more genuine. His thumb traces a gentle circle over your belly before his eyes flick back to yours. “You look beautiful,” he says quietly, so only you can hear. His words are simple, but they linger in the air between you, warming you more than the sun ever could.

You press your hand over his, holding it there for a moment longer. “And you look like you just wrestled a dragon,” you reply, raising a brow.

He laughs, the sound rich and familiar, like the sound of home. “If I did, I’d still win,” he quips, puffing out his chest slightly in jest.

“Of course you would,” you say, humoring him. “You’re Aegon the Conqueror reborn, are you not?”

“Don’t you forget it,” he replies with a wink, leaning in to press a quick, playful kiss to your temple before straightening up again.

The afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting golden light on all of you — Alicent with her knitting, Helaena with her butterfly, Aemond with his quiet watchfulness, and Aegon standing at your side, his hand still resting protectively over your growing belly. For a moment, it feels like the whole world is right here, bound together by love, family, and the quiet certainty that, no matter what lies ahead, you will face it together.

You sit comfortably on the edge of the bed, the soft glow of the afternoon sun streaming through the window, casting a warm light across the room. Aegon kneels before you, his face level with your growing belly. His silver hair falls loosely around his face, still slightly damp from his earlier training.

His hands rest gently on either side of your belly, his thumbs moving in small, absentminded circles. But it’s his voice that draws your attention. He’s speaking softly to the baby, his tone playful yet filled with a quiet tenderness that you rarely see in him.

“Are you being good for your mother?” he murmurs, his violet eyes focused entirely on the curve of your stomach. “No kicks today? Hm? You’re being kind, aren’t you? That’s good. Keep it that way.” He tilts his head, as if waiting for a response, his expression one of mock seriousness. “But if you’re anything like me, you’ll be causing trouble soon enough.”

You can’t help but smile at the sight of him like this — brought to his knees by something so small and unseen. His love is unmistakable in the way he gazes at your belly, in the way his voice softens just for the child he has yet to meet.

Your fingers move through his silver hair, slow and gentle. His hair is soft beneath your touch, and you brush it back from his face, letting your fingertips linger for a moment. He leans into the gesture, his eyes fluttering closed like a cat basking in warmth.

“You’ll spoil them before they’re even born,” you say softly, your voice full of quiet affection.

Aegon opens one eye, glancing up at you with a lopsided grin. “That’s my right as a father,” he replies, turning his face slightly so his cheek rests against your belly. He closes his eyes fully now, letting out a breath as if finally at peace. “Besides, they deserve it.”

You feel the warmth of his cheek through the fabric of your gown, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The weight of the crown, the whispers of court, the distant echoes of war — none of it matters here. It’s just the three of you. You, Aegon, and the life growing between you.

Your hand continues its slow, soothing motion through his hair, your heart full of love so strong it nearly aches. “Yes,” you whisper, your eyes soft with quiet joy. “They do.”

You glance down at Aegon, his head still resting against your belly, and you smile softly. “Come sit with me,” you say gently, your voice quiet but certain.

He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours with a hint of curiosity before he nods. Rising to his feet, he moves onto the bed, sinking into the mattress beside you with a contented sigh. His presence is warm and steady, and the shift in the bed as he settles feels as familiar as the rise and fall of your own breath.

You lean into him, resting your head on his chest. His arm moves naturally around you, holding you close. His other hand settles instinctively on your belly from behind, his palm resting firmly but gently over the curve of it. His fingers move in slow, soothing strokes, tracing soft circles over the fabric of your gown. The motion is so tender, so careful, that it feels like a lullaby made of touch.

Your eyes flutter closed, your body relaxing fully against him. The rhythm of his breathing is steady beneath you, the strong, reliable thud of his heartbeat in your ear. His warmth surrounds you, and with every slow caress of his hand on your belly, you feel the weight of the day begin to melt away.

“You’re tired,” he murmurs quietly, his lips close to your temple. His voice is lower now, quieter, as though speaking too loudly might disturb the peace you’ve found together.

“Not anymore,” you reply softly, your eyes still closed, letting yourself sink further into the comfort of him. “Not like this.”

His chest rises beneath your cheek with a slow, deep breath. “Good,” he says, his hand never ceasing its gentle movement. “You should rest while you can. Soon, we’ll have another little troublemaker to chase after.”

You hum in response, too relaxed to argue, too content to think of anything but the warmth of him, the safety of this moment, and the quiet love that surrounds you. His hand remains on your belly, his touch steady, protective, and full of love.

For now, there is peace. And that is enough.

You lie on the bed with Aegon, your body nestled comfortably against his. His warmth surrounds you, a protective cocoon that makes you feel safer than any fortress ever could. His arm is draped over you, his hand resting on your belly with familiar ease. His fingers move slowly, tracing soft, rhythmic circles, as if he’s already trying to soothe the child within.

From behind you, you hear the quiet hum of a melody. It’s not a song you fully recognize — perhaps something from childhood or a tune he’s made up on the spot. It’s low and unpolished, but there’s a gentleness to it that makes your heart ache with love. His breath is warm against the back of your neck, his voice a quiet vibration that seems to lull not just you, but the baby as well.

You place your hand over his, your fingers threading through his, stilling his movements for a moment. Your thumb brushes over his knuckles slowly, feeling every ridge and line as if to remind yourself that he is real, that this is real.

“I’m happy,” you whisper, your voice soft but firm, as if speaking a truth that must be heard. Your eyes remain closed, your face relaxed in a rare moment of peace. “I’m happy that fate wasn’t so cruel to us.”

There’s a pause, a stillness in the air that follows your words. For a moment, you think he might not respond. But then, he squeezes your hand, his fingers curling tightly around yours.

“Fate is always cruel,” Aegon says softly, his voice close to your ear, rough but honest. “But even fate can be kind sometimes.” His hand moves again, resuming its slow, soothing strokes over your belly. “Maybe this is our kindness,” he adds, his voice quieter now, as though he’s speaking only to you and the little life growing between you.

You press his hand a little closer to your belly, letting him feel the quiet stillness there. “If it is, then I’ll cherish it,” you murmur, your voice filled with quiet conviction. “I’ll hold on to it, no matter what comes.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but the weight of his silence is as full as any vow. His hand never leaves your belly, and his melody continues, hummed low and soft like a promise only the three of you can hear.

The next day, the sun is gentle in the sky, its warmth softened by a cool breeze that rustles the leaves. You walk side by side with your sister, Helaena, along the stone path that winds through the garden. The scent of blooming flowers fills the air, and the distant hum of bees creates a soft, steady rhythm around you.

Helaena walks with her usual quiet grace, her eyes flitting from one flower to the next, as if each one holds a secret only she can hear. Her fingers brush lightly against the petals as she passes, her touch as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. You glance at her with a fond smile, your hands resting lightly on the curve of your belly.

She’s talking, her voice light and dreamy as she recounts a story about her “little friends” — her name for the insects and creatures she seems to understand better than anyone else.

“The spiders were weaving again last night,” she says softly, her gaze far away but her tone certain. “They made a pattern this time — not like the others. It looked like a wheel, turning slowly.” Her eyes flick toward you, clear and bright, as if to see if you understand. “Maybe it’s a sign of something coming.”

You raise a brow, tilting your head slightly. “A wheel, you say? Perhaps it’s a sign that time is always turning,” you suggest playfully, though you know Helaena’s words often have more weight than they first appear to.

She hums thoughtfully, gazing up at the sky as if seeking an answer among the clouds. “Wheels turn, but they also crush,” she murmurs quietly, her gaze distant again. Then, as if pulled back to the present, she looks at you with a small smile. “But not all of them. Some are just for spinning thread.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head at her musings. Her words often carry a weight you don’t fully understand, but you love them all the same. “Well, I prefer the ones that spin thread,” you say with a grin. “Less danger, more warmth.”

She giggles at that, her smile growing brighter. You both walk a little further, your steps slow and unhurried. You feel calm, at ease, like the world is smaller here in this garden, and only the two of you exist within it.

“I like spending time with you,” you admit after a while, turning to her with a gentle smile. “It feels… peaceful.”

Helaena looks at you with that same soft, knowing smile she always wears when she’s gazing at her butterflies. “Peace is rare,” she says quietly, almost to herself. “So we should hold it tight when it finds us."

Her words linger in the air like the scent of flowers, and you nod, letting her wisdom settle in your heart. The two of you continue your walk, side by side, two sisters sharing the quiet beauty of the garden and the rare, fleeting peace it brings.

Your shared laughter with Helaena is suddenly interrupted by the sound of someone clearing their throat. You turn your head and see them — Aegon and Aemond — standing just at the edge of the garden path. Aegon’s expression is playful, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of his lips, while Aemond remains his usual composed self, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, his face calm but watchful.

They begin to walk toward you, each with his own distinct stride. Aegon moves with an easy, relaxed confidence, like a man who owns every space he walks into. His eyes are on you, filled with warmth and mischief, his grin growing wider with every step. Aemond’s pace is slower, more deliberate, his gaze flickering briefly to Helaena before returning to you and Aegon. Where Aegon moves with ease, Aemond moves with purpose.

You can’t help but smile at the sight of them. They are as different as night and day, but somehow, in this moment, they both seem so familiar, so perfectly them.

Aegon reaches you first. Without hesitation, he kneels before you, his violet eyes gazing up at you with unspoken affection. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to. His hands gently press against your sides, his touch firm but tender, and then he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your belly.

You feel the warmth of his lips through the fabric of your gown, and your heart swells with love so deep it feels like it could burst. Your fingers move to his hair, gently combing through the soft silver strands, and he tilts his head slightly, leaning into your touch like it’s the only thing grounding him.

“Good morning to you too,” you say softly, your eyes shining with affection.

“Morning to both of you,” Aegon replies, his voice half-teasing, half-sincere as he presses another kiss to your belly. “And you,” he adds, speaking directly to the child inside, his tone playful. “I hope you weren’t giving your mother too much trouble today.”

Helaena giggles beside you, covering her mouth with her hand, while you simply shake your head in quiet amusement. “They’ve been kind,” you reply, resting your other hand on top of his. “Unlike their father.”

Aegon gasps in mock offense, looking up at you with wide eyes. “I am nothing if not kind,” he insists, his grin betraying his words.

“Kind, perhaps,” you say, raising an eyebrow, “but certainly not quiet.”

Aemond approaches at last, his gaze flickering between you, Aegon, and Helaena. His single eye lingers on Helaena for a moment longer, and though his face remains stoic, there is a subtle shift in his expression — something softer, gentler. He stands beside her, his hands still neatly behind his back, his posture as rigid as ever.

“Are we interrupting something?” Aemond asks, his voice smooth and even, though there’s a hint of dry humor in it. His gaze shifts to Aegon, who is still on his knees, shamelessly clinging to you like a lovesick fool.

“Only my moment of peace,” you reply, casting a playful glance at Aemond. “But I suppose I can forgive you both this time.”

Aegon rises slowly, still grinning, his hand slipping into yours. “Peace is overrated,” he says with a wink, tugging you gently closer to him. “But I’ll give you something better.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary. You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you squeeze his hand, your smile soft and full of love.

“Better be good, then,” you reply, leaning your head briefly against his shoulder.

Helaena’s gaze shifts between all of you, her eyes distant but bright, as though she’s seeing something far beyond the present moment. “The wheel spins,” she says softly, her voice almost sing-song. “But for now, it’s at rest.”

Aemond glances at her, his brow furrowing just slightly, but he says nothing. Instead, he moves to stand beside her, his hands finally leaving their place behind his back to brush lightly against her arm. She doesn’t flinch, only glances at him with a small, knowing smile.

You close your eyes for a brief moment, breathing in the fresh air of the garden, the warmth of Aegon at your side, and the steady, grounding presence of family all around you. For now, the wheel is at rest, and you allow yourself to believe, just for a moment, that peace like this might last forever.

The four of you walk together along the garden path, the late morning sun filtering through the trees, casting dappled light across the ground. The air smells of fresh blooms and the faint, sweet scent of wildflowers carried by the breeze. Helaena walks ahead, her attention on a butterfly that flits just out of reach. Her gaze is full of quiet wonder, and Aemond stays close by her side, his single eye watchful as always. His steps are slow and measured, as if he’s guarding her every move without her even noticing.

You walk beside Aegon, his hand loosely clasping yours. Every so often, his thumb rubs circles over your knuckles, a silent gesture of affection. His other hand occasionally hovers near your waist, ready to catch you if you stumble, though you haven’t. You’re steady, even as the weight of your growing belly pulls at your balance.

It’s Aemond who breaks the quiet, his voice cutting through the soft hum of the garden. “Are you not tired?” he asks, glancing your way with that sharp, calculating gaze of his. “Walking this much while carrying all that weight can’t be easy.”

His words are blunt, but there’s no malice in them — only quiet concern, the kind of care he rarely shows to anyone but Helaena. His eyes shift briefly to your belly before returning to your face, his expression cool but attentive.

You raise a brow, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Are you calling me heavy, brother?” you tease lightly, glancing at him with playful eyes. “Careful, or I might think you’ve grown bold.”

Aegon lets out a short laugh, his grin wide and mischievous. “Careful, brother,” he says with mock seriousness, his voice full of amusement. “A pregnant woman’s wrath is no small thing.”

Helaena giggles softly ahead of you, her fingers brushing against the petals of a nearby flower. She doesn’t look back, but you can tell she’s listening. “He only says it because he cares,” she says in her usual dreamy tone, glancing toward Aemond with a small, knowing smile. “He’s gentler than he seems.”

Aemond’s gaze flickers to Helaena, his face softening just slightly, though his lips remain in a firm, straight line. He doesn’t deny it, nor does he look away from her. It’s rare to see him so unguarded, but with Helaena, he always seems to allow himself a little more room to be human.

You glance between them, warmth blooming in your chest. “I’m fine, Aemond,” you say softly, your voice more sincere this time. “A little weight is nothing I can’t bear.” Your hand comes to rest on your belly, your fingers gently stroking it. “Besides, I’m not alone in carrying it, am I?”

Aegon squeezes your hand, tilting his head toward you with a grin that’s a little softer than usual. “No, you’re not,” he says simply, his eyes filled with quiet affection.

Aemond watches the exchange in silence, his gaze sharp but thoughtful. He says nothing more, but his attention lingers on you for a moment longer than usual before he looks ahead once more. Perhaps it’s his way of showing he cares — not with words, but with watchful eyes and quiet presence.

The four of you continue walking together, the steady rhythm of your steps blending with the rustle of the leaves and the distant hum of insects. You feel safe here, surrounded by family. Even Aemond, with all his sharp edges, feels like a shield at your side.

“Tell me if you need to rest,” Aemond says quietly, his voice softer now, just loud enough for you to hear. He doesn’t look at you when he says it, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. But you understand him well enough to know that this, too, is his version of kindness.

“I will,” you reply just as softly, your heart warm with quiet gratitude.

You walk a little slower after that, but no one says a word about it. Aemond walks close enough now that his shadow overlaps yours, a silent promise that he will remain by your side, steady as ever.

From a distance, you spot your mother, Alicent, standing at the end of the corridor leading into the garden. Her figure is framed by the soft glow of the sun behind her, her green gown catching the light in a way that makes her seem almost ethereal. Her gaze is fixed on all of you, her eyes warm with quiet affection. There is a softness in her expression — not the queen, but simply a mother watching her children.

As she walks toward you, her steps are slow and measured, her presence calm but commanding as always. Her gaze moves over each of you in turn, taking in Helaena’s soft smile, Aemond’s ever-watchful stare, Aegon’s relaxed posture, and you — her child carrying another life within them. Her eyes linger on you just a moment longer, a gentle, almost wistful look crossing her face.

When she reaches you, she says nothing at first. Instead, she steps closer and places a hand on your belly, her palm warm and firm. Her fingers move in a slow, tender caress, her eyes following the motion as if she can feel the life stirring within you. Her lips curve into a soft smile, her love clear in the gesture.

“You’re doing well,” she says quietly, lifting her gaze to meet yours. Her voice is gentle, the kind of voice only a mother can have when speaking to her child. “You’re strong.”

Her words wrap around you like a cloak of warmth, and you nod, unable to do much else but smile back at her. “I learned from you,” you reply softly, and the look she gives you in return is one of pride, tinged with a hint of sadness.

Alicent turns next to Helaena, cupping her face in both hands with such care, as if afraid she might break. She presses a light kiss to her cheek, lingering just a moment longer than usual. Helaena leans into the touch with a soft hum, her eyes fluttering closed like a butterfly resting on a petal.

“My sweet girl,” Alicent whispers, brushing a strand of silver hair away from Helaena’s face. “I hope you are well today.”

“The butterflies are quiet today,” Helaena replies dreamily, her gaze distant but serene. “They’re just watching.”

Alicent smiles, her brow softening. “Then perhaps they’re giving you a moment of peace,” she says, her hands still resting lightly on Helaena’s cheeks before she finally lets her go.

Her eyes shift to her sons next. She steps forward, her gaze flicking between Aegon and Aemond with that familiar blend of love, exasperation, and expectation that only a mother can manage.

Her eyes settle on Aegon first. She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “You’ve cleaned yourself up, at least,” she says, her tone bordering on teasing but still firm enough to make her point.

Aegon rolls his eyes but grins at her, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can’t have you worrying about me every moment of the day, Mother,” he replies, his voice light and easy.

Her gaze softens, but she raises a brow at him, clearly unconvinced. “I will worry about you for as long as I live, Aegon,” she says simply, her voice unwavering. “That is a mother’s burden.”

He doesn’t reply, but you notice the slight shift in his stance, his smile faltering just a little as he lowers his gaze for a moment. His fingers tighten briefly around yours, a silent acknowledgment of her words.

Then Alicent turns to Aemond, her gaze settling on him with the same care but perhaps a touch more scrutiny. She looks him over carefully, her eyes tracing the sharp lines of his face, the patch over his missing eye, and the stiff posture of his shoulders. She steps closer, tilting her head as if to study him more closely.

“You’re too tense,” she says softly, her eyes filled with quiet concern. “You carry too much on your shoulders, my son.” Her hand reaches up to rest on his arm, and though his posture doesn’t change, you see the subtle shift in his gaze. His eye flickers to her, his lips pressing into a firm line.

“I carry what I must,” he replies, his tone firm but not cold.

Alicent gazes at him for a long moment, her fingers still on his arm. “Even the strongest swords can break,” she says softly. Her words hang in the air, heavy with meaning.

Aemond doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t pull away either. His gaze lowers slightly, his jaw tightening, but he allows her to keep her hand where it is. It’s a small thing, but for Aemond, it means everything.

The moment lingers before Alicent finally steps back, her gaze sweeping over all four of you once more. Her face is calm, but there is a depth of love in her eyes that she does not speak aloud. She clasps her hands in front of her, looking at all of you as if trying to commit the image to memory.

“Stay together,” she says softly, her gaze steady and filled with quiet strength. “If nothing else, promise me you will stay together.”

Her words settle over all of you like a veil of quiet understanding. No one speaks right away, but you feel Aegon’s hand tighten around yours, a silent promise made without words. Helaena gazes at the sky, her lips moving in quiet repetition of something only she can hear. Aemond remains still, his eyes sharp but distant, as if her words have struck a place deep within him.

“We will, Mother,” you say, your voice steady and certain. You glance at each of them in turn — Helaena, Aemond, and Aegon. “We will.”

Alicent nods, her face softening with quiet relief. “Good,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “That is all I ask.”

Your mother, glances at you and Helaena with a soft smile, her eyes filled with quiet affection. “Come,” she says gently, reaching out a hand to each of you. “Join me for tea in my chambers. You’ve been walking long enough, and it will do you both good to rest for a while.”

Helaena tilts her head as if considering the offer, then nods with a small, content smile. “Tea sounds lovely,” she says softly, her gaze following a butterfly as it flutters past. “The butterflies are quiet today. Perhaps they’ll join us too.”

You smile at her, your heart warmed by the innocence of her words. Then you glance at Aegon and Aemond, who are exchanging glances with each other, clearly with different plans in mind.

Aegon tilts his head toward Aemond, his grin sly and full of mischief. “Shall we?” he asks, already turning on his heel.

Aemond raises a brow but doesn’t argue. His gaze shifts to you, observing you carefully before speaking. “We’ll visit the dragons,” he says, his tone even and calm, but there’s a certain edge of excitement there, the same glint in his eye that always appears when he’s thinking of Vhagar. “We won’t be long.”

You narrow your eyes at them both, already sensing the trouble they might stir. Placing a hand on your hip, you glance from Aegon to Aemond with mock seriousness. “Don’t do anything reckless,” you say firmly, your voice carrying the weight of a warning only a wife and sister can give. “I mean it. No wild tricks, no flying too high, and no testing each other’s patience in the air.”

Aegon turns to you with an exaggerated look of shock, his hand pressed to his chest as if you’d wounded him. “Reckless? Me? I’m the picture of caution, love,” he says with a grin so wide it’s clear he’s lying. “I’ll be as gentle as a breeze.”

You raise an unimpressed brow. “A storm breeze, perhaps.”

Aemond says nothing, but you catch the subtle flicker of amusement in his eye. He glances at Helaena for a moment, his face softening just slightly before his gaze shifts back to you. “We’ll be careful,” he says simply, his tone steady but sincere. “I give you my word.”

His promise reassures you far more than Aegon’s theatrics ever could. You nod, letting out a small breath of relief. “Good,” you reply, glancing at both of them. “See that you keep it.”

Aegon chuckles, already backing away toward the path that leads to the dragonpit. “We’ll return in one piece,” he says with a wink, eyes twinkling with mischief. “And maybe, if you’re lucky, I’ll bring you back something pretty.”

You give him a pointed look but say nothing more. Your gaze follows them as they walk away, Aegon’s strides loose and confident while Aemond’s are precise and deliberate. It’s always been like that with them — wildness and control, fire and steel. You shake your head, fondness and exasperation blending in your heart.

“Men and their dragons,” Helaena says softly beside you, her gaze faraway but her words sharp with understanding. “They think they control them, but it is always the other way around.”

You glance at her, surprised by the clarity in her words, but before you can say anything, your mother places a gentle hand on your arm. “Come, my loves,” Alicent says, her voice as soft as silk. “Let them chase their dragons. We have warmth, tea, and quiet waiting for us.”

With a nod, you take your mother’s hand, and together with Helaena, you follow her toward her chambers. The sun filters through the hall’s stained-glass windows, casting hues of green and gold on the stone floors. It feels peaceful here, far from the weight of thrones, dragons, and the burdens of duty.

As you walk, you glance over your shoulder one last time, watching the distant figures of Aegon and Aemond disappear toward the dragonpit. You sigh softly, hoping they’ll remember your words — but knowing them both, you suspect you’ll be hearing wild tales of their “careful” flight soon enough.

With your mother’s steady hand guiding you, you lower yourself carefully into the cushioned chair. Your belly makes the task more cumbersome than it once was, and you exhale deeply as you finally settle into the seat. The soft fabric cradles your back, and you lean into it with a sigh of relief, letting the weight ease from your body.

Your eyes close for a moment, savoring the comfort. The strain in your back lessens, and for the first time in what feels like hours, you allow yourself a moment of stillness. The quiet hum of the room, the distant chirping of birds outside the window, and the familiar scent of lavender all combine to create a perfect, peaceful atmosphere.

A soft laugh breaks that peace, but it’s not unwelcome. You open one eye to see your mother, Alicent, covering her mouth with delicate fingers, her gaze warm and amused. Helaena sits nearby, her own soft giggles bubbling up like a gentle stream. Her eyes are bright with mirth as she tilts her head, watching you with that quiet, knowing gaze she always seems to have.

“You look as though you’ve just conquered a battle,” Alicent says with a fond smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

You tilt your head toward her, too tired to do more than give a wry smile. “It feels like I have,” you reply, letting out another long breath. “The weight of victory sits heavily on me.” Your hand rests on your belly, giving it a small, affectionate rub.

Helaena’s giggles grow louder, her fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of her chair. “Victory grows with each day,” she says dreamily, her gaze shifting toward your belly as if she’s watching something only she can see. “Soon, it will shout its arrival to the world, and all will hear it.

Alicent raises her brows at her daughter’s words, though she doesn’t question them. Instead, she steps closer, her gaze softening as she reaches out to brush a lock of hair from your face. Her touch is gentle, her fingers cool against your warm skin.

“You’ve done well to carry them this far,” she says quietly, her voice full of pride and affection. “But you mustn’t bear everything alone. Let others ease the burden when you can.”

You nod, leaning your head back against the chair with a small, content smile. “I know, Mother,” you murmur, your eyes closing once more. “But it’s hard to let go when it feels like it’s mine alone to carry.”

Alicent sighs softly, her hand resting on your shoulder. “It is yours, but that doesn’t mean you must carry it without help,” she says, her voice steady, firm in the way only a mother’s voice can be. “Even queens have hands to hold them up.”

Her words settle into your heart, heavy but warm. You feel the weight of them, just as you feel the weight of your child growing within you. It is a burden, yes, but it is also a blessing. Perhaps, you think, those two things are often one and the same.

Silence falls over the room once more, broken only by the soft rustle of fabric as Helaena shifts in her seat, her fingers tracing invisible patterns in the air. You peek at her from beneath your lashes, watching her lost in her own world. The sunlight catches on her silver hair, making her look almost otherworldly.

“Rest,” Alicent says softly, giving your shoulder a light squeeze. “For as long as you can.”

You hum in agreement, letting your eyes fall shut again. Surrounded by your mother’s warmth and your sister’s quiet presence, you feel safe. You feel loved. And for a while, you let yourself simply exist in that moment of peace.

You open your eyes slowly, gazing at your mother. Her face is serene but lined with quiet worry, a look you have come to recognize as her mask of strength. Her fingers are busy smoothing the fabric of her gown, a habit she’s never been able to break when her thoughts are heavy.

“Mother,” you say softly, your voice low but clear. Her eyes shift to meet yours, and you hesitate for a moment before asking, “How is Father?"

For a brief second, something flickers in her eyes — sorrow, perhaps, or something close to it. She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands. Her fingers still, clasping together tightly as she sits straighter in her chair.

“His health worsens by the day,” she admits quietly, her voice measured but undeniably tinged with sadness. “He remains in his bedchamber, too weak to rise. The maesters do what they can, but…” She trails off, shaking her head slowly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

You feel a tightness form in your chest, an ache that isn’t unfamiliar but still unwelcome. Your fingers curl gently over your belly, grounding yourself in the feeling of life growing within you.

“He was never… present,” you say, your voice softer now, thoughtful. Your eyes drift toward the window, where the sun filters in, golden and warm. “Not like you were, not like Grandfather.” You pause, letting the quiet between you fill with the unspoken truth. “But he is still my father.”

Alicent lifts her gaze to you then, her eyes glimmering with something you can’t quite name. There is no denial in her face, no attempt to correct your words. She knows them to be true, as you do.

“Yes,” she says softly, her voice carrying a weight of acceptance. “He is still your father.” Her gaze turns distant, her eyes focused on something far away. “He is a good man, though burdened by things beyond his control. He loves in his own way — not always as he should, but he does.”

You look down, running your thumb across the curve of your belly. The thought of Viserys lying in his bed, frail and silent, tugs at you in a way you did not expect. Memories flash in your mind — moments where he was there but distant, moments when his attention was elsewhere, moments when you wondered if he truly saw you at all. And yet, you still care. Because he is still your father.

“Will he… will he meet them?” you ask, your eyes shifting back to Alicent. Your hand presses more firmly against your belly, a silent hope stirring within you. “When they’re born?”

Alicent’s face softens with a tenderness that breaks past the mask of a queen. Her eyes meet yours with quiet understanding, her gaze lingering on your belly with the look of a mother who has carried this same hope before. She leans forward, placing her hand over yours, the warmth of her touch steady and grounding.

“I hope so,” she says, her voice as soft as silk but as strong as steel. “He would want to. If he is able, I will see to it.”

Her promise is gentle but firm, a vow made with the strength of a mother who has borne too much but still finds a way to bear more. You nod slowly, feeling a mixture of comfort and unease. Time is not a kindness, and you both know it.

The silence returns, but it is no longer so heavy. It is a shared understanding, a quiet acceptance of what is and what may be. Alicent’s hand remains over yours, her presence steady and constant, just as it always has been.

You glance at her, offering a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mother.”

Her eyes soften as she smiles back, her gaze filled with love. “Always, my dear,” she says, her voice a quiet promise. “Always.”

The warm atmosphere of the room is filled with the soft clinking of teacups and the gentle murmur of conversation. You sit comfortably, leaning back just enough to ease the strain on your back, a hand resting protectively over your growing belly. Helaena sits across from you, quietly humming a tune under her breath, her eyes tracking the slow, drifting flight of a butterfly just outside the window. Alicent sits beside you, her eyes focused on the delicate stitches of her embroidery.

You lift your teacup, the warmth of it seeping into your fingers as you continue to speak, telling your mother and Helaena a story from the gardens earlier in the week. You smile, eyes bright with fondness, your voice carrying the light cheerfulness that often fills moments like this.

But suddenly, it happens.

A sharp, tight pain grips your belly, sudden and fierce, like a cord being pulled too tightly around you. Your breath catches in your throat, the air suddenly too thick to draw in. The pain doesn’t release immediately, instead it lingers, pressing down on you with an unyielding weight.

Your words cut off mid-sentence, your voice faltering into silence. For a moment, no one notices. Helaena is still gazing at the butterfly, her fingers tapping lightly against her teacup. Alicent is focused on the delicate pattern she is stitching, her brow furrowed in concentration.

But then, the porcelain slips from your fingers.

The cup falls from your hand, hitting the edge of the table before shattering against the stone floor below. The sharp crack of the porcelain shattering echoes through the room, cutting through the gentle quiet like a sword through silk.

“Darling?” Alicent’s voice is sharp, urgent. Her embroidery is forgotten as her eyes snap to you, wide with concern. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she moves to your side.

You barely hear her. Your breath comes in shallow pants as your hands fly to your belly, fingers pressing against the fabric of your gown as if trying to soothe the sharp ache beneath. Your heart pounds in your chest, faster than it should, and for a moment, fear coils tightly in your mind.

“Something’s wrong,” you breathe, your voice strained and quiet. Your eyes dart to Alicent, wide and uncertain. “Mother, something’s—”

Alicent is already at your side, her hands firm but gentle as she grips your shoulders, grounding you with her presence. “Breathe, sweet girl,” she says firmly, though her eyes are wide with worry. “Look at me. Breathe. Slowly now.”

Helaena rises from her chair, her movements slower but no less filled with purpose. Her eyes aren’t filled with panic like your mother’s — no, hers are distant but aware. She steps forward, tilting her head slightly, her gaze falling on your belly. Her fingers twitch at her sides, and she murmurs, so softly it’s almost to herself, “The storm presses before the dawn… but it will pass.”

Her words do little to calm the growing thrum of worry in your chest. Your breathing is shallow as you press a hand harder against your belly, hoping, praying, that the pain will fade. Your heart races as the ache slowly begins to ease, but it leaves you shaken. Your breaths come quicker than before, and Alicent kneels before you, her hands cupping your face to make you look at her.

“Is it still there?” she asks, her eyes searching yours with the precision of a mother who has lived through this before. “The pain — is it still there?”

You shake your head slowly, swallowing hard before you answer. “No,” you whisper, voice still tight with lingering fear. “It’s… it’s easing now.” Your breath shudders as you exhale, tears threatening to rise in your eyes. “But it was strong, Mother. It was so strong.”

Alicent’s lips press into a firm line, her eyes scanning your face as her hand moves down to your belly. Her fingers press gently against it, her movements careful but thorough. Her gaze sharpens with quiet focus, and for a moment, she is not simply your mother but the queen, the one who must remain calm when others falter.

“Likely a cramp,” she says softly but firmly, glancing up at you. “It can happen as you grow heavier, especially with how far along you are.” She squeezes your hand, her eyes steady as she adds, “But we won’t take risks. I’ll send for the maester.”

Helaena kneels beside you, her eyes still faraway but her hands gentle as she takes yours into her own. Her fingers are cool to the touch, her presence a soothing balm to the fear still lingering in your heart. She tilts her head, her gaze distant but kind.

“Safe,” she says softly, her gaze flickering to your belly before rising to meet your eyes. “You are safe, and so are they.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, a mix of relief and exhaustion washing over you. You nod slowly, leaning back into the chair once more, letting the tension leave your body with every slow breath you take.

“Yes,” you whisper, more to yourself than to them. “Safe.”

But as Alicent calls for the maester and Helaena stays close by your side, you can’t help but feel the weight of uncertainty pressing on you. The ache may have passed, but the memory of it still lingers, a shadow at the edge of your mind. You press a hand to your belly again, feeling the warmth of life beneath your palm.

“Stay with me,” you whisper quietly to the child growing within you. “Please… stay with me.”

The pain returns with a vengeance, sharper and more relentless than before. It claws its way through your belly, pulling a scream from your lips that echoes through the room. Your body tenses as if every muscle is fighting against the force bearing down on you. Your breaths come in short, frantic gasps, and panic surges in your chest like a rising tide.

“Mother!” you cry out, your voice cracking with the weight of your fear and pain. Your hands clutch your belly, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of your gown. Sweat beads on your brow, rolling down your temples as heat floods your body. “Mother, please!”

Alicent is already at your side. Her hands are steady as she cups your face, her eyes sharp with focus but filled with unwavering love. “I’m here, I’m here,” she says firmly, her voice cutting through the fog of pain like a guiding light. Her hand moves to your back, supporting you as she leans in close. “Breathe, sweet girl. Look at me. Breathe.”

Her words anchor you, but it’s so hard to focus on anything but the searing ache that grips you. You try to follow her command, gasping in short, uneven breaths before forcing a deeper one. The air feels thick and heavy in your lungs, but you manage to draw it in, then out. In. Out. Just as she says.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, fast and urgent. The door swings open, and the maester enters with two midwives at his side. Their expressions are grim but purposeful. They’ve seen this before. They know what to do.

“Lay her down,” the maester commands, his voice calm but firm. The midwives move quickly, clearing space on the large bed. Alicent and Helaena help you rise from the chair, their hands steady and sure. Your legs feel like they might give out, but they don’t let you fall.

The moment you lie back on the bed, the pain crashes down again. Another scream tears from your throat as you grip the sheets beneath you, your body arching as the pressure builds. Your heart races, panic mixing with the overwhelming pain, but Alicent is there. Her hands grip yours tightly, her gaze locked onto yours.

“Look at me,” she says, her voice unwavering even as her eyes shine with worry. “You’re strong. You can do this. Breathe, darling. Just breathe.”

Tears prick your eyes as you try to listen to her, nodding weakly through the haze of agony. The maester presses a hand gently to your belly, his eyes narrowing with practiced precision.

“It is time,” he says, his gaze flicking to Alicent before returning to you. “The child is coming now. We must act quickly.”

“No,” you whisper, your voice hoarse with strain. “No, it’s too soon—”

“It’s happening now, my lady,” the maester says firmly but not unkindly. “There is no stopping it. You must be brave.”

Terror wells up in your chest, but Alicent grips your face gently, her eyes filled with fierce determination. “You are brave,” she tells you, her voice like steel wrapped in silk. “You were born to do this. I’m right here. I will not leave you.”

Helaena kneels by your other side, her distant, dreamlike gaze now clearer than before. Her eyes settle on you with surprising clarity. “A new song,” she murmurs, brushing a cool hand over your sweat-dampened brow. “It will be loud, but it will be beautiful.”

Her words bring you a small, flickering spark of calm, but it’s brief. The next contraction pulls a broken sob from your chest as you twist in pain. Your world narrows to nothing but the ache, the weight, and the unyielding pressure that refuses to ease.

“Push when you feel it,” the maester instructs. His voice is steady but insistent. “When the pain crests, you push. Do you understand?”

You nod weakly, your breath coming fast and shallow. Alicent’s fingers intertwine with yours, grounding you in the present. Her grip is strong, firm, and unwavering.

“You can do this,” she whispers, her voice close to your ear. “Push, my love. Push with everything you have."

The next wave of pain crashes over you, fiercer than anything you’ve ever known. You grit your teeth, crying out as you bear down with every ounce of strength left in you. Your whole body trembles from the effort, your breaths ragged and wild, but you push. You push because there is no other choice. You push because life demands it.

The room fills with the sounds of your labor — the grunts, the cries, the gasps for air. Alicent’s voice never wavers, her steady encouragement a thread that guides you through the storm. Helaena hums softly beside you, her quiet, lilting melody oddly soothing in the chaos.

Time becomes meaningless. Minutes, hours — you can’t tell the difference. All you know is the pain, the push, the desperate need to bring life into the world. Sweat drips from your brow, your body shaking with exhaustion. You feel like you have nothing left to give. But then—

“I see the head,” the maester says suddenly, his tone sharp with urgency. “Just one more push, my lady. One more, and they will be here.”

Your heart leaps, tears streaming down your face. You feel Alicent squeeze your hand tighter, her face inches from yours, her eyes fierce with pride.

“One more,” she says, her voice trembling with emotion. “Just one more. You can do this. You will do this.”

You nod, teeth clenched, every muscle in your body coiling like a spring. And with a guttural cry that shakes the very air around you, you give one final, desperate push. It feels like you are being torn apart, but then—

A sound.

A cry.

A sharp, piercing wail fills the room, cutting through the air like the first song of dawn. It’s high and loud, strong and alive. For a moment, all the pain fades into nothing. Your whole world stops, your breath catching in your chest. Tears fall freely down your face as you hear it.

The baby is crying.

“Well done, my lady,” the maester says softly, his hands cradling the tiny, wriggling child. “It’s a boy.”

Your chest shudders with a sob of relief, of joy, of exhaustion. You slump back against the pillows, your whole body weak and trembling. Your heart is so full it feels like it might burst.

The baby’s cry continues, strong and insistent, and moments later, he is placed in your arms. He is so small, so warm, his silver hair damp from the effort of entering the world. His eyes are squeezed shut as he wails, his tiny fists curling and uncurling in the air.

You gaze down at him, tears spilling from your eyes as you press a kiss to his forehead. “Hello, my love,” you whisper, your voice cracking with emotion. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”

Alicent presses a kiss to the top of your head, her eyes shining with tears. “You did it,” she says, pride and love pouring from every word. “You did it, my darling girl.”

Helaena smiles softly, her gaze faraway once more. “His song is bright,” she murmurs, her voice quiet but certain. “A light in the storm.”

The maester remains close, his hands still working, his voice calling for the midwives to be ready for the afterbirth. But none of it matters. Not right now.

All you can see is your son. His tiny face scrunched in a cry, his little fingers curling toward you like he already knows you. Your heart swells with love so fierce it nearly undoes you. You press another kiss to his head, breathing him in, memorizing every inch of him.

“You’re safe,” you whisper, your voice thick with love. “You’re safe, little one. I’m here. I’m here.”

And for a moment, everything is still. The pain is gone. The world outside doesn’t exist. It’s just you and him.

Your son.

The moment of peace is shattered as the pain returns, sharper and more intense than before. It steals the breath from your lungs, and your body tenses involuntarily. Your arms tighten around your newborn son, but the pain is too much — too sudden, too strong. You let out a choked gasp, your eyes wide with panic.

“Mother,” you rasp, your voice laced with both fear and disbelief. “Mother, it’s happening again—”

Alicent’s eyes snap to you, her face shifting from joy to alarm in an instant. She moves swiftly, her hands reaching for you. “Give him to me,” she says urgently but gently, her eyes locked on yours. “Give him to me, sweet girl. You need your strength.”

With shaking hands, you lift your son toward her, tears spilling down your cheeks. You press a kiss to his soft head before letting him go. The moment her arms take him, you feel the weight shift, but the pain does not ease.

“Maester!” Alicent calls sharply, her voice commanding and fierce. She cradles the baby close to her chest, swaying ever so slightly to soothe his cries. Her eyes are wild with concern as she looks from you to the maester.

The maester is already at your side, his face grim as he presses a hand against your belly. His eyes narrow in concentration, his mouth set in a firm line. His hands move with experienced precision, and for a heartbeat, the room falls silent save for the soft, fretful cries of your newborn son.

“You are carrying twins, my lady,” the maester says, his voice low but clear. His gaze meets yours, calm but firm. “There is another child yet to be born.”

The world spins. Your heart lurches in your chest as you stare at him, wide-eyed with shock. “What?” you breathe, the word barely more than a whisper. “No… no, I would have known.”

“It is rare, but it happens,” the maester says steadily. “But the child is coming now, and there is no time to waste.”

Tears blur your vision as a sob rises in your throat. Another child. Another child is coming. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, and you shake your head as if denying it will make it untrue. “No, no, no,” you cry, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you. “Aegon. I need Aegon. Please — I need him here!”

Your gaze snaps to your mother, desperate and pleading. “Bring him back, Mother. Please.” Your voice cracks with the weight of it, raw with pain and fear. “I need him here. Please bring him back.”

Alicent’s face crumples with anguish. She hands the baby to one of the midwives with quick, careful hands, then rushes to your side. She kneels by you, cupping your face with both hands, her eyes swimming with emotion.

“I know, my sweet girl. I know,” she says, her voice trembling with barely contained sorrow. Her fingers stroke your damp hair away from your face, her forehead nearly pressed to yours. “But he’s still in the skies, riding Sunfyre. I sent a messenger, but he may not hear the call in time.”

Your heart twists in your chest, grief and fear mingling with the agony that wracks your body. You can barely think through the haze of pain. You feel as though you are being pulled apart from the inside, your body no longer your own.

“I need him,” you sob, your voice broken, raw, and filled with longing. “I need him here, Mother.”

Alicent presses her forehead to yours, tears slipping silently down her cheeks. Her grip on you tightens, her hands steady despite the trembling of her breath.

“You have me,” she whispers fiercely, her voice filled with the same strength she used when you were a child frightened by the storm. “You have me, and I will not leave you. You hear me? You are not alone. I’m here. I’m right here.”

Her voice cuts through the fog of fear, grounding you in the present. The next wave of pain strikes, and you cry out, your hands gripping Alicent’s arms with all the strength you can muster. She doesn’t flinch, holding you as steady as stone. Her presence is unyielding, a wall against the storm.

“Push, sweet girl,” she urges you, her voice low but firm. “You’ve done this once already. You can do it again. Push, and you will hold them both in your arms.”

Her words are a lifeline. You nod weakly, tears still streaming down your face. Your heart still aches for Aegon — for the warmth of his voice, his hand on yours, his whispered promises. But he is not here. Not now. And so you grip your mother’s arms like a lifeline and face the storm alone.

“Push,” the maester commands from below, his hands ready once more. “With the next pain, my lady, push as you did before.

You nod again, your breaths sharp and shallow. Alicent’s voice comes close to your ear, soft but unyielding.

“You are my daughter,” she says, her voice filled with fire and love. “You are stronger than you know. You will bring them into this world, and I will be here every step of the way.”

With a cry of pain and raw determination, you push.

Your body feels like it has been wrung dry of every last ounce of strength. Your breaths come in shallow, uneven gasps, each one a battle to draw in air. Every muscle aches, and your limbs feel heavier than stone. Your vision blurs with exhaustion and tears, but through it all, you hear it — the sound that makes it all worth it.

A cry. Sharp, loud, and strong.

The moment you hear it, a sob bursts from your chest, your body shaking as relief washes over you like a crashing wave. Tears stream down your face, mingling with the sweat on your brow. It’s over. It’s finally over.

“She’s here,” the maester says, his voice filled with quiet triumph. “A girl, my lady. A strong, healthy girl.”

Alicent releases a shaky breath beside you, her face crumpling with overwhelming relief. Her hands, still holding yours, squeeze tightly, her fingers trembling against your skin. She lets out a soft, broken laugh, her eyes filled with pride and love.

“You did it,” she whispers, her voice choked with emotion. “You did it, my brave girl.”

Your head lolls to the side, your body so heavy you can hardly move. You blink slowly, trying to clear your vision, trying to see her — your daughter. The maester wraps the small, squirming bundle in soft cloth before placing her in Alicent’s waiting arms.

Alicent gazes down at the child with wonder, her face soft and radiant in the glow of the moment. She sways gently, rocking the baby as she steps closer to you. Her eyes, still brimming with tears, turn to you with a look of such deep pride that it nearly undoes you.

“Look at her,” she says softly, her voice trembling with awe. She kneels beside the bed and holds the baby out to you. “Look at your daughter, my love.

With the last remnants of your strength, you lift your arms, hands shaking with exhaustion. Alicent carefully places the baby in your arms, adjusting the blankets to keep her warm. The moment you feel her weight against your chest, your heart swells so fiercely it feels like it might break.

She’s so small. Her tiny face is flushed pink, her eyes shut tight as she lets out a wailing cry. Her silver hair, damp and soft, clings to her head, a perfect mirror of your own Targaryen heritage. Her little fists wave in the air, so full of life, so full of fight.

Tears blur your vision once more as you stare down at her, overwhelmed by a love so powerful it feels like it could break you. Your fingers brush over her cheek, and her skin is so soft, so warm. She hiccups mid-cry, her tiny lips quivering before settling into quiet whimpers. Her whole body fits against you like she was always meant to be there.

“Hello, sweet girl,” you whisper, your voice raw but filled with so much love it aches. You press your lips to her soft head, inhaling the delicate, sweet scent of new life. “You’re here. You’re finally here.”

Your tears drip onto her blanket, and you don’t bother to wipe them away. They’re tears of relief. Of joy. Of love. Your heart, already so full from your son’s birth, somehow makes room for her as well. It feels as though it might burst from how much you love them both.

Alicent’s hand rests on your head, her fingers threading gently through your damp hair. She leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead, her lips warm and soft. Her breath is warm against your skin as she whispers, “You’ve done something extraordinary, my sweet girl. You are a mother twice over now.”

Her words wash over you like sunlight after a storm. You close your eyes, letting the warmth of them fill you from head to toe. Her fingers trail down to brush against your cheek, gentle as a breeze.

“You are so strong,” Alicent says, her voice thick with emotion. “Stronger than I ever was.”

You let out a soft, broken laugh, too exhausted to do more. Your head rests against the pillow, your eyes fluttering closed for just a moment. The warmth of your daughter against your chest, the gentle weight of her, is the only thing keeping you anchored to the present.

“She’s perfect,” you whisper, your voice no more than a breath. “They’re both perfect.”

“Yes, they are,” Alicent replies, her voice full of love and pride. She smooths a hand over your hair again, her fingers cool against your burning skin. “Rest now, sweet girl. You’ve done enough. Rest.”

You nod weakly, still gazing down at your daughter. Her tiny eyes peek open for the briefest moment, and you see them — a soft shade of violet, clear and bright like amethysts. You press another kiss to her forehead, letting your lips linger there.

“Welcome to the world, little one,” you whisper, your voice heavy with love. “I will love you for all my days.”

The weight of exhaustion pulls at you, your body too spent to fight it. Your eyes grow heavy, and slowly, slowly, they close. You can still hear the gentle coos of your daughter and the soft hum of your mother’s voice as she soothes you both.

The world fades into warmth, love, and the knowledge that you have brought two lives into it. And as you slip into the quiet, you know that, somehow, everything will be alright.

The heavy thud of hurried footsteps echoes through the chamber. The door swings open with a force that makes it shudder against the wall. Aegon stands there, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his silver hair disheveled from flight, still damp with sweat from the heat of Sunfyre’s back. His violet eyes are wild, darting around the room in search of you.

“Aegon,” Alicent says softly, turning her head toward him. She stands by your bedside, her arms cradling your newborn son against her chest. Her expression is one of quiet relief as she sees him. “You’re here.”

His gaze locks onto you, and his eyes soften with something raw and unspoken. Without a word, he strides forward, his steps quick but careful. His eyes scan every inch of you, taking in the sight of you lying on the bed, your face pale, your hair damp with sweat, your chest rising and falling slowly as you sleep. The exhaustion is clear on your face, but there is peace too.

He stops at the side of the bed, his breath still uneven from the rush to get here. His hand reaches out, fingers trembling slightly as he brushes your cheek. The warmth of his touch pulls you from the edge of sleep. Slowly, your eyes flutter open. For a moment, it takes you a second to realize who it is, but when you do, a soft smile pulls at your lips.

“Aegon,” you murmur, your voice weak but filled with so much love it makes his throat tighten.

“I’m here,” he says, his voice low and hoarse. His thumb strokes your cheek, his gaze never leaving yours. “I’m here now.”

Tears shimmer in his eyes, but he blinks them away, his jaw tightening as he tries to steady himself. His gaze shifts for a moment to the small bundle in Alicent’s arms. Slowly, he looks back at you, confusion and wonder mingling on his face.

“Twins?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if saying it too loud will break the fragile magic of the moment.

You nod slowly, still gazing at him, your eyes filled with exhaustion but also pride. “A boy and a girl,” you whisper, tilting your head just enough to glance toward the small crib beside the bed where your daughter lies peacefully, swaddled in soft blankets.

Aegon follows your gaze. His eyes land on the tiny, sleeping form of his daughter. His breath catches in his throat, and for a moment, he doesn’t move. He stares as if the world has stopped, as if nothing else exists but that little girl lying there. His face shifts — shock, awe, disbelief, and then something far deeper.

He steps away from you, moving toward the crib with slow, cautious steps. His eyes are wide, unblinking, as if he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he looks away. When he reaches the crib, he leans down, his breath shallow as he stares at her face. Her tiny mouth opens in a soft yawn, her little hands curling against the blankets.

“She’s so small,” he murmurs, his voice cracking. His fingers hover over her head, hesitant to touch, as if he fears he might hurt her. But slowly, carefully, he brushes a single finger against her cheek. She’s warm, so warm, and soft like nothing he’s ever felt before.

His breath shudders, and he presses his lips into a thin line to keep his emotions in check. But his shoulders shake once, and he releases a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sob. He presses a hand over his mouth, his eyes red-rimmed as he stares at her, overcome with something too big to name.

“She’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice filled with reverence. “She’s… she’s perfect.”

He stays there for a moment longer, just gazing at her as though he could memorize every inch of her face in that instant. Then, he pulls himself away, turning back to you. His eyes are glassy, his cheeks damp, but he doesn’t care. His gaze shifts to the small bundle in Alicent’s arms. His son. His heir.

Alicent’s face softens as she looks at him. Her eyes are filled with understanding and love as she steps forward, tilting the child in her arms so Aegon can see him fully. His face is red with the aftershock of crying, his small fists waving in the air as if trying to fight off the world itself. His silver hair is messy atop his head, so much like Aegon’s own when he was born.

“Your son,” Alicent says gently, her voice thick with pride. She steps closer, lifting him toward Aegon. “Hold him, Aegon.”

He freezes for a moment, his eyes darting from his mother’s face to his son’s, panic flickering behind his gaze. “I— I don’t know if I can,” he says, his voice rough, barely more than a whisper. His hands flex nervously at his sides. “He’s so small. I—”

“You can,” Alicent cuts in softly but firmly, her eyes meeting his with all the quiet strength of a mother who has done this before. “You must.”

Aegon’s throat bobs as he swallows thickly. Slowly, he reaches out his arms. Alicent carefully places the baby into his hands, guiding him until the small bundle is secure in his arms. The moment Aegon feels that little weight against his chest, everything else falls away. The panic, the doubt, the fear — it all vanishes.

His son shifts, letting out a small, sleepy sigh as he nuzzles into Aegon’s chest. Aegon lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening just a little as he cradles him closer. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, so full it feels like it might burst.

“Hey, little one,” Aegon whispers, his voice barely more than a breath. His lips curl into a trembling smile, his eyes locked on the baby’s face. “It’s me. I’m your father.”

The words feel strange and sacred on his tongue. Father. He’s a father. He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, his forehead pressing against the baby’s head, breathing him in. “I’m here now,” he whispers, closing his eyes for a moment. “I’m here, and I’ll never leave.”

He turns his head slowly, looking at you. His gaze is soft, his face raw with every emotion he’s ever tried to hide. There’s no mask now. No armor. Just him — just Aegon, looking at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice barely holding steady. He looks at you like you’ve given him the whole world. “Thank you for them. For… for everything.”

Tears well up in your eyes again, but you laugh softly, too tired to speak much. “Don’t thank me,” you say, your voice weak but full of love. “They’re yours too, Aegon.”

He stares at you for a moment longer, then sits on the edge of the bed, his son still cradled in his arms. He shifts closer, close enough to press a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there for a long, quiet moment.

“Rest,” he whispers against your skin, his voice so gentle it almost breaks you. “I’ll stay with you. I’m not going anywhere.”

You nod, eyes closing once more, the warmth of his presence grounding you. You hear him humming softly, a quiet, soothing melody that lulls you into rest.

The last thing you feel is the warmth of his body pressed close to yours, the soft weight of your daughter at your side, and the steady rhythm of Aegon’s quiet song filling the air.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you feel safe. Truly safe.

The soft creak of the door opening pulls you from the haze of sleep. Your eyes flutter open slowly, your body still heavy with exhaustion but your mind already attuned to the sounds of the room. The quiet murmur of voices reaches your ears, familiar voices filled with warmth and curiosity.

You blink a few times, adjusting to the dim glow of the chamber. The sight that greets you makes your heart swell. Aegon is seated beside you on the bed, his back resting against the headboard, his gaze fixed intently on the two small bundles resting in his arms. His face is softer than you’ve ever seen it — calm, content, and utterly unguarded. The flickering firelight dances across his silver hair, and his violet eyes are filled with a tenderness that he so rarely shows.

He notices you stirring and glances down at you, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “Look who’s finally awake,” he says softly, his voice full of affection.

Before you can reply, more movement draws your attention to the door. Helaena and Aemond step into the room, followed closely by your mother, Alicent. Helaena’s face lights up with a smile the moment she sees you, her eyes wide with excitement. She clasps her hands together, eyes flicking to the bundles in Aegon’s arms.

“You’re awake!” Helaena says brightly as she approaches. Her gaze is filled with wonder as she peeks over Aegon’s shoulder to get a better look at the twins. “Oh, they’re so tiny,” she whispers, her eyes filled with awe. She crouches slightly, tilting her head as if to get a better view. “They’re perfect.”

Aemond walks in with his usual measured grace, his eye cool but attentive as he surveys the scene. His gaze lands on you for a moment, his expression unreadable, but his lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile. His eye shifts to the children in Aegon’s arms, and he tilts his head, his gaze thoughtful.

“They’re strong,” he says simply, his voice low but firm. “They’ll grow to be fierce.”

Your mother steps forward, her eyes soft with maternal pride and love. She kneels at your bedside, her hand immediately reaching out to smooth the damp hair from your face. Her eyes, so filled with love, meet yours.

“How are you feeling, my love?” Alicent asks quietly, her voice full of concern. “You were so strong through it all.”

“I’m tired,” you admit, giving her a small smile, “but happy.” Your gaze shifts to Aegon, who is still staring at your children like they are the only things that matter in this world.

Alicent glances over her shoulder at them, her face filled with the same quiet joy. Her eyes flick back to you, a knowing look in her gaze. “Have you chosen names for them yet?” she asks, tilting her head in curiosity.

Helaena perks up at the question, leaning forward with an eager smile. “Yes, yes! Have you? I’ve been wondering what names you would give them.”

Aegon glances at you, and you can see the unspoken question in his eyes. This was a decision the two of you had discussed before but never finalized. But now, in this moment, it feels clear. The names feel right, as if they had been waiting all along for this moment.

You glance at him, nodding slowly, and he mirrors your smile.

“Our son will be named Jaehaerys,” you say softly, your eyes flicking to the boy cradled in Aegon’s right arm. His little face is scrunched in sleep, his silver hair sticking up in messy tufts. “For strength and wisdom.

Aegon nods, his lips twitching with approval. His gaze shifts to his daughter, his eyes warm with a quiet reverence. “And our daughter will be Jaehaera,” he says, his voice thick with affection. He glances at you, his gaze unwavering. “For her grace and fire.”

Helaena gasps softly, her eyes bright with joy. “Jaehaerys and Jaehaera,” she repeats, her smile wide. “They sound like they belong in a song. Such strong names for such precious children.” She leans closer to the crib where Jaehaera sleeps peacefully. “She will be a dreamer, I think,” Helana says softly, her eyes distant but full of certainty. “Yes, a dreamer.”

Aemond raises a brow at that but says nothing. His gaze remains on the twins, his eyes sharp as if trying to read something in their faces.

Alicent breathes out a soft sigh, her smile growing wider. “They are beautiful names,” she says, brushing her hand over your hair once more. “Names worthy of them.” She looks up at Aegon, pride shining in her gaze. “You have a fine family, my son.”

Aegon shifts his gaze to his mother, his lips pressing into a firm line as he nods once. “Yes,” he says quietly, his eyes returning to the two small faces in his arms. His voice grows even softer. “I do.”

His eyes flick back to you, and he leans forward, his brow resting gently against yours. For a moment, it is just the two of you, breathing the same air, sharing the same quiet, overwhelming love for the family you’ve built together.

“Jaehaerys and Jaehaera,” he whispers, his voice filled with quiet reverence. “Our little dragons.”

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

#aegon ii targaryen #hotd imagine #hotd aemond #prince aegon targaryen #aemond targaryen #hotd one shot #aegon ii fanfic #hotd x reader #aegon x reader #hotd #aegon fanfic #aegon targaryen x you #aegon targaryen x reader #prince aemond #heleana targaryen #hotd alicent #hotd fanfic

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heavenbarnes · 8 months ago

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Thinking of being Ghost's fiance and making invite the 141 over for dinner to finally meet them and he begrudgingly accepts because anything to make u happy and they're still trying to wrap their heads around the fact that he's engaged

mmm omg your mind 🫶🏼

finally getting older bf!simon to have the 141 around your dinner was the equivalent of pulling teeth.

come to think, pulling teeth would’ve been easier.

“well fuck me for wanting to meet the people the man i’m marrying spends 90% of his time with”

“sweet’art y’know i don’t like bringing work ‘ome”

then you’d gone and put your hands on your hips with just one (1) eyebrow raised-

and the lads were knocking at his fucking door.

“gidday- don’t fuckin’ start w’me”

“some bloody way to greet y’guests, big man”

as he corralled all their snide little remarks about “didnae know ye’ owned a nice shirt” everyone managed to find their best behaviour upon your appearance.

it might’ve had something to do with the stunned silence.

when he’d begrudgingly invited them, they’d all been in a little bit of shock- first of all, ghost had a fiancé? second of all, ghost is letting us into his home?

then it all round off with, third of all-

ghost’s fiancé was a fucking looker, that’s for sure.

sweet, nice, bloody easy on the eyes- how the hell had he managed that?

you were just happy to meet the closest things to friends that simon had.

price took lead by drawing you into a hug, thanking you for your hospitality. followed closely by a sweet talking gaz who was already making your cheeks warm with his manners.

naturally, johnny had to chime in with some stupid little-

“nae wonder L.t disnae want us knowing about ye’, i’d keep ye’ all t’maself too”

he’s too slow to avoid simon’s flat palm coming up the side of his head, but it doesn’t dissuade him much.

he’s peachy fucking keen to meet you.

simon eats his tea with a tense jaw, rolling his eyes every time someone makes you laugh a little too long, tells another ‘embarrassing’ story about him.

he also keeps his palm firmly on your knee, nervous twitch of a thumb running circles over your skin.

when you pop out to the kitchen to fix dessert, they’re on him like starved dogs.

“all this time and not so much as a bloody photo?”

“kinda’ photos i’m gettin’ aren’t f’you lots eyes”

johnny nearly falls out of his seat.

you can hear them whispering all the way from the kitchen, for a bunch of SAS guys- they’re not very subtle.

simon’s got one ear on the shit chatter coming from his team and the other on the kitchen, waiting for the slightest sign that he might be able to join you.

it comes- in the form of a gasp from you followed by “ow fuck”

simon’s out of his seat like a bullet.

“what’s wrong- what ‘ave y’done?”

you know the 141 are watching, doesn’t take a genius to see the way they’re all craning their necks around the kitchen doorframe.

“i’m fine, si- just a little burn from the pan”

“lemme’ see, gimme’ y’hand”

so the 141 see their ghost, unshakeable mountain of a man- a face they never see-

and they see his face, and they see genuine fear on it.

they see simon.

your simon.

“i’m telling you it’s fine, si”

“i’ll make that call, alright”

and they’re all looking at each other across the table, trying to decide whether to be impressed or even a little jealous- they’re leaning towards jealous.

so instead they settle on taking the absolute piss out of him.

not that he minds-

before you could even reach your chair he was pulling you into his lap- having you eat dessert perched on his thigh.

as you settle back into his chest, you could swear you feel him laugh.

that hand settles back on your knee again but there aren’t nervous circles anymore.

more like gentle squeezes.

your simon.

right at home.

#domestic simon save me save me domestic simon #older bf!simon #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader

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papiliotao · 1 month ago

Text

HOME SWEET HOME — neuvillette x reader

content: 13.3k words, lovers to exes to hopefully lovers again, reader goes to jail, mixed feelings (i hope i wrote them decently), murder, poison, lots of investigation

summary: a singular trial is all it takes to tear your world apart. after being framed for an atrocious crime, you're sent to the fortress of meropide by the decree of your own lover. however, as new evidence emerges years down the line, you're offered freedom at last — the only catch being that you must confront the real culprit (and your complicated feelings for the man who broke your heart).

a/n: merry (late?) christmas @https-sourlimes!! i'm your secret santa. i am SO sorry about the wordcount; i got carried away while writing. i really hope you enjoy! <3

Happiness is a fragile ephemerality.

One word is all it takes to set your world ablaze in a frenzy of roaring flames, once-comforting hues of warmth roaring in a final performance of oceanic havoc. A numb horror manifests in subtle shivers that wrack your body, piercing your very soul with its glacial frostbite. Echoes reverberate within your mind.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale, [name] is guilty.

Neuvillette’s words seem to ring in the air, long overstaying their welcome as they persist in a buzz of illusory ostinatos over a backdrop of stunned silence. No one stirs as the tragic tale of two star-crossed lovers unfolds before them. Instead, they watch with bated breath, never once daring to intervene, allowing every act of fate’s cruel masterpiece to play out in flawless tandem.

Nothing feels real until the moment the guards slip a pair of handcuffs around your wrists. Gradually, a sense of panic envelops your senses, prompting you to desperately turn to where Neuvillette had been standing. Fear begins to well up in the pit of your stomach.

You need his help.

But when your eyes land on the spot where your lover had once been, you find that he is all but gone.

Emptiness is all that remains as you’re escorted down to the depths of Meropide.

“Wriothesley,” you greet the man in front of you politely as you step into his office.

It’s only six in the morning, but you were unceremoniously dragged out of your bed earlier when you were informed that Wriothesley had sent for you. A few years ago, you would have complained about how rude it is to rouse someone from slumber without warning. However, after spending thousands of days in prison, you’ve grown to understand that societal norms have no place within the lifeless metallic walls of Meropide.

Everything runs on incentive alone. Coupons are all that matter within the underground prison, and as such, most inmates spare less than a thought towards moral obligations and frivolous sentiments. It’s a home for some of Fontaine’s most infamous criminals, for crying out loud! Only a fool would expect pleasantries to have any place in this bleak world.

Your train of thought is interrupted as Wriothesley gestures towards a chair in front of his desk.

“Take a seat, [name],” he says, his voice gruff yet comforting.

He’s been your only companion throughout your time in prison, as the other inmates have been a little too uncouth for your taste. Although Wriothesley tries to pretend he simply wants to be your friend, you know he has ulterior motives. You know the reason why he’s always checking up on you so often — why he’s been suspiciously interested in your day-to-day life.

Someone you’d rather not think about put him up to this.

Someone you used to love.

(You still remember the crystal raindrops that kissed your skin mere moments before you were taken underground. You wouldn’t put it past him to watch you from afar.)

“Is something up, Wriothesley?” you inquire.

The more he talks the better, you decide. Right now, anything is better than silence because silence is a harbinger of spiraling thoughts and unpleasant recollections. At the moment, you want nothing more than to drown the mantras gnawing at the edge of your conscience in a sea of cascading words.

“Brace yourself,” Wriothesley warns, “This is gonna be a tough one to stomach.”

You nod hesitantly. Wriothesley usually keeps your conversations lighthearted and casual, so you’re absolutely certain that he’s serious this time. His foreboding preface sends a slight shiver down your spine, but you steel your nerves and meet his gaze. Irises beaming with fading moonlight scan your eyes for any traces of hesitation, scrutinizing every sentiment that graces the windows to your soul.

“I’m ready,” you reassure him.

Although Wriothesley raises an eyebrow when he hears the tremble that unsteadily articulates your growing anxiety, he continues on. One thing about Wriothesley you’ve grown to appreciate is the fact that he never pries into your affairs (at least not openly).

“Alright,” he sighs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tension becomes tangible as momentary silence fills the atmosphere; it’s almost deceptively peaceful. Every transient second feels more akin to an eon spent in stagnation as suspense gnaws at your conscience. As much as you hope for the hush to dissipate with every fibre of your being, you also dread the moment your false utopia will shatter.

“Is it really that bad?” you make the mistake of asking Wriothesley.

The grimace that adorns his weary features tells you all you need to know. Before your mind can run through all the possibilities in a frenzied delirium of panicked theories, Wriothesley finally speaks up.

“It’s about him,” he clarifies.

You immediately know who he’s talking about.

It’s funny. A few years ago, you used to speak his name in a hushed tone, filled with admiration and brimming with ardor. Every whisper used to feel adoring, almost reverent, and as such, you had mistakenly believed your love was akin to an all-enduring everblaze, a crimson flame of passion that would burn bright and persevere through all.

The irony is nearly laughable. Dying embers and hollow sentiments are all that remain now. His name has become a taboo, a word that feels all-too-foreign as you attempt to fill in the silence.

“Neuvillette,” you whisper shakily.

An unpleasant ringing seems to manifest in your ears as all the memories you’ve been trying to repress ebb and flow in a wave of aquamarine recollections. You’re aware he’s always been an overwhelming presence, yet it becomes all the more obvious as thoughts of him invade and overload your mind.

Wriothesley confirms your suspicions in the form of a solemn nod. To your surprise, his steely grey eyes soften for what feels like the first time since you’ve met him, a gentle warmth stirring beneath layers of permafrost.

Great, so your situation is so abysmal that even Wriothesley is starting to feel sympathetic.

“What does he want?” you manage to breathe out.

A part of you doesn’t want to face your ex-lover ever again in this lifetime. And yet despite it all, your heart screams for closure, resolving to remain unrelenting in its desires until every loose thread of your tragedy has been tied up neatly. You don’t know what to hope for at this point.

“You remember the poisoning case from a few years ago?” Wriothesley questions you.

It takes all your willpower to resist the urge to scoff.

“Who would forget the murder that changed their life forever?” Your voice comes out wry, bitterness intricately working its way into each inflection. Despite your attempts to exercise restraint, you find that your emotions are beginning to overtake rationality.

“Alright,” Wriothesley says hesitantly, “then I guess there’s no better time to break the news.” The suffering in his drawn-out sigh is palpable. “Suspicious new evidence related to the case has emerged recently. The Marechaussee Phantom is beginning to suspect that there’s more to it than what they initially found,” Wriothesley starts. Before he can continue, you interrupt him.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Right.” With an exasperated click of his tongue, Wriothesley moves on. “That’s where you come in. Since you’re so closely-linked with the events that occurred that day, the Iudex has specifically requested your help in the investigation. I take it the possibility of freedom is incentive enough?”

You huff. “Seriously? He has the audacity to ask for my help after all this time without so much as a word? Not even freedom could convince me to work with that absolute — !”

The stern look that manifests within Wriothesley’s sterling irises is enough to prompt you to pause. Although he doesn’t vocalize his concerns, the diamond-esque glimmers of worry that manifest in his eyes speak volumes. Don’t say something you might regret.

So instead of continuing on, you allow yourself a single sigh — an attempt to alleviate all your frustration in a single exhale.

“What I meant was, I’m not sure I could work with the Iudex in any official capacity,” you say, gritting your teeth lest any unsavory words find a way to slip out of your mouth, “given our… complicated history.”

Wriothesley shakes his head, a subtle showing of his displeasure at being caught up in a lover’s quarrel. You can’t really blame him. Any bystander would feel beyond vexed if they were tasked with piecing together the fading ruby fragments of a once-blissful relationship.

“I thought you might say that,” he responds, raising a hand to massage his temples. At the moment, the bags under his eyes appear more prominent than ever, and you begin to wonder how much grief your personal issues with Neuvillette will cause poor Wriothesley. “That’s why you have a week to decide.”

You narrow your eyes to meet a gaze woven from the essence of dimming moonbeams. Wriothesley stares you back, unflinching in his poise.

“Good luck getting me to change my mind,” you scoff. “I’m not facing him ever again.”

A pause.

Silence threatens to consume all under its weight, and you’re left wondering how nothingness can feel so heavy. Wriothesley’s nonchalance seems to disperse, vanishing in the midst of the tense ambience. Now you’re absolutely sure you’re in for a heartfelt conversation — an anomaly amongst the casual paradigm the two of you have been defining over the past few years.

“I’m not great with all this sentimental stuff,” Wriothesley starts, “I mean, I’m hardly experienced with romantic relationships myself despite my age.” He chuckles, and suddenly you feel as though the mood has lightened ever-so-slightly. “But trust me when I say Monsieur Neuvillette still cares deeply about you.”

Does he? Why would anyone stand by helplessly while the person they supposedly love more than life itself is taken from them forever?

Despite the protests that practically fly to the tip of your tongue, you continue listening attentively. Although you keep telling yourself you no longer care about your former lover, perhaps there’s still a small spark of incandescent hope lying somewhere within your heart — an ember of love awaiting a day where it will burst into brilliant flame once more.

“Think about it,” Wriothesley hums, his casual tone slipping effortlessly back into place as if he never broke character. “It’s been years since your case has been closed, and all the loose ends were supposedly tied up when you were sentenced, which means…” He trails off, waiting for you to piece together fragmented bits of logic within the recesses of your mind.

The muddled pieces of knowledge confound you, yet as you consider the implications of Wriothesley’s statement more carefully, a flicker of ingenuity comes to life in a sporadic burst of aureate sparks.

“Which means he never stopped investigating,” you conclude. “He believed it wasn’t me all along.”

The realization dawns on you in shades of phantasmagoric navy. It’s chilling, akin to the unwelcome touch of icy waters. Likewise, it overwhelms you. Its implications are far too profound to be ignored or pushed aside, and you begin to understand that you won’t be able to run away from the man you once loved for eternity.

“And?” Wriothesley adds.

“And he’s been trying to prove my innocence,” you breathe out, feeling disconnected from the moment.

Everything feels surreal, and the last few seconds feel no less oneiric than the ludicrous dreams you’re pulled into every night. It’s as if your world is twisting and turning upside down. You’ve spent all this time trying to incinerate every ounce of affection held within your heart for Neuvillette, bitterly blocking every memory of him from your mind all while he’s been tirelessly working to reunite with you.

Guilt pierces your entire being, enveloping you in a venomous sort of discomfort. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize how unfairly you’ve been treating the man you were once hopelessly-devoted to. Even back then in your emotional state, you should have known he would never betray you, much less in such a profound manner. Yet a part of you is still bitter that it took him this long to do anything. You can’t find it in your heart to forgive him entirely.

Remorse is a complex sentiment. While it pushes individuals to grow and defy past ordainments, it also drives them to make decisions that become ironically more regrettable later on. You feel as though your situation will fit in the latter category as a desire to reconvene with your past lover blazes to life. You’re still beyond enraged when you think about him, but a small flourish of love still remains in your heart. There’s so much you want to know, so without a further thought, you relay your hasty choice to Wriothesley before you can stop yourself.

“Fine, take me up to the surface. I need to speak to Neuvillette.”

The moment you resurface for the first time in years, an epiphany overcomes your senses. You realize how much you missed all the sights and sounds of the outside world — how much you had taken everything for granted back when you were still free.

Every caress of an aquatic zephyr feels like a gentle luxury, and the sensation of golden sunbeams enveloping you in threads of luminous comfort is something entirely otherworldly. You savour the ephemeral peace and serenity that surrounds you, losing yourself in the salty spray of azure waves and the vast beauty of the divine skies above.

As someone who’s allowed above ground routinely for official business, Wriothesley either doesn’t notice your wonder as he escorts you to your destination, or he chooses not to comment on it. Perhaps the beauty of the overworld has become nothing more than a mundanity to him.

The Palais Mermonia is every bit as grand as you remember. It towers over Fontaine, as if watching over the city and all its affairs. The smooth stone walls and opulent detailings adorning the building serve as a welcome reminder of how magnificent Fontaine’s architecture can be — a nice change of pace after spending countless days locked away within the monochromatic metal walls of the Fortress of Meropide.

As Wriothesley leads you through the intricate doors of the Palais Mermonia, you feel a sense of anticipation swell within your heart. Polychromatic butterflies desperately flutter their wings in the pit of your stomach, manifesting in a swarm of discombobulating chaos. With every step you take towards Neuvillette’s office, you feel your feet grow heavier. By the time you’re standing before the entrance, you feel as if you’re practically glued to the ground. The only things that keep you going are Wriothesley’s watchful stare and careful guidance.

The dark-haired man beside you pushes the door open and motions for you to enter first. As much as you’d rather hide behind Wriothesley, you decide to swallow your nerves and step into the office before him.

Unfortunately for you, the first sight that greets you upon entering the office is the face of a man you’ve been trying to avoid for years now, whether in the waking world or slumber. Against your own will, you note that he appears just as breathtaking as the day you lost him. Every detail of his suit is as pristine as ever, not a single wrinkle in sight, no matter how hard you scrutinize. His hair looks as soft and voluminous as usual, each strand of cerulean a sharp contrast to silken starlight. Simply put it, nothing has changed, and as you look into his eyes, you realize just how accurate your inference is.

Molten tanzanite fills eyes akin to galaxies occupied by subtle glimmers of emotion. Even now, you find that you can read him perfectly. Although he appears serious on the surface, a single examination of Neuvillette’s gaze is all it takes for you to spot the luminous adoration that gleams beneath layers of carefully-crafted defenses.

Damn it. Don’t look at me like that.

It’s a look you’d recognize anywhere — a look you had once loved with all your heart, yet now it feels detestable more than anything. The ironic juxtaposition between your feelings in past and present nearly makes you laugh. It’s a bleak reminder of how greatly circumstances have shifted — how everything is wrong now.

Not a word is spoken as you sit down in a chair across from Neuvillette. Although you had assumed Wriothesley would join you, he stands off to the side before you can even protest. Any attempt to call him back over would definitely make it obvious that you didn’t want to have what was essentially a one-on-one conversation with your ex.

“[Name],” Neuvillette greets you formally, his tone steady and practiced. It feels unnatural after all you’ve been through; in the past, endearment would lace his tone each time he spoke to you, conveying the true depth of his feelings with a single whisper. This stiff rendition of the fantasia that used to be your name falling from his lips is nothing like the soft melody you’d become accustomed to so long ago.

“Neuvillette,” you shoot back, trying your best to keep your voice from reverting to its affectionate default. Although you’re unsure about acting cold towards the man, you’re certain neither of you would be fine with immediately going back to the way you were before the entire disaster unfolded in a matter of mere seconds.

(And besides that, you’re still somewhat angry it took him literal years to find a way to get you out of Meropide.)

“I hope you’ve been well,” Neuvillette says, his tone softening ever-so-subtly. Vulnerability works its way into a slight waver of his voice, a nearly-unnoticeable detail that any average person would miss. However, you are not an average person. You’ve acquainted yourself with every intricacy of Neuevillette’s personality over the years, and even now, every detail is preserved perfectly within the archives of your memory.

“I was as well as I could be in prison, I guess,” you mumble.

Even you’re not quite sure if your passing comment is an attempt at humour or a jab at your previous lover. Fortunately for you, Neuvillette doesn’t attempt to laugh. Instead, he simply nods.

“I see…” he trails off, staring at you intently. Eyes filled with hues of softened lilac and faint periwinkle blue bear into your soul, inspecting you with a gaze woven from twilight. Stardust suspicion seems to glint in Neuvillette’s irises, but he doesn’t pry. “What have you be—”

“Enough small talk. Can we get to the point?” you force out. You’re still not quite sure how you feel about the fact that Neuvillette still cares about you, so you push aside your emotions for the moment to focus on the main issue. As much as you want to ask what your relationship has become, everything feels far too overwhelming now that he’s in front of you again for the first time in years. “What exactly do you want me to do for you?”

Neuvillette pauses for a second, mulling over his next words. He doesn’t try to push the previous topic. Instead, he complies with your request.

“Work alongside me,” he says. “I’m aware that you may not find this to be the ideal arrangement, but ever since your sentencing, your reputation has become…” Neuvillette can’t bring himself to finish his sentence, so you interject.

“Awful? Dismal? Lower than low?” you chuckle bitterly. “I know. I didn’t expect any more when I agreed to come back up to the surface.”

For a second, pity sparkles in Neuvillette’s eyes, a look reminiscent of fragments of sunlight reflecting off sapphire ocean waves. You promptly decide that you hate it.

“Yes. Although I would not put it in such — brazen terms. If you would like an opportunity to clear your name, I would suggest putting serious consideration towards aiding in the second round of investigation. Please do let me know your verdict as soon as possible.”

“Why are you asking me as if I have a choice? It’s either help you or return to prison. Obviously one option is better than the other,” you sigh as a shiver runs down your spine. You know you’ll be in for an awkward few weeks. Spending every second by Neuvillette’s side is a harrowing nightmare come to life, but there’s no better way out of your dilemma. “I’ll join your stupid investigation.”

“Very well then,” Neuvillette responds. “I will show you to your accommodations in due time. Guards will be stationed outside your door around the clock in everyone’s best interest.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Even with contradictory evidence, you’re still going to be treated like a criminal until you’re proven definitively innocent.

“Please note that you will begin assisting me tomorrow.”

With that, Neuvillette turns to Wriothesley, acknowledging him for the first time since the two of you entered the room. “Mr. Wriothesley, thank you for escorting [name] to my office. You may now take your leave.”

A part of you wants to beg Wriothelsey not to leave you alone with Neuvillette, but for once, you decide that you have to start being brave. So with bated breath and a heavy heart, you watch as your sole companion in recent times turns away, heading back to an unreachable world below the surface.

You’re on your own now in a place that has become entirely foreign to you.

The silken covers of the bed you’re provided are surprisingly comfortable. Wrapping each seafoam-coloured blanket around your body feels like being enveloped in a cloud, and sinking into a soft mattress is a luxury you have long forgotten after becoming accustomed to your dorm in the Fortress of Meropide. Needless to say, you find your slumber shockingly restful despite all the turbulent feelings arising within the pit of your stomach, threatening to overtake your rationality and fill you with a cold, chilling panic.

No, the panic only sets in when you’re escorted back to Neuvillette’s office the next morning by the two guards sent to oversee your activities. It’s akin to being plunged into the depths of freezing lapis waters, losing your grip beneath waves forged from midnight essence. A whole day alone together with Neuvillette is going to be a challenge, and unfortunately, your nerves get the better of you.

You hear his voice as cool perspiration forms on the back of your neck, slight shivers running down your spine.

“Good morning,” Neuvillette greets you, as composed and regal as ever.

You envy his ability to behave as though he’s tranquility personified, even in such an awkward situation. His composure is a virtue.

“You let me sleep in,” you note. The sunbeams that filter through Neuvillette’s window in a flurry of faded daffodil shades look nothing like the gilded threads of light that grace Fontaine at sunrise. Besides that, you can already hear a fair amount of chatter outside the office, and you even recall spotting a few passer-bys scurrying about as you were accompanied to the Palais Mermonia.

“Indeed I did,” Neuvillette confirms your suspicions.

You glare at him. “I thought you wanted me up bright and early to help you investigate.”

The man before you sighs. “Based on your behaviour yesterday, I inferred that the past few days have been rather taxing on you emotionally. I wanted to give you ample time to recuperate to ensure that you would be able to think optimally today.”

Neuvillette’s eyes soften, a rare sort of gentleness manifesting in dulled lavender, a hue pulled straight from an evening afterglow.

You recall a passing thought from a time you had watched nightfall overtake the heavens with Neuvillette a few years back. At the time, he had looked at you with the same soft gaze, examining you with an expression that conveyed unspoken understanding and affection. You remember noting the way his irises seemed to reflect the muted iridescent shades above. Back then, everything had been so tranquil, euphoric. A part of you can’t help but desperately wish to go back in time.

“Thank you,” you relent, finally acknowledging Neuvillette’s kindness.

Neuvillette shakes his head. “There is no need to thank me,” he states. “This is beneficial to both of us. After all, I don’t expect you to work effectively with a tired mind.”

Without another word, Neuvillette pulls out a pile of official documents, their worn ivory pages a stark contrast to a second untainted milky white stack he sets on his desk.

“As you may be able to tell, these are the case files from the initial investigation,” Neuvillette points to the first collection of papers, “and these are documents containing new developments.” He points at the pristine new records.

“Can you summarize what exactly made you revisit the case?” you ask Neuvillette. Personally, you don’t feel like spending a full day poring over documents instead of investigating. That’s just inefficiency at its finest. Why do that when you have someone who seems to revel in records to explain everything to you?

Neuvillette allows a light chuckle to slip past his lips, the sound a nostalgic fantasia as it reaches your ears. “I see that you haven’t stopped finding the easiest way to complete your tasks,” he jests, “but very well. This will save us a considerable amount of time.”

You sit with bated breath, suspense filling the atmosphere as you patiently wait to learn the exact evidence that may have altered your fate entirely.

“Firstly, to reiterate, the murder was a poisoning,” Neuvillette starts. “A member of the Marechaussee Phantom was found dead at a banquet with a drink in hand. Its contents were found to be normal for the most part, but when investigated more thoroughly, trace amounts of a toxic substance were found.”

You nod with fervour, every intricate puzzle piece of the case that had dictated your destiny all those years ago still fresh in your mind.

“You were the one who poured the drink.” Perhaps your mind is playing tricks on you because for the first time in your life, you hear Neuvillette’s voice tremble slightly, like a resplendent leaf as it drifts on an autumnal breeze. “There was no way to prove your innocence at the time, and no matter how hard we tried to trace the origins of the poison, all we could discern was that it was fast-acting, which thankfully meant that there were no other casualties. Unfortunately, we were unable to find any compelling leads…” Neuvillette pauses, “until now.”

“Recently, a worker from a drink factory has approached us with reports of suspicious activities within the facility. Although most employees are kept in the front of the building to manage the machines and ensure that the quality of each bottle sufficiently meets company standards, there are a select few allowed in the back to oversee the entire operation.”

“What does this have to do with the case?” you interject. You can feel your interest waning as Neuvillette’s words become tangent-adjacent.

“Not everything is as it seems,” he assures you. “Around a week ago, the worker ventured into the back, desperately searching for one of their superiors. The higher-up in question had assigned them a task, and afterwards, they proceeded to disappear for weeks on end. When looking for their manager, the worker discovered the truth of the facility.”

Your breath hitches in anticipation.

“Put simply, the entire drink production operation is a deception. The company’s real purpose is to produce a rare variety of poison. Fortunately, we managed to procure a sample of it, and when tested, it was found to be identical to the very substance used to assassinate the victim of your case.”

Although you want to correct Neuvillette, you hold your tongue. There’s no point in getting off-track.

“So you want me to help you find out who put the poison in the bottle?” you ask.

Neuvillette nods. “We could have simply paid a visit to the Fortress of Meropide and interrogated you from there, but I thought you would appreciate a little freedom and control over your own destiny. Besides that, I know you’re competent, and the rest of the investigation could greatly benefit from your assistance.”

“Is that really all there is to it? I’m sure lots of people out here were against the idea of letting me roam free for fear of their own safety, so it must have been quite a challenge to get me out in the first place,” you scoff. “If my comfort was the only factor in play, then you would have simply taken the easy way out and questioned me in prison to appease everyone.”

For a moment, Neuvillette hesitates. Transitory silence fills the air before being fragmented into crystalline shards of dissonant revelation that cause goosebumps to grace the surface of your skin.

“Your intuition is as sharp as ever,” he sighs. Suddenly, he looks all too exhausted, and you begin to realize how hard he fought to earn you your temporary freedom. “All the citizens of Fontaine believe that the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale is perfect, flawless in its very nature. However, after your sentencing, doubt started to circulate, and I found myself among those who questioned the outcome of the case. It felt as though the full truth had not been revealed to us yet, and your punishment was ordained solely by a hasty collection of shaky facts gathered through a rushed investigation. It was entirely… unjust… the opposite of what Fontaine stands for.”

“There it is. You’re doing this all in the name of what’s right, as usual.”

You’re not sure what you were expecting Neuvillette to say. Perhaps you wanted him to tell you that he would never lose faith in you, his once dearly-beloved. Or maybe you were wishing with every fibre of your being that he would simply say he still cared and wanted you back.

But no, he’s Neuvillette.

Above all, he is fair.

He is justice.

The gazes of everyone in the interrogation room seem to burn with the light of a thousand stars, their pressuring radiance serving as an instrument of truth — a way to seek sincere answers to any questions that are posed. You shrink under their phosphorescence, feeling insignificant as the demands of all the officials in the room coalesce.

Before you stands Neuvillette, a few guards, and a couple members of the Marechaussee Phantom. You recognize the latter two as personal friends of the victim — people with personal stakes in the case.

“Do you remember who gave you the bottle?” a melusine inquires.

You force yourself to take a deep breath in, oxygen feeling like the sweetest ambrosia as you try to calm yourself. It’s funny. The small creature is at most half your size, potentially even less, yet you’re the one who feels intimidation well up in the pit of your stomach like the ebb and flow of an evening tide.

“A man named Gabriel, I think? He handed me the bottle while I was walking around and asked me to pass it around for him because he was busy running other supplies around the party.”

“That seems to line up with the records from the trial,” Neuvillette muses, flipping through his documents, “but when we investigated, we found no trace of such an individual, which leads us to believe that they utilized an alias and a disguise to conceal their true identity.”

You have enough restraint to hold back a groan. Here we go again with all the complexities.

“The bottle was screwed shut and completely full before you poured the victim a glass of juice, correct?” The melusine continues their questioning, meeting your eyes with a gaze composed of molten tourmaline.

“Yes,” you confirm. “Doesn’t that just make me look more guilty though? Clearly the poison couldn’t have been in the drink because the bottle hadn’t been unsealed yet, so the court deemed that the only logical conclusion was that I slipped something into the victim’s drink in the split second where nobody was looking.”

The melusine sighs. “With the emerging evidence, we’ve come up with a new theory. If the person responsible for the murder truly wasn’t you, then perhaps the actual perpetrator had a different means of mixing the toxic substance with the beverage. Keep in mind, the poison manufacturer is also a drink manufacturer.”

You pause for a moment, a frown etching itself into your features. You’re starting to see where this is going, but you don’t quite understand the big picture yet. “Elaborate, please.”

Neuvillette takes over. “If our new running theory is correct, then this is how the timeline of events occurred. The suspect was likely an authority figure at the aforementioned drink company, or at the very least, they were relatively close with someone who had power there. In order to throw off the investigation, they managed to spike the beverage before it was sealed in the factory. By doing this, they falsely led us to believe that the poison was poured into the cup instead of into the bottle, thereby alleviating the manufacturer of any suspicion.”

Oh. Suddenly everything is beginning to make a lot more sense. As each string of evidence begins to fall into place, a tapestry of truth is woven. At long last, an alternate story is starting to replace the false narrative that had been in circulation at the time of the case’s unraveling.

“It worked,” you breathe out. “Nobody even bothered to check the contents of the bottle because they were so focused on who was close enough to sneak something into the victim’s cup in the brief moment between the pouring of the drink and the first sip.”

“And for that I must apologize,” Neuvillette sighs, a thousand unspoken regrets lacing his tone. “Our investigation was not thorough enough, and this time, I do not intend to allow any more injustices to befall you.”

As you peer into Neuvillette’s eyes, you catch sight of sincerity manifesting in their depths, each glint of violaceous luminosity conveying a silent promise to protect you. At that moment, you’re sure that Neuvillette believes you were nothing more than an innocent bystander entangled in a web of schemes. Even if the rest of the world is still against you, at least you have him.

“Thank you. I’ll try my best to help you as much as I can.” You finally relent and decide that perhaps it’s time to adopt a policy of compliance; now that you’re sure your intentions all align, you feel ready to work with Neuvillette without reservations.

“Permission to share what we found out about the bottle?” the melusine from before interrupts your moment with Neuvillette, your transient flash of bliss disappearing within a blink. You can’t blame them, as your main priority right now is getting to the bottom of things.

Neuvillette nods, wordlessly indicating his approval.

“As you may know, we took in all items related to the investigation that day. The bottle of beverage was among them. We recently tested the liquid inside, and as expected, there were traces of poison mixed with the drink. It’s worth noting that the drink itself is the same one produced by the suspicious facility we received a report about recently.”

“So I’ve almost been proven entirely innocent?” You can’t resist the urge to ask, the idea of being pardoned after being assumed guilty for so long a saccharine respite.

“Yes, as long as we can apprehend the real criminals and get them to confess to their crimes, you’ll be free,” the melusine confirms. “Fortunately, the worker and the contents of the bottle have led us to the perfect place to start our second inspection — the factory.”

Not even a day later, you rise bright and early to look into the manufacturer with Neuvillette. As the suspect framed in a murder linked to the factory’s poison, your reappearance above ground is bound to set off some red flags in the minds of those who helped orchestrate the entire ordeal. Consequently, you don an uncomfortable disguise while Neuvillette simply plans on masquerading around the place as himself.

It’s ironic. Neuvillette, the renowned Iudex of Fontaine, can roam without fear of interference as his genuine self. Meanwhile, you, a mere nobody, are forced to adorn yourself with layers of obscurities, masking every aspect of your identity.

The contrast between your situations is almost amusing, but you can’t bring yourself to laugh. Even as silken strands of opulent golden sunlight grace your skin, sending a rush of warmth through your body, you can’t help but tremble. The stakes are high, and the possibility of being discovered is distressing to an extreme.

“Shall I go over the narrative one last time?” Neuvillette asks you as your destination seems to grow larger and larger. The grey stone that the building is forged of is reminiscent of the colour of storm clouds — ominous and foreboding.

“Wouldn’t hurt to,” you mumble, willing yourself to stop shivering immediately. You’ll draw even more attention to yourself if you continue to shake like ultramarine ripples on the surface of a turbulent lake.

“Fontaine’s food and drink products have been suffering a decline in quality lately,” Neuvillette states, “and we are here today to perform a health inspection. Although the Iudex is typically not involved with investigating such trivial matters, the issue has become profound. The lives of several Fontainians have already been jeopardized, so in an attempt to prevent any further tragedies, I have decided to personally step in alongside my assistant.”

You hum absentmindedly, still distracted by your nerves. It feels as though permafrost has infused itself with your soul, as you continue to quiver despite all your attempt to ground yourself. “Compelling,” you manage to force out.

You’re drawn back to reality by Neuvillette’s next actions. To your horror, his familiarity with your emotions due to your shared history is your detriment. Before you can process what’s happening, he takes your hand in his. His gentle grip is soothing, and it serves as a much-needed reminder that you’re in this together.

“No matter what happens, I will be by your side,” he reassures you.

For a second, it feels like you’re back in the past. Everything is fine between you and Neuvillette, and you can still trust him unconditionally. Although your relationship has deteriorated now, you find that his presence still brings you a sense of comfort.

Perhaps some sentiments are simply meant to endure forevermore.

There’s nothing remarkable about the inside of the factory at first glance. As expected, typical assembly lines are present within the vicinity to ensure that every bottle is assembled and packaged in an efficient manner. On the surface, nothing seems out-of-the-ordinary.

Your tour guide is friendly and welcoming, not intimidated in the slightest by Neuvillette’s regal presence. Although his appearance garners a few curious glances from the employees you pass by, no one is outright alarmed.

“So as you can see, our humble facility does indeed live up to all the health and safety regulations mandated by Fontainian law,” your guide concludes as your mundane tour draws to a close.

In all honesty, you’ve learned nothing even remotely useful. However, you refuse to leave empty-handed. As such, you decide to make an impulsive decision — a choice that will perhaps cast suspicion upon you, but if everything goes well, you could obtain crucial evidence pertaining to the case.

“We haven’t seen the back of the factory yet,” you muse. “Is there something you’re trying to hide from us? Mold, perhaps?” you pause for dramatic effect, trying your best to play it up. All you can do is desperately pray that your acting skills are enough to convince the tour guide you’re being genuine. “Or maybe an insect infestation.”

A laugh slips past the tour guide’s lips, piercing the awkward atmosphere with a timbre and articulation far too forced to indicate any sort of amusement. No, the guide is nervous, which means something is definitely off. You just need to gather concrete evidence of the misdemeanours being conducted behind the scenes of a grand diversion — something that means more than a simple vial of poison hailing from an unknown origin brought to you by a worker.

“Oh, my superiors typically prefer privacy,” the guide continues to chuckle, a slight hint of anxiety permeating his tone. “There are lots of important meetings held in the back, and they’re not the most fond of disturbances.”

One scrutinizing glance from Neuvillette is all it takes to send the guard reeling. Eyes swimming with delicate lilac narrow, any hint of gentleness fading like the brilliance of wilting petals.

“But I’m sure they can make an exception for our most honoured guests.” Swiftly, the guide makes his way over to the door leading to the back, pulling it open and gesturing for both you and Neuvillette to pass through.

Yet again, you find that you’re met with a sight that’s mediocre at finest. There’s nothing extremely telling about the meeting rooms you’re led through. However, as you wander through the winding corridors and desolate hallways of the surprisingly large area, you spot it — a sizable wardrobe sitting within what feels like the hundredth meeting room you’ve passed through.

Like everything else in this strange place, there’s nothing off about the furnishing upon initial inspection, but after a few moments of careful consideration, you note that it’s far too sumptuous to be in a place like this. It’s horribly out-of-place, a polished oak eyesore amongst the cool-toned decorations within the room.

As you share a look with Neuvillette, you can see that he’s having similar thoughts. At some point in time, someone moved the wardrobe into the room, likely to conceal something. Taking a closer look is essential, but first you need to find a way to distract the guide.

“Excuse me,” you interrupt the guide’s tangent. “Is there a bathroom anywhere nearby?”

Within a matter of minutes, both you and Neuvillette are escorted over to the nearest bathroom. You enter the room and lock the door. Although you haven’t had an opportunity to discuss a plan with Neuvillette due to the prying ears stationed right next to the two of you, you know what he’ll do next. You’re sure he understands you well enough to know that what you need at the moment is a diversion.

Sure enough, your silent pleas are answered as Neuvillette walks a few steps away from the bathroom door, his footsteps thrumming against the frigid ground as a percussive background to the eerie soundtrack that seems to flood the entire factory.

“Is that an insect?” he inquires.

You hear a rush of frenzied steps, ones that you can distinctly differentiate from Neuvillette’s. That must be the guide.

“Where?” the guide’s voice rings out.

You hear the soft rustle of clothing as the guide supposedly leans over in order to take a closer look. Then, a loud bang shatters the quietude into jagged shards of chaos. You take it as your sign to open the bathroom door and sneak off quietly.

“Ah, forgive me. I was mistaken,” you hear Neuvillette’s voice fade into the distance.

The labyrinth of passages is difficult to navigate, but thankfully your memory is sufficient enough to guide you back along the route from whence you came. In a matter of minutes, you’re back at the wardrobe, scrambling to unveil every enigmatic secret hiding behind its prosaically plain exterior.

Common sense tells you to simply open it first, and sure enough, you find that the back of the furnishing has been hollowed out in order to form a passageway leading to an unknown location. Although you’re nervous, moving forwards is the only way you’re going to make any progress.

You force yourself to confront the mysterious tunnel, heading into its depths in order to collect the next piece of information you need to fully unravel the identity of the true killer.

This is for justice, you tell yourself. Begrudgingly, you also find thoughts of it’s what Neuvillette would do invading your mind.

When you finally step into a mundane office space, you feel as though you can breathe again. The daze slowly begins to subside, and in its wake, you find rationality once more.

Time is of the essence, so you decide to head over to the singular desk stationed in the room. On its surface is a collection of scattered papers, some frayed and others in mint condition. Immediately, you make a dash for the yellowed pages, scanning each one quickly before setting it down.

The documents seem to detail transactions between the company and those buying from their hidden business in the back. Each one is stamped with a date and a signature from the buyer stating that they will not (under any circumstance) reveal where the product they purchased came from. Perfect — all you have to do is find a file that seems to align with the relative time period where your crime took place.

Fortunately for you, the once-daunting plethora of papers is actually a far more meager pile than you had initially thought. Perhaps not many people know about the nefarious schemes that lie behind the factory’s fabricated façade, or maybe humans are simply sensible enough to avoid purchasing poison.

You search urgently, constantly looking over your shoulder and hoping, praying, to any archon listening to keep your deeds obscured and unwritten. However, through it all, you’re hindered by the fact that you have to actively try not to move things around too much. If someone returns to see that objects have shifted on their own, they’ll surely be on high alert.

After what feels like eons of blindly flipping through anything you could get your hands on, your eyes settle on a splotch of achromatic ink bleeding into canary. It’s a familiar date — around a week before your entire life fell apart. You grab the paper, and with one last scan of the other files, you’re nearly certain that it details the transaction of the very poison that broke down fate’s last defences, landing you in a prison you were never supposed to step foot in.

With haste, you stuff the document into your pocket and set off back to Neuvillette.

“We used to frequent that restaurant often,” Neuvillette muses as you wander the streets together.

Your tour had concluded around half an hour ago, and now you’re on your way back to the Palais Mermonia. Although you assured Neuvillette that you had obtained some useful evidence earlier through words whispered in the secrecy of a hushed voice, you know that you can’t discuss anything openly for fear of nosey bystanders — or worse, the criminals themselves — hearing.

You had taken a long time to find what you needed, so consequently it had been difficult to throw off any lingering doubt harboured by your guide. However, thanks to Neuvillette’s quick thinking, you were able to come up with an alibi.

The whole “bathroom” ruse had simply been a test — a plan to conduct your thorough inspection of the facility in an area typically skipped over, even on the most comprehensive tours. You had chimed in and said that the company passed with flying colours, and at that the guide simply beamed and continued leading you through meeting rooms.

Your reminiscence is interrupted as Neuvillette speaks again.

“Perhaps we should take a detour and visit,” he offers. “You must be famished after a day of hard work.”

You freeze, and your body tenses against your will. Isn’t it more important at the moment that you safely transport your evidence back to Neuvillette’s office? You tilt your head at Neuvillette curiously, as if to pose a question. Why are we wasting time?

“Trust me,” he leans in to whisper. You can feel his breath tickling your ear, yet you don’t flinch. It’s a feeling you had grown accustomed to years ago, and even now, having him close to you feels detestably right. “It will seem more like a casual outing if we make a leisurely stop along the way back. If we’re seen rushing back to the Palais Mermonia with a sense of urgency in our stride, then those around us will surely conclude that something is wrong.”

Neuvillette’s reasoning is sound, so despite your aching feet and your desire to simply get away from the cacophony of symphonic noise surrounding you, you allow him to pull you towards the restaurant. As you walk in, you find that all your senses are enveloped by the familiarity of deja vu. The pleasant lighting and floral arrangements begin to pop up in your memory, and the ornate furnishings that adorn the place are the same as ever.

A part of you finds that you missed this. You missed your simple traditions with Neuvillette.

The two of you are seated the moment you step foot in the restaurant. You can’t seem to recall if the staff had ever been this efficient before, but something tells you this is a special circumstance.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” a waiter greets the Iudex as you both take your seats. You find that you recognize him. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here with company, much less someone other than [name].”

Right. No one recognizes you because you’re still clad in your stupid disguise.

“Ah, good evening, Pierre,” Neuvillette responds. “My companion here is a newly-hired assistant. They have been working tirelessly all day, so I decided to treat them to a meal. Although they are not [name], I hope you will be able to treat them with the same hospitality.”

A frenzy of nods follows Neuvillette’s words.

“What can I get for you today?” Pierre frantically asks you. As usual, people are eager to please Neuvillette, his position of power ever-pertinent within the recesses of their minds.

You scan the menu, and a rush of nostalgia overwhelms you for what feels like the millionth time in the past few days. There are a variety of dishes listed in neat loopy handwriting, each cursive word causing recollections to ebb and flow within your memory. However, your eyes settle on one menu item in particular — a former personal favourite of yours. Feeling satisfied, you decide to place your order. As you speak, you notice shock dance across the waiter’s visage.

“Is something wrong?” you question Pierre, scrutinizing his dumbfounded expression. If you could, you would dissect the meaning behind every line etched into his features — examine the anatomy of his curious stare.

Pierre shakes his head with fervour. “Nothing’s wrong, per se…” He trails off, the aquamarine lakes that comprise his irises fogging up with a shine unique to someone who’s reminiscing. “It’s just… that dish is one of our least popular, but [name] used to order it all the time. Nowadays, the only person who really consumes it regularly is Monsieur Neuvillette himself.”

Tension begins to materialize within the previously-lighthearted air of the restaurant. Suddenly, the atmosphere feels heavy as the implications of Pierre’s statement sink in. Once upon a time, you had offered Neuvillette a bite of your food when dining here, and although he didn’t mean to insult it, he did say that he understood why it was unpopular. In other words, he indirectly insinuated that he didn’t like the taste of the dish.

Perhaps you’re overly-optimistic, but a part of you begins to speculate that Neuvillette only willingly ordered the menu item regularly because of the memories associated with it. It’s a shockingly sweet revelation. Despite your distance over the years, he’s still tried his best to keep you in his heart.

Bittersweet affection gnaws at your heart, chipping off pieces of garnet in a cataclysmic heartbreak. As if you don’t already feel bad enough about your attempted erasure of his existence from your memory during your time in prison.

You zone out as Neuvillette places his order. All you manage to catch is the fact that he doesn’t ask for a serving of your favourite meal this time around.

So it really was all for you.

As Pierre walks away, you turn to study Neuvillette, your gaze sharp.

“What was that all about?”

For a second, Neuvillette stills, collecting his thoughts. Then, he makes eye contact, a stare composed of crepuscular shades of amethyst.

“I must admit, my heart longed for you throughout the years we spent apart,” Neuvillette confesses.

Darn it. Why can’t he be normal for once?

Your heartbeat, once a steady rhythm, begins to become erratic. It pounds in your ears with an unmatched urgency, as if its ultimate goal is simply to leap out of your chest and retreat back into your ex-lover’s gentle grasp.

“I see,” you mumble, beginning to feel awkward.

Silence envelopes your own personal world with Neuvillette as you wait for the waiter to come back with your food. Neither of you can bring yourselves to keep the conversation going. Any small talk would seem disingenuous at this point, and the mere idea of pressing on with the previous topic is enough to make you shudder.

Thankfully, Pierre is surprisingly quick (although that may have something to do with the fact that you’re dining with the Iudex himself), and you find that you’re able to dig into your meal to distract yourself in no time.

It tastes the same as you remember. In fact, nothing has really changed, even with the passage of time. Out of everything in the entire restaurant, you find that you and Neuvillette have undergone the most profound transformations, your once-loving relationship eroding into a confusing mess of broken trust, dubious betrayals, and yearning.

(At the end of the night, you find that a miniscule ember of love remains alive in your heart — a weak crimson glow beginning to ignite once more.)

The journey back to the Palais Mermonia is tranquil, the night air soothing the anxious thoughts plaguing your mind. Stars beam down at you from above, shedding brilliant silvery light over the entirety of the nation. Likewise, the moon guides your path back to the grand building where you wrap up your investigation for the day.

Upon entering Neuvillette’s office, you immediately beeline for his desk, pulling the document that took you a painstaking amount of effort to obtain out and setting it on the polished wooden surface. Curiously, eyes the shade of dulled anemone petals scan the contents of the page.

Neuvillette reads quickly, taking in all the information contained within the file in no time. After a lifetime of poring over records, he’s become accustomed to processing critical points of knowledge efficiently. However, he freezes as his gaze settles on the signature at the bottom of the page.

“What’s up?” you ask him.

You’ve never seen Neuvillette quite so shaken up, his composure torn away from him momentarily. In the moment, all that matters to you is ensuring that he’s okay. Before you realize it, you find yourself reaching out to him, an evanescent flash back to the past in a present that feels so far-removed. A few days ago, you never would have dreamed of comforting him, much less allowing him to make any sort of contact with you. Now, however, you’re beginning to unwind all the hasty misconceptions you had harboured for years on end.

You’ve come to understand that despite being worlds apart, you were still at the forefront of all Neuvillette’s sentiments throughout the past few years. He’s cared about you from afar beyond simply spying on your life through Wriothesley for all this time. It’s time you finally start treating him right.

To your relief, he doesn’t refuse your hand. Instead, he intertwines your fingers as he continues to gape at midnight upon ivory, reading the buyer’s name over and over. Finally, the calm returns to Neuvillette, his vulnerability dissipating after what feels like eons (in actuality, it’s no more than ten seconds).

“Apologies,” Neuvillette says, his voice as steady as ever. “Seeing the signature of the buyer… confirmed a suspicion of mine. However, this revelation is not necessarily a thrilling one. In fact, I would say that it is rather… disappointing and tragic.”

You tilt your head slightly, wonder swirling through your thoughts in spirals of erratic questions. “Why’s that?”

The sigh that Neuvillette heaves out is perhaps the most dramatically-depressing noise that’s ever left his lips. Creases line his forehead, marring porcelain skin with lines that convey concern and dismay.

“This is the name of one of our current Marechaussee Phantom members,” Neuvillette breathes out. “As a matter of fact, he was the one who assumed the position of the victim after their death. In addition to this, he was the only member who was intentionally not informed of the dealings of the deceptive factory. I withheld information from him because I had my own suspicions. I fear that my judgement was correct. If I had informed him that we were looking into the facility, these records would have been destroyed long before we stepped foot inside the building.”

“Wait a second! That sounds way too suspicious,” you say, your voice coming out slightly more aggressive than you want it to. You flinch as your tone reaches your ears. “Why didn’t anyone look into them or at least suspect them?”

“He was the deceased’s lover.” Your breath hitches as Neuvillette continues his explanation. “His grief after learning of the death was immense, so much so that no one could dare to consider the possibility that…”

“That he was the culprit,” you finish. “No one wanted to believe the lovers could betray each other.” You nearly scoff as you realize the irony of you saying this to your very own ex.

Neuvillette nods as you exhale tiredly. Everything is finally coming together after years. At long last, you’ve found another candidate for the possible murderer — the real deal this time.

“I had my doubts about him,” Neuvillette mumbles. “Although tears serve as an effective distractor, insincerity shines brighter than even the most dramatic of theatrics. I have never revealed this to anyone, but besides his qualifications and honouring the memory of our fallen comrade, one of the reasons I assigned him to his current position was to maintain a close watch over him at all times. Despite the precautions I took… I had hoped with all my heart that I would not be proven right.”

“And yet you were, so what now,” you inquire. “Do we just apprehend him and call it a day?”

“I would be pleased if it were that easy,” Neuvillette smiles wryly, “but there are many who would still be unwilling to trust our claims without further evidence. Think about it — would you really want to believe that a trusted member of the Marechaussee Phantom is a cold-blooded murderer? The very notion is inappropriately ironic.”

As Neuvillette’s reasoning sinks in, you nod along. What he’s saying makes sense, but you’re unsure of how you should proceed from here. To your relief, Neuvillette has a solution, as always.

“Considering the fact that the perpetrator has insider information, he’s already aware that we are currently revisiting the case,” Neuvillette reiterates. “As such, his main priority at the moment is to cement your status as the real culprit behind the crime. All he needs is an ample opportunity.”

This is getting far too complicated for your liking.

“In order to catch him in the act, we’ll organize another banquet. It will be the perfect opportunity for him to frame you for another poisoning.”

Neuvillette’s logic is hard to follow, and as you pause to think about it, every thread of reasoning becomes lost in a jumble of nonsensical speculation.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you mutter. “He’s not stupid enough to assume that I’d poison someone right after obtaining freedom. That would look too hasty, so foul play would be suspected immediately.”

“And that’s why I think he’ll target you with his poison,” Neuvillette interjects.

Your frown deepens as his claims become more and more bizarre.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Let me explain everything,” Neuvillette starts. “In order to connect the two cases to each other, the perpetrator will likely use the same weapon again. However, this time his target will be you. As you pointed out, if he harms anyone else, it will instantaneously appear as though someone is eager to falsely accuse you of committing crimes. By non-fatally poisoning you, he can claim that you willingly drank your own weapon in an attempt to throw off suspicion. He can point to the similarities in the compositions of the substances used in both cases to frame you as the one true mastermind behind everything.”

The pieces finally begin to coalesce in your mind, forming a shaky plan that hinges on oceans of luck and protection from Celestia above. It’s risky, but it may be your only chance to set things straight.

“Your great plan is just based on endangering me in order to collect a sample of whatever that person is going to give me?”

“I understand that it may be difficult for you to trust me entirely after everything,” Neuvillette sighs, “but if you agree to my proposition, then I promise I will personally ensure that no harm will come to you.”

After the events of the past two days, you know where your heart wants to stand. In spite of this, your mind screams at you to reject Neuvillette’s idea. You’re scared — terrified. The thought of being let down by Neuvillette again induces a fear in you like no other. Despite it all, you understand that you’ll never truly heal if you don’t at least try to give him another chance, so ultimately, you decide to comply.

“Alright, let’s start party planning.”

Weeks of preparation lead up to the big evening, every passing day a countdown to a finale to end all finales. On top of gathering supplies, arranging catering, and decorating, you’re also drilled on how to act when the moment of danger eventually arrives. You train relentlessly to ensure that Neuvillette’s scheme will go off without a hitch.

All your tireless practices pay off. As you walk into the banquet venue, hand-in-hand with Neuvillette, you find that you’re far less nervous than you had been when the idea was initially proposed. The kaleidoscopic butterflies that once fluttered around in the pit of your stomach have stilled, and you’re utterly calm — exactly what you need to pull this off.

Despite assisting in the planning of the party, you still find yourself awed by the extravagance of it all. You’re not quite sure if Neuvillette has come up with an occasion for celebration yet, as he had initially stated that it was a surprise on the invitations he had sent out. However, you’re sure that no matter its grandeur, the sheer opulence of everything around you is more than sufficient.

Aureate accents adorn nearly every item in the room, and the crystal chandeliers above gleam as though they’re catching moonlight from the midnight sky. The music that envelopes you is warm, each melodious note ringing out in a sweet droning of strings. It’s a perfect backtrack for an elegant waltz.

Most noteworthy of all, however, are the guests that surround you. Not a single person is dressed less than exceptionally. Sparkles, gems, and sequins are commonplace here despite being everyday rarities. Shades of seafoam, cobalt, turquoise, and periwinkle surround you as if the fabric of every guest’s clothing is a component of a lavish ocean of luxury.

Everyone around you dons elaborate masks that obscure only a portion of their faces. It’s a masquerade — a way for you to conceal your true identity from innocent civilians without appearing odd.

You’re quickly dragged out of your thoughts as Neuvillette leads you into the crowd. Everyone is swirling around in a series of intricate steps, twirling to the song that’s resonating within the idyllic air of the room. If not for Neuvillette’s tight grasp on your wrist, you fear you would have been swept away by a tide of partygoers.

“Do you recall how to waltz?” he asks, leaning in closer to ensure that you’re able to hear him over the unpleasant discordance surrounding you from all sides.

“Why does it matter?” you shoot back. Although you’ve opened up more and more to Neuvillette with each passing day, you’re not quite sure you want to dance with him just yet. “It’s not like this is necessary.”

“If we simply sit on the sidelines and observe everything, our suspect is bound to notice,” Neuvillette explains, his voice hushed. “Their eyes will be on you all night.”

The words send a shiver down your spine.

“So do your best to enjoy the moment and act as though you’re simply here to rejuvenate yourself.” Neuvillette pulls you closer, yet he leaves enough room to ensure that you’re not outright uneasy. “Is this arrangement sufficiently comfortable?”

You nod shakily as words seem to stick to the sides of your throat. It’s as though saccharine honey is sugar coating everything, its viscous properties slowing both your lips and your mind.

With your consent, Neuvillette guides you through the steps of a graceful dance. Although he moves with tact, practiced sophistication, you’re the absolute antithesis. Throughout your years underground, you never saw the opportunity to waltz, and as such, you’ve forgotten every intricacy of the choreographies you used to run through with Neuvillette. Thankfully, he keeps you in line, correcting every misstep you make with gentle guidance.

You find that the tenderness with which he handles you is something you’ve missed. Even now with contrasting feelings warring in the depths of your conflicted mind, Neuvillette’s arms are comfort manifested in a physical form. At the end of the day, he’s still home to you, and maybe he always will be. No one else will ever be capable of calming you down right before a criminal attempts to poison you.

For once, you decide to take Neuvillette’s advice. You forget all the duress of the current moment, and instead, you allow yourself to savour the warmth of Neuvillette’s embrace. So much for not being sure about dancing with him.

Time becomes an anomaly. Although each moment seems to slow, drawing out in a montage of careful movements, the dance is over before you know it.

Neuvillette leads you over to your table, and you take a seat atop the rose-coloured cushions of a plush chair, allowing a cream tablecloth to drape over your legs. As you sit down, you feel him tap your shoulder. He’s pointing to a man clad in a striped grey suit, his mask adorned with midnight blue stitching and matching feathers.

It’s your culprit, Francis, as you’ve learned. You don’t intend on allowing him to get away this time.

Patiently, you wait for him to approach you and Neuvillette. You already know he’ll walk up to you with the intention of ensnaring you within his trap. However, you’re two steps ahead in this twisted game of chess.

Sure enough, a grating voice rings out behind you before long.

“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette.” Predictably, you’re met with the face of your prime suspect as you whip your head around. “And [name].” Right. He knows exactly who you are. Perhaps your imagination is weaving deceptions from preconceived notions, but you swear that you can hear a hint of a sneer in Francis’ words.

He spends some time chatting with Neuvillette, his dialogue consisting of flattery and exaggerated compliments. You’re not sure what your suspect believes he’s accomplishing, but a frown dances across your features as you continue listening in on the conversation. Any average person would be able to detect the deceit in his sickly-sweet tone, so the fact that he’s trying to utilize such a tactic on Neuvillette of all people astounds you.

You can’t help but wince as he makes blunder after blunder, your frustration welling with every sentence that comes out of his mouth. Finally, when it all becomes too much for you, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

“Neuvillette, I’m parched,” you complain. “Wanna go get something to drink?” Your own voice makes you cringe. Note to self: learn how to act in a compelling manner if you manage to make it out of this absolute disaster.

“It would be my pleasure to accompany you, but unfortunately I must remain here. Although tonight is a night of leisure, I still have matters to discuss with certain individuals, and they are expecting me here.” You find it fortunate that Neuvillette’s performance is more convincing than your own, his mannerisms and timbre completely natural.

“Oh, don’t worry about them, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Francis says. “Tell you what. I can bring them over to the drinks table for you and give them a few recommendations. I can promise you that I am an expert when it comes to this kind of stuff. My brother owns a drink company.”

This time you’re sure your mind isn’t distorting reality. The smile that he flashes at you is downright devious, assuring you that Neuvillette had been right about his schemes all along.

You take a deep breath before eagerly accepting his offer.

“Sure. Thank you so much for joining me.”

The walk over is silent, Francis’ bright persona dimming the moment you step away from Neuvillette. Instead, fractals of glacial tension seem to settle over the atmosphere, frosting everything over with a hostile air.

When you reach the beverages, you immediately reach for a cup. However, Francis waves you down.

“Allow me. I insist.” He picks up a cup for you, placing it down in front of the selection of drinks. Before you even have the opportunity to voice your preferences, Francis picks up a bottle, inspecting it thoroughly before unscrewing the lid. “This delightful beverage was produced by my brother. You simply must have a taste.”

For a brief second, Francis obscures your vision of the cup with his back. His hand traces a path to the front pocket of his suit. You know what he’s doing, so you don’t bother attempting to sneak a glance. It’s futile.

As he hands you the drink, you thank him politely. You’re careful not to spill a single drop of the liquid as you make your way back to your seat. When you finally sit down next to Neuvillette again, you continue bantering, each second ticking down and burning away into oblivion. The more time you waste the closer you draw to your goal. People are on their way to test the contents of the spiked beverage at this very moment.

Despite your attempts to simply wait it out, a problem arises when Francis begins to pester you.

“Go ahead,” he urges you. “Try the drink and let me know your opinion. I’m eager to take notes for my brother!”

In response, you shake your head with fervour. Sampling poison is just about the last item on your bucket list. As you continuously refuse, Francis begins to become irritated, his words beginning to crescendo in volume.

Neuvillette’s crystalline lilac gaze begins to grow concerned. Subtle moonbeams glint within his irises, reflecting his worry for your wellbeing. However, his eyes continue to hold an unuttered promise — an oath to ensure that no harm befalls you whatsoever.

That’s what comforts you the most when Francis finally snaps, lunging at you as he jabs a finger into your face. As he begins to speak, his tone is accusatory more than anything.

“You set me up, didn’t you?” he snarls. “The two of you,” Francis glances back at Neuvillette, who’s silently watching the entire exchange. “You’re not drinking the beverage because you knew I’d poisoned it all along.”

“Mister Francis, I would advise you to remain silent,” Neuvillette speaks, his tone authoritative. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in court of law.”

Unfortunately for Francis, he doesn’t take Neuvillette’s advice seriously. Instead, he’s hellbent on exacting his revenge. You begin to realize his philosophy is one that entails dragging others down with him when he pulls out an enchantingly-gorgeous translucent vial from his pocket.

It’s deceptively beautiful, its design making it seem as though it should contain nothing less than the finest divine nectar. However, you know how deadly the contents of the glass tube really are, and as such, a sense of panic begins to overtake your senses, overwhelming your head with countless scenarios where everything goes horrendously wrong.

Every diverging path vanishes into nothingness the moment Neuvillette steps in. A swift burst of aquatic energy fills your vision, and a cascade of pristine dewy droplets of water splatters your face as you close your eyes. When it’s over at long last, you glance around to find that Francis is on the ground, drenched and shivering as Neuvillette bends down to collect the vial he had been carrying.

“This will make for good evidence,” he notes, setting it down on the table alongside the drink.

It doesn’t take long for your backup to arrive after Neuvillette knocks Francis out. In fact, the timing of the poison-testers is a little too serendipitous to be organic. You’re starting to think that Neuvillette had planned to provoke Francis all along, but you don’t find an opportunity to ask before the team confiscates the drink and the vial to run experiments.

A crowd of onlookers has already begun to congregate, amalgamating in a curious frenzy. Everyone thinks they’re slick, but you can clearly see the way their eyes wander over to Francis’ unmoving form on the ground every so often.

“Follow me,” Neuvillette tells you as he takes off after the forensic team. Someone carries the samples of liquid that have yet to be tested, and a few others grab Francis and haul him off with you. You lose yourself in the winding hallways of the venue, each twist and turn serving only to further discombobulate your frazzled mind.

It feels like forever before you finally reach your destination. It’s quite ordinary in comparison to the sumptuous party occurring outside its doors — each wall a stark and blinding snow white and the lighting sterile and plain.

Francis is set down, and the forensic team promptly begins their investigation. As they labour, you turn to Neuvillette.

“Was it really necessary for you to use so much force when stopping him?” you reprimand him. “I’m grateful, I really am, but I think we attracted a little more attention than we needed.”

Upon hearing your words, Neuvillette chuckles. The sound of his laughter is a sonorous tune that you’ve missed hearing, no matter how much you want to deny it. Your heart races involuntarily.

“I was not intent on leaving your fate up to chance,” he says, sincerity weaving itself into every syllable he speaks. “Although keeping our operation a secret would have been ideal, I wasn’t planning to compromise anyone’s safety in exchange — especially not yours.”

Sometimes you resent Neuvillette for saying the most romantic things without realizing it. Every single rose-tinted word is like a shot to the heart, ensnaring your feelings in crimson threads of love. It’s as if you fall deeper and deeper into oceanic clutches, drowning — suffocating — as the weight of emotions hailing from both the past and present overwhelm you.

“We’re finished,” a member of the team chirps.

You feel the tension in your shoulders alleviate as both you and Neuvillette rush over to take in the results of the investigation.

“The two poison samples match the exact substance that was used all those years ago,” the analyst confirms, presenting you with the conclusions drafted on a sheet of paper. “With all the eyewitness evidence and the fact that he personally confessed to having connections to the very factory that prompted this investigation in the first place, it’s safe to say he won’t be seeing the light of day for a while.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief that you’ve been holding in for weeks. Your name has finally been cleared, and the real threat has been eliminated.

Above all else, justice has prevailed once more.

To your surprise, Neuvillette leads you to the grand stage at the forefront of all the festivities the moment you re-enter the main hall. Despite the pandemonium that had become the most prominent spectacle of the banquet earlier, people have resumed their lighthearted conversations and elegant dancing, swaying to and fro as if the alarming exchange between the Chief Justice and Francis had never occurred in the first place.

As people begin to notice the diminuendo in music and Neuvillette’s presence at the anterior of the room, the chatter gradually begins to die down, diminishing in a steady waning of volume. Eventually, silence consumes all, and you’re reminded of the sheer gravity of the Iudex’s aura alone.

“Greetings, esteemed guests.” The hall amplifies Neuvillette’s voice, each booming word reverberating and echoing off the opulent walls. “I stand before you today to announce a joyous cause for commemoration as well as to clarify the cause behind the commotion that some of you may have witnessed earlier.”

Whispers permeate the crowd as gossip and speculation begin to circulate. However, Neuvillette shuts everything down as he continues.

“The person here by my side today is [name],” gasps ring out in the silence, fragmenting every semblance of false tranquility that exists in the moment. “Yes, the very same [name] that was sentenced to life in the Fortress of Meropide due to suspected misdemeanours that resulted in an egregious death.”

Protests spread like wildfire through the rambunctious group of people gathered in front of you. Flames of disapproval threaten to engulf your entire being, stinging you with a rutilant aggression as you try to tune out everything.

“Silence,” Neuvillette commands. Thankfully, it’s enough to get everyone to settle down. “I apologize. For the past few weeks, I have concealed the true nature of the situation from you all. A while ago, I personally received a report detailing the suspicious activities of a company producing drinks as a front. Their more sinister schemes laid behind the scenes, as they produced toxins and other deadly substances away from the watchful eyes of the authorities. The composition of the poison they created was identical to that of the weapon used in [name]’s case. With this new evidence, we decided to reopen the investigation.”

Yet again, a shocked reaction is elicited from the crowd, and you begin to wonder how many times they’ll collectively gasp before the end of Neuvillette’s speech.

“When we looked into things more thoroughly, we discovered that the true culprit was Francis, a member of our very own Marechaussee Phantom. At the moment, he has been detained and is currently awaiting trial.”

Relief propagates amongst the crowd, blossoming in a pure flourish of unadulterated solace. A few people look at you with pity, each starlit glint of their eyes conveying their woe on your behalf.

Neuvillette waits this time, allowing the partygoers to mutter amongst themselves. When they begin to settle, he moves on to more positive news.

“I would like to thank each and every one of you for taking the time to listen to my rather mundane explanations,” Neuvillette says. “Now for something more lighthearted.”

He gestures for you to take centre stage, and you reluctantly comply, gazing out at the ocean of people surrounding you.

“[Name] has finally been proven innocent, and as such, they will no longer be required to return to the Fortress of Meropide. This feast has been organized in their honour as a celebration of their return as well as an apology for years spent in isolation.”

Chants of your name begin to flood your ears along with cheers and apologies alike. At long last, you’ve been absolved of the burden wrongfully weighing on your shoulders.

“Welcome back,” Neuvillette whispers to you as he intertwines your fingers to help you off stage. “You’re finally home.”

You hum.

“Thank you.”

No one has the ability to predict the future, and fate’s ordainments are always an enigma to even the most omniscient entities that traverse Teyvat. You have no way of knowing how your relationship with Neuvillette will develop with the passage of time — whether it will mend or fade away as the last spotlight upon the very murder case that brought you back together fizzles out. However, you think you’ll take a chance and revel in his proximity for the time being. He’s proven that he still cares immensely over and over again.

Perhaps with enough patience, your seed of hope will bloom and fill the abyss that had once overtaken your heart, transforming it into a garden of romance reborn.

The weight of Neuvillette’s words begins to settle as you realize that yes, you really are home.

Even after a desolate rain of bitterness and sorrow, the feeling of your hand in his is still home — home sweet home.

thank you so much for reading!! sorry for the long wait riko!

#r.archives *ೃ༄#hvntersecretsanta #neuvillette x reader #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #neuvillette x you #genshin imagines #genshin impact imagines #genshin headcanons #genshin fanfic

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neferaskingdom · 10 days ago

Text

♡ Two Lattes and a Truce, Please | MV1

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: WAR IS OVER

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

Max barely had time to react before George slammed him harder against the wall, his forearm pressing into Max’s chest. The eerily calm facade George had worn moments earlier had shattered, his eyes burning with unrestrained fury.

“How dare you?” George hissed, his voice low and shaking with rage. “How dare you go after my sister? Was this some twisted ploy to get back at me?”

Max blinked, stunned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know exactly what I’m talking about!” George snapped, his volume rising. “Do you hate me so much that you thought screwing my family was fair game? What kind of sick—”

“That’s enough,” Max growled, shoving George’s arm off his chest and stepping forward. His tone was sharp, cutting through George’s tirade. “This isn’t about you, George. This was never about you.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit,” George shot back, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’ve been dating her for over a year, Max! Behind my back! You can’t stand me, fine, but don’t drag my sister into this mess. And now—” His voice cracked slightly as his fury spiked again. “Now, you’ve got her pregnant?”

Max stiffened at the accusation, his jaw tightening. “Yes, we’ve been together for over a year. And no, this wasn’t some game or some vendetta. I love her.”

George let out a sharp, bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Love her? That’s rich coming from you. You’ve spent years with a reputation for flings and one-night stands, and now you expect me to believe you’re suddenly the poster boy for commitment?”

Max’s eyes flashed. “You don’t get to decide how I feel about her. And you don’t know anything about us. She’s not just your sister, George—she’s my everything.”

George’s face twisted with a mix of anger and betrayal. “We used to be friends, Max. Before all this… tension, before the media shitstorm, I trusted you. And now I find out you’ve been sneaking around with my sister, lying to me—”

“We weren’t sneaking around to hurt you,” Max cut in. His voice softened slightly, but the edge remained. “We didn’t tell you because we knew this is exactly how you’d react. You wouldn’t have given me a chance.”

“And why the hell should I have?” George shouted, taking a step forward. “You could’ve come to me! You should’ve come to me! Instead, you lied to my face for a year, Max.”

Before the argument could escalate further, a panicked voice echoed down the alley.

“George!”

Both men turned to see Y/n running toward them, her expression a mix of frustration and fear.

“What the hell are you doing?” she yelled, her voice cracking. “George, let him go!”

George hesitated for a fraction of a second before releasing Max, stepping back but still glaring at him.

Max rubbed his shoulder, muttering, “Nice timing.”

“How did you even find us?” George asked, his tone clipped.

“Alex,” Y/n panted, shooting Max a look. “He saw you dragging Max into this alley and told me to come save his life before you did something stupid.”

Max snorted despite himself, but Y/n quickly rounded on him. “You—go. Let me talk to him.”

Max frowned, clearly reluctant. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Max. Go,” she insisted, her eyes darting between him and George.

After a tense moment, Max exhaled sharply and stepped back. “Fine. But I’m not going far.”

George’s jaw was tight as he stared down at Y/n, the tension in his posture palpable. He hadn’t moved since Max left, his silence heavier than any shouting match they’d ever had.

“George,” Y/n started softly, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry for avoiding you. I didn’t know what to do, what to say. I was scared.”

“Scared of what?” George snapped, his tone clipped but not loud. He wasn’t angry enough to yell anymore, but his voice was laced with hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me, Y/n? I thought we shared everything.”

She flinched at the edge in his voice. “I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Disappoint me?” he repeated incredulously, stepping closer. His voice dropped to a near whisper, raw with emotion. “You could never disappoint me. But lying to me for over a year? Keeping this from me? That’s not like you.”

Her chest tightened, and tears pricked her eyes. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, George. I just… I didn’t know how to tell you. You’ve made it so clear how you feel about me dating other drivers. I didn’t want you to—”

“To what? Disown you? Hate you?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “You’re my sister, Y/n. Nothing, nothing, could make me hate you.”

Y/n bit her lip, the weight of his words cracking through her defenses. “I was afraid,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “Afraid of how you’d react, afraid you wouldn’t approve. Max… he just…” She trailed off, searching for the right words.

George raised an eyebrow, his arms crossing over his chest. “He just what?”

“He grew on me, okay?” she blurted, throwing her hands in the air. “Like a fungus! He’s annoying and stubborn and so full of himself sometimes, but he’s also… sweet and caring and—”

“Fungus? Seriously?” George interrupted, giving her an exasperated look.

“Don’t make fun of me right now!” she snapped, glaring at him through her tears. “This is hard enough as it is.”

George sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright, fine. Fungus. Go on.”

She hesitated, taking a deep breath. “Before I knew it, I was in love with him. And I was terrified of what you’d say, of how you’d look at me. I didn’t want to lose you, George. You’re my big brother. I need you.”

His expression softened slightly, but the hurt in his eyes remained. “You never had to worry about losing me, Y/n. But you’ve got to understand how blindsided I feel right now. You’ve been lying to me for a year. A whole year. That’s a long time to keep something this big from me.”

She nodded, her tears spilling over. “I know. And I’m sorry. But I couldn’t keep hiding it. I love him, George. I love this baby. They’re my family now, but I don’t want to lose you in the process. Please don’t make me choose.”

George’s gaze dropped to her stomach, where her hand rested protectively. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his defenses cracking. “You’re really having a baby,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Y/n nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. You’re going to be an uncle.”

The words seemed to hit him like a freight train. His eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, his anger gave way to something softer—something vulnerable. “An uncle,” he repeated, as if trying to wrap his head around it.

“Yeah,” she said again, a small smile breaking through her tears. “And judging by that face, you’re already a mess about it.”

George blinked rapidly, as though trying to hide the tears forming in his eyes. “I’m not a mess,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat.

“Oh, please,” Y/n teased, stepping closer. “You’re totally about to cry. Look at you. Mr. Stoic is cracking.”

“I am not,” he insisted, though his voice wavered.

Y/n let out a watery laugh, poking him lightly in the chest. “You’re going to be such a softie with this kid. I can already see it—Uncle George, buying them whatever they want, teaching them how to drive a go-kart.”

He shook his head, finally letting out a small laugh despite himself. “Don’t push your luck.”

She smiled up at him, her tears drying as the tension between them eased. “I mean it, George. You’re going to be an amazing uncle.”

George looked at her for a long moment, his emotions written all over his face. Finally, he stepped forward and pulled her into a tight hug, holding her as if he never wanted to let go.

“I’m sorry for how I reacted,” he murmured against her hair. “I just… I didn’t know what to do. But I’m here now. For you, for the baby—for all of it. I promise.”

Y/n clung to him, her own tears returning but this time from relief. “Thank you,” she whispered.

As they pulled back, George’s eyes flicked to her stomach again, a small, hesitant smile tugging at his lips. “An uncle,” he said again, softer this time.

“Yep,” Y/n said, grinning. “And I fully expect you to cry when you meet them.”

He rolled his eyes, but the warmth in his gaze betrayed him. “Not a chance.”

“We’ll see,” she teased, poking his shoulder.

George held Y/n in a tight embrace, his protective big-brother instincts still warring with the softer emotions breaking through. As he finally pulled back, his eyes flickered with something sharper. He crossed his arms and glanced toward the direction Max had left.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, his tone firm, “I might have forgiven you, but that doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him.”

Y/n groaned softly, already dreading where this was going. “George, come on—”

“No,” George cut her off, raising a hand. “You lied to me, yes, but Max went behind my back for a year. A year, Y/n! And then he let this whole thing explode in the most dramatic way possible.”

“It wasn’t exactly planned,” Y/n muttered, cheeks flushing.

George scoffed. “Planned or not, he’s got a lot to answer for. I’m willing to let go of our public feud for your sake but that doesn’t mean Max gets off easy. He needs to prove himself.”

“Prove himself?” she echoed, exasperated. “George, what does that even mean?”

“It means,” George said, his expression deadly serious, “that he needs to show me he’s good enough for you. And he’d better get down on one knee while he’s at it.”

Y/n’s face turned scarlet. “Oh my God, George. Stop.”

“Nope,” George said stubbornly, his tone matter-of-fact. “This is my right as your older brother after the shit you two pulled. You don’t get to say anything about it. I’m exercising my privileges.”

She buried her face in her hands, groaning. “I can’t believe this. I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

George smirked, clearly enjoying her reaction. “Good. That’s exactly how you’re supposed to feel after pulling something like this.”

“You’re impossible,” she mumbled, but there was no real venom in her voice.

“And you’re stuck with me,” he shot back, his grin softening into something more affectionate.

Despite her embarrassment, Y/n couldn’t help but laugh, nudging him lightly. “Fine. But can we at least agree that you’ll keep this lecture to just me and Max? No ambushing us at family dinner or something?”

“No promises,” George teased, but his smile made it clear he wasn’t entirely serious.

The next morning Max stood in front of the hotel, staring at the text from George for what felt like the hundredth time. “Meet me at my hotel for coffee. 10 AM. We need to talk.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, unsure if this was going to be another thinly veiled trap or a genuine olive branch. After yesterday’s confrontation, he wasn’t holding his breath. But for Y/n’s sake, he’d go through whatever hoops George wanted him to.

He took a deep breath and walked into the lobby, spotting George sitting at a quiet corner table. Two mugs of coffee sat in front of him, steam still rising from the cups. George’s posture was straight, his face set in an unreadable expression. Max approached cautiously, offering a small nod as he slid into the chair across from him.

“Morning,” George said, his tone neutral but clipped.

“Morning,” Max replied, equally measured.

“Thanks for coming,” George said as Max slid into the seat across from him.

“I figured I didn’t have much of a choice,” Max replied lightly, though his voice held no hostility.

George gave a small smile, almost amused, but it faded quickly. “Look, I wanted to say… about yesterday. I didn’t handle things well. I was angry, and I let it get the better of me. But that doesn’t mean I regret defending my sister.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them almost tangible. George was the first to break it, leaning forward slightly as he spoke. “I thought it was time we had a proper conversation, away from the cameras, away from everyone else.”

Max nodded. “I think that’s a good idea.”

George tapped his fingers against the table, his sharp blue eyes locking onto Max’s. “Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m okay with everything that’s happened. I’m not. But I need to understand… What are you doing, Max? What are your intentions with my sister?”

Max’s jaw tightened. He’d expected this question, but that didn’t make it any easier to answer. Still, he owed George the truth. “I love her,” he said firmly, meeting George’s gaze. “I have for a long time. She’s… she’s everything to me. And now, with the baby, it’s not just about love—it’s about building a life together, a family. I want to give her everything she deserves.”

George’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression still unreadable. “If that’s true, then why didn’t you come to me? Why keep it a secret for over a year? You knew how I’d feel about it, didn’t you?”

Max exhaled, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “I did. I knew you wouldn’t approve, and I didn’t want to put her in a position where she’d have to choose between us. I didn’t handle it right—hiding it wasn’t fair to you. For that, I’m sorry.”

George studied him for a long moment, his fingers still tapping against the table. Finally, he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Do you intend to marry her?”

Max didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I want to spend the rest of my life with her. I’ve already started looking at rings.”

That admission seemed to catch George off guard, his eyebrows raising slightly. He looked away for a moment, his gaze fixed on the untouched coffee in front of him. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. “I won’t lie, Max. This is going to take me some time to process. I can’t say I’m thrilled about it, but… for her—and for the baby—I’m willing to put our differences aside. We can be cordial. But don’t mistake that for approval. You’ve got a long way to go before you earn that.”

Max nodded, his expression serious. “I understand. And I’ll do whatever it takes to prove to you that I’m worthy of her.”

George leaned forward again, his voice hardening. “One more thing. If you ever hurt her—if you ever make her regret this—I won’t hesitate to make you pay. I don’t care if you’re a four-time world champion or the King of the Netherlands. I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Max’s lips twitched in a faint smile. “If I ever do anything to hurt her, I’ll come to you myself and let you deal with me.”

That seemed to satisfy George, who leaned back again, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

There was a moment of silence before George let out a long sigh, running a hand through his hair. “God, I can’t believe I’m going to be an uncle.”

Max chuckled softly. “You’ll be a great uncle. The kid’s already lucky to have you.”

George shook his head, laughing lightly. “Don’t butter me up, Verstappen. It’s not going to make me go easy on you.”

Max smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

George’s expression turned serious again. “I’m giving you a chance here, Max. Don’t waste it.”

“I won’t,” Max said, his voice steady. “I promise.”

“Also,” Max began, his tone more subdued, “I want to apologize for some of the things I’ve said about you in the media.”

George’s eyes snapped up to meet his, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise.

“I shouldn’t have insulted your driving the way I did,” Max continued. “I was frustrated, angry… you know how it gets out there sometimes. But that doesn’t make it okay. You’re a talented driver, and I should’ve respected that, even if we were at odds.”

George nodded slowly, his expression softening just a fraction. “I appreciate that,” he said quietly. “And… I owe you an apology too.”

Max tilted his head, waiting.

“I shouldn’t have called you dangerous,” George admitted, his voice a little heavier with guilt. “That was crossing a line, and it wasn’t fair. I let my emotions get the better of me after… well, after what happened in the steward’s room. I shouldn’t have let it get so personal.”

Max leaned back slightly, folding his arms across his chest as he processed George’s words. After a beat, he gave a small, understanding nod. “We were both running high on adrenaline and emotions. It happens. But if you’re willing to move past it, so am I.”

George offered a faint smile, one that looked genuine despite the lingering awkwardness. “Yeah, I think it’s about time we put it behind us. For Y/n’s sake, if nothing else.”

“For Y/n,” Max echoed with a small smile of his own.

They both extended their hands almost at the same time. Their handshake was firm, a silent agreement that they were both ready to turn the page.

As they stood to leave, George clapped Max on the back, his expression softening. “For what it’s worth, Max… I hope you prove me wrong.”

“I will,” Max replied confidently. “For her.”

y/n_russell posted:

y/n_russell: Plot twist of the century: Baby Verstappen-Russell loading… 🍼❤️

Comments:

georgerussell63: I’m so excited to be an uncle!! 🥹❤️

y/n_russell: I just know you're going to be the best uncle ever Georgie ❤️ user: Hold up. George Russell is actually HAPPY about this?! What parallel universe are we in?! user: George in the comments acting all sweet now… Sir, we SAW you death-staring Max at the anthem. Don’t think we forgot 💀

user: SCREAMING, CRYING, THROWING UP. THE DRAMA. THE PLOT. THE ABSOLUTE CHAOS.

user: Y’all laughed at me when I said this was real. NOW WHO’S LAUGHING?!

user: I would like to personally APOLOGIZE to you. I thought you were joking about this, but clearly, you knew what you were doing. user: I need to apologize too for saying this wasn’t real. I genuinely thought you were being delusional. user: And THIS is why we don’t call people delusional, y’all!! Everyone owes her an apology immediately.

user: This baby just united two bloodlines like it’s Game of Thrones or something.

lewishamilton: Congratulations, Y/n and Max! Wishing you all the best on this exciting journey 🙌

y/n_russell: Thank you Lew 🥹

user: MAX VERSTAPPEN AND GEORGE RUSSELL AS FAMILY?!

user: The Verstappen-Russell feud will NEVER die. Even the baby can’t fix this 💀

user: I cannot BELIEVE the Verstappen-Russell baby is real. We live in the wildest timeline.

user: This baby has been conceived in a PR warzone. Their future memoir is gonna slap.

user: George, make Max get on one knee IMMEDIATELY. We are NOT doing this out of order!!

user: The way George probably has an Excel sheet for his new uncle duties… God bless this baby.

landonorris: I CALL GODFATHER. EVERYONE ELSE CAN BACK OFF.

charles_leclerc: Sorry, Lando, but I already submitted my application. Try again. oscarpiastri: Pretty sure I saved Max’s life this week. I should automatically win godfather. user: CHARLES AND LANDO FIGHTING OVER GODFATHER RIGHTS HAS ME ON THE FLOOR.

user: Y/n is so gorgeous, it’s unfair. Like, she’s PREGNANT, and she looks like THAT?!

user: I genuinely thought the Verstappen-Russell feud couldn’t get crazier, but then THIS happened.

user: Imagine being this baby and knowing your dad and uncle almost threw hands in the paddock over you. Icon.

carmenmmundt: So, so happy for you both!!! Baby Verstappen-Russell is already so loved. Can’t wait to spoil them.

y/n_russell: Carmen 😭❤️ Thank you! You and the girls have been the absolute best.

maxverstappen1: My love, you are my everything ❤️ I can’t wait to do this with you.

y/n_russell: I love you so much, Maxie 🥹❤️ georgerussell63: Okay, enough. Keep it PG. user: GEORGE SHUTTING IT DOWN IMMEDIATELY LMAO. user: George really said, “Not on my watch.”

user: The way Y/n just casually dropped this and logged off like the internet wasn’t gonna explode. Queen behavior.

user: welcome to the world baby Verstappen-Russell ❤️

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