#there's a silver lining through the dark clouds shining

[wellpresseddaisy]

There's a Silver Lining, Through the Dark Clouds Shining pt 3

With many thanks to @sneverussape who asked what would happen if a squib inherited a magical family Headship and control of the family magics and I suddenly knew where to go with this. :)

“Well, Mr. Snape, I can’t find anything physically wrong with you. According to all the diagnostics I have at my disposal, you are a healthy twelve-year-old boy. There isn’t anything to indicate the sudden change in your age. I’m going to have to call in a specialist, I think.” Madame Pomfrey stopped waving her wand around him in increasingly intricate patterns and stepped back. “How is your head?”

He blinked. How had she known his head hurt?

“A bit of headache.” He admitted. “I think I’m remembering some things. I...it’s very strange.” Because they weren’t proper memories of being an adult. He just…knew things now. Like he got the information but the actual memory stayed locked away. His memories of being twelve behaved similarly, like they couldn’t quite make it through either.

“Here you are then, a bit of headache reliever should to the trick.” She handed over a dark vial. “I think we’re going to have to find someone to take care of you, if St. Mungo’s doesn’t turn up an answer.”

Severus drank quickly, avoiding the taste as much as he could. He thought they should call his family immediately, but it seemed Hogwarts ran the same way for students and…professors? How strange to think of himself as a professor. He never wanted to teach. He also didn’t want to be poked and prodded only to be told there wasn’t anything they could do. He sort of had the feeling something larger was at play, something none of them would understand, most likely.

He had the strangest feeling this whole mess was somehow meant to happen. That this change saved him from some hideous fate. He didn’t think St. Mungo’s could do anything, not really. Or at least not anything meaningful. He remembered sending Longbottom’s potion samples to the Unspeakables and getting a letter back asking him to stop, please, they had no idea what the boy did and now they had a feral sample chasing people through the laboratories…and sudsing at inopportune moments.

Why did these things always happen to him? He knew loads of other potions masters who taught and none of them had to deal with a Longbottom. They also didn’t have trolls in the castle or evil dark lords possessing professors. It simply wasn’t fair.

He looked up sharply when the doors opened, but it was only the Potter boy, cradling his right hand in his left.

“Mr. Potter, you were told—” Madame Pomfrey started. “Merciful…what happened to your hand?”

“Caught it in a door.” Potter answered quietly, looking at the floor. “I wasn’t watching as carefully as I could have.”

Severus immediately suspected Malfoy. It was a Malfoy sort of thing to do, slamming someone’s hand in the door because they told you to stuff it. Petulant and spoiled.

He couldn’t remember Lucius doing anything like that, though. He’d call it plebian. Perhaps petulance was a feature of the younger Malfoy.

“Hmm. Helped along, I’m sure, not that you ever give me a name. How history repeats.” Madame Pomfrey sniffed. “Sit down, please.”

Severus watched from the next bed, suspicious. He remembered being…honestly a towering bastard to the other boy. Strange that all those complicated feelings seemed to dull now. He looked so much like Lily, under the truly tragic hair and even worse glasses. And his clothes when Madame Pomfrey made him take off his robe so it stopped sliding over his hand! Severus knew what poverty looked like—he’d seen it, well-mended and faded in the mirror often enough—this was flat neglect. Even if…even if Lily wasn’t here and Potter senior had gone on to whatever he deserved by way of an afterlife, there were others to care for the boy. Black…there was something he couldn’t quite grasp in his memory. Some reason Black wasn’t the doting godfather (because as much as Severus loathed Black, he could admit that the man would likely rather die than see harm come to James Potter’s son).

But there should have been family. Someone to make sure he didn’t go about looking…Mam always said ‘like there’s nobody at home who loves you’. Even he hadn’t looked like that…at least not frequently. Sometimes Mam had bad days.

Madame Pomfrey fussed about Potter, gathering salves and casting diagnostics, frowning at each one.

“Have you been drinking milk as I directed, Mr. Potter? At each meal?” she asked after an uncomfortable silence. “I’d rather not prescribe nutrient potions if we can fix this with your diet.”

“Er, it isn’t on the table?” Potter offered lamely. “There’s only ever pumpkin juice and water.”

Gryffindors, honestly, they’d rather martyr themselves than make a simple request. Madame Pomfrey seemed to agree with him and sighed deeply.

“It is vital that you eat the proper amount of a properly balanced diet, Mr. Potter. Every diagnostic I just ran returned worse results than last year at this same time. You now have a broken hand, which can be fixed fairly quickly, but we really ought to vanish and...”

“Please don’t, Madame Pomfrey.” Potter hunched in on himself, miserable and slowly going scarlet. “I…it won’t help. Not if I have to go…”

Whatever else he was going to say vanished as the door opened again. The headmaster strode in, clearly annoyed by something, followed by…

“Dad?” Severus blurted out.

[pucksandpower]

Another Man’s Treasure

Max Verstappen x Reader + Charles Leclerc x ex!Reader

Summary: Charles made the worst mistake of his life when he threw away his relationship with you. Max … well he’s learned to take advantage of others’ mistakes both on and off the track

Warnings: cheating (not the main pairing) and pregnancy

“Please, Charles, why can’t we just talk about it?” you implore, the two of you standing on the balcony overlooking the glimmering lights of Monaco. The city shines brilliantly but your eyes are clouded with frustration and disappointment.

Charles exhales deeply, his jaw clenched as he avoids your gaze. The silver lining of the night —the glimmer of stars overhead — contrasts sharply with the tension between you two. “I told you already, it’s not the right time.

You take a shaky breath, trying to hold back tears. “Every time I bring up having children, you just push it away. Why can’t you see how much this means to me?”

Charles runs his fingers through his dark hair, exhaling slowly. “Look, it’s not that I don’t want to have a family with you someday,” he begins, his gaze distant. “But right now, with my career at its peak, I can’t risk distractions.”

“Distractions?” Your voice breaks, the hurt evident in your tone. “Our children would be a distraction?”

He flinches, clearly not expecting that response. “That’s not what I meant. I just … I need to focus on the championship. The pressure is immense. Racing is my life. Ferrari is my life.”

“I understand your dedication to your career, but ...” You pause, your gaze searching his. “Don’t you think we can find a balance? Am I not part of your life too?”

He looks at you, those hypnotizing eyes you’ve always loved flinching away from yours after no more than a second. “I wish I knew how,” he murmurs. “But every time I think of the late nights, the early mornings, the endless travels ... I’m afraid I won’t be there for our children.”

You reach out, holding his face in your hands. “We can figure it out together. But not if you keep shutting me out.”

Charles leans into your touch for a brief moment, his warmth radiating under your fingers. But then he pulls away, taking a deep breath. “I just need time,” he whispers.

“You always say that,” you reply, voice almost inaudible. The weight of the situation presses down on you both. The future, once so clear and bright, is now clouded in uncertainty.

But one thing is clear to you. You love Charles Leclerc. Despite the pain, the hurt, and the disagreements, you still believe that one day, you’ll both find common ground. So, you nod, taking his hand. “Alright, I’ll give you time. But please, don’t take too long.”

He looks at you with a mixture of gratitude and guilt. “Thank you,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

But deep inside, a gnawing feeling of dread starts to grow, leaving you wondering if you’ve made the right choice.

***

The soft hum of the espresso machine at your favorite café in Monaco is the only thing that brings comfort these days. You take a deep breath, trying to enjoy the momentary solace as you sip on your coffee. But today, the calm is quickly disrupted by the muted buzz of your phone.

An unknown number flashes across the screen. Hesitating for only a moment, you decide to pick up. “Hello?”

A hesitant voice responds, “Is this ... is this you? I’ve seen you with Charles.”

Confused and on guard, you ask, “Who is this?”

The voice falters, “It’s Elise.”

You wrack your brain, trying to figure out who she might be. But before you can respond, Elise continues, “I think we need to meet. There’s something you should know.”

Agreeing to meet up, you find yourself waiting at the edge of the Fontvieille Park, the minutes feeling like hours as you try to decipher what could be so important.

Elise finally arrives, her demeanor nervous, eyes darting around. She’s visibly pregnant.

“I didn’t know how to tell you this,” she begins, looking down at her swollen belly, then up to your eyes, searching for understanding. “This is Charles’ child.”

The world seems to spin, the weight of her words pressing down on you. “What? How? Why?” The questions blur together, each one as painful as the last.

Elise sighs, taking a moment before she speaks, “We’ve been seeing each other for a while. I thought he loved me ... but then I found out about you.”

You’re at a loss for words, feeling a mix of betrayal, anger, and pain more complex than you can describe. The very foundation of your relationship with Charles feels like it’s crumbling beneath you. “He said he wasn’t ready for children,” you whisper, more to yourself than to Elise.

Elise looks genuinely pained. “I didn’t know. If I had, I would’ve never—” she stops herself, tears forming. “I’m so sorry. I thought you deserved to know the truth.”

The rest of the conversation is a blur. Elise shares her story, and you listen, trying to reconcile this new reality. The Charles she describes isn’t the man you thought you knew.

By the time you part ways, the Monaco sunset paints the sky in shades of gold and purple. But its beauty does little to lift the darkness that has settled over your heart. Charles had been unfaithful, and now a child — a constant reminder of his betrayal — was on the way.

***

With every step you take towards the apartment you share with Charles, your emotions churn and crash like tumultuous waves. You have practiced the confrontation in your mind countless times, yet as you reach the door, your hands tremble. Taking a moment to gather your courage, you push it open.

Inside, Charles looks up from the couch, surprised. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” he starts, attempting a smile but his eyes give away a hint of nervousness. Perhaps he senses the storm brewing.

“We need to talk,” you say, your voice firm despite the turmoil inside.

Charles swallows hard, pushing himself up to stand. “About?”

“Elise,” you state simply, watching as his face pales.

He hesitates, and for a moment, you hope for an ounce of remorse, a hint of regret. But when he speaks, his words are cold and detached. “How did you find out?”

“Does it matter?” You shoot back, trying to hold back tears. “Is it true?”

Charles avoids your gaze, running a hand through his hair. “Yes,” he finally admits.

“And the baby? Is it yours?”

Again, he hesitates but then nods. “Yes.”

The weight of the revelation feels like a physical blow, and you stagger back slightly, gripping the back of a chair for support. “All those times … when you said you weren’t ready, that it wasn’t the right time …” Your voice cracks, pain and betrayal evident in every word.

Charles finally meets your gaze but there’s no warmth, no apology in his eyes. “I didn’t plan this,” he says but it’s not a justification, merely a statement.

“That’s supposed to make it better?” you scoff, voice rising in disbelief.

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture you recognize as one of discomfort. “I never wanted to hurt you. But things just ... happened.”

“You think that justifies anything? Things just happened?” You shake your head in disbelief. “I gave up so much for us, Charles. I moved away from everything and everyone I knew to be with you. And you threw it all away like it’s nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs but his apology feels hollow. His eyes betray the truth.

The room is thick with tension and heartbreak. The man you loved, the life you envisioned — both seem like illusions now. You didn’t even know if they were ever real.

“You know what?” You say, a new determination rising within. “I deserve better. I deserve someone who truly values and respects me.” With that, you turn, making your way to the bedroom to pack a few essentials.

Charles doesn’t stop you. And that, more than anything, cements the truth. Your future lies elsewhere. The chapter with Charles is closed.

***

Rain begins to drizzle over Monaco, each droplet reflecting the city’s luminescence. With a bag slung over your shoulder and a broken heart, you wander aimlessly. The streets that once felt like home now seem foreign and cold.

As the rain intensifies, you duck under an awning, the gentle hum of a nearby bar providing a temporary reprieve. You’re lost in thought when a familiar voice breaks through, “Is everything okay? You look a bit ... lost.”

You look up, surprised to find Max Verstappen looking genuinely concerned. His bright blue eyes study your face, searching for an answer.

“Max ...” Your voice trails off, unsure of how much to reveal.

He gestures to the bar beside you. “Want to come in? We can talk or not. Up to you.”

Gratefully, you nod, and the two of you find a quiet corner. The dim lighting offers a cocoon of privacy, away from prying eyes.

Over a glass of wine, words start to tumble out. The betrayal, the heartbreak, the uncertainty of the future. Max listens intently, his gaze never leaving yours. His silence offers a comforting presence, allowing you to unburden your heavy heart.

“I can’t believe Charles would do that to you,” Max says after you finish your story, his voice laced with anger. “You deserve so much better.”

A tear slips down your cheek. “I thought we had something special. But I guess I was just naive. And stupid. So stupid.”

Max reaches out, gently wiping away the tear with his thumb. “No. He was the fool for not seeing what a treasure he had.”

The evening wears on and you find solace in Max’s company. The conversation shifts from heartbreak to hopes and dreams. He opens up about his childhood, the pressures of racing, and his aspirations for a family — one where he could offer his children a better upbringing than he had.

The connection between you two grows, the raw vulnerability drawing you closer than you could have ever anticipated over just a few hours.

“It’s getting late,” Max observes, glancing at his watch. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

You hesitate, realizing you hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I ... I hadn’t planned anything.”

Max looks thoughtful for a moment then says, “I have a penthouse not far from here. You’re more than welcome to stay. No expectations, just a place to rest.”

Gratitude swells within you. “Thank you, Max. I really appreciate that.”

The two of you leave the bar together, the rain now a soft drizzle. As you make your way to his place, the weight of the day begins to lift, replaced by an unexpected feeling of hope. You couldn’t have predicted this turn of events but perhaps, just maybe, the universe has a plan for you.

***

The penthouse apartment is a sanctuary, perched high above the city’s twinkling lights. The soft glow of lamps bathes the room in warmth, contrasting with the coolness of the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that offer an unobstructed view of Monaco’s beauty.

Max hands you a plush robe and gestures toward the bathroom. “Feel free to freshen up. I’ll make us some tea.”

You nod, grateful for his understanding and hospitality. The hot shower washes away the day’s troubles, and when you emerge, wrapped in the robe, you find Max in the sleek kitchen area, preparing mugs of tea.

“Here you go,” he says, handing you a steaming cup. “Chamomile. Good for relaxation.”

You take a sip, the warm liquid soothing your frayed nerves. “Thank you, Max. For everything. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you tonight.”

He smiles gently, his eyes meeting yours. “Sometimes, unexpected moments bring people together for a reason.”

The two of you settle onto a surprisingly comfortable leather couch, gazing out at the night sky. Silence envelops you but it’s a comfortable one.

“You know, I never expected to connect with someone like this,” Max says, his voice soft. “Especially not after what you’ve been through.”

You look at him, seeing a depth of sincerity that surprises you. “It’s been a strange and difficult day,” you admit. “But talking to you, it feels like a weight has been lifted.”

Max’s gaze holds yours, and for a moment, it feels like the universe has conspired to bring you to this very place, to this very person.

He takes a deep breath. “I’ve always wanted a big family. A loving home, something I didn’t really have growing up. I want to give my kids the stability and happiness I never had.”

Tears well up in your eyes, touched by his vulnerability and his willingness to share his dreams with you. “That’s a beautiful aspiration.”

He shifts closer, a comforting hand on your shoulder. “And what about you? What do you dream of?”

You lean back, contemplating the question. “I dream of a family too, a partner who’s truly invested, children who grow up knowing they’re loved and supported.”

Max's fingers brush against yours, a gentle touch that sends a shiver down your spine. “You deserve that. You deserve to find happiness.”

As the night deepens, the emotional intimacy between you grows. There’s an unspoken understanding, a shared connection, and for the first time in a long while, you feel a glimmer of hope for the future. The chapter with Charles might be closed, but perhaps, with Max, you can start to write a new one — one filled with shared dreams and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

***

The morning sun casts a golden glow over Monaco as it begins its ascent into the azure sky. You wake up, wrapped in the softest sheets you’ve ever felt, with memories of last night’s conversation playing on a loop in your mind.

Exiting the bedroom, you find Max in the open-plan kitchen, whipping up a breakfast spread. “Good morning,” he greets with a warm smile. “I hope you’re hungry.”

As you eat, Max discusses his plans for the day, mentioning an upcoming summer break in the F1 calendar. “A few friends and I have organized a yacht trip during the summer shutdown. It’s a tradition,” he explains. “A way to escape and recharge.”

You nod, picturing the glittering sea and warm beaches. “That sounds wonderful.”

He hesitates for a moment, then, as if taking a leap, says, “Why don’t you join us? It could be a good distraction. Get away from all this ... chaos.”

The offer catches you by surprise. The prospect of a holiday is tempting, especially after the emotional whirlwind of the past few days. Plus, the idea of spending more time with Max, getting to know him outside the confines of Monaco, is equally appealing.

After a moment’s contemplation, you reply, “You know what? I think I will. Thank you so much.”

The days leading up to the trip are a blur, filled with shopping for swimsuits and sundresses and a growing sense of anticipation.

When the day finally arrives, you find yourself aboard a lavish yacht, surrounded by Max’s close friends. Laughter and conversations flow easily, the crystal-clear waters providing the perfect backdrop.

As the yacht sets sail, you and Max find a secluded spot on the deck. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. The two of you talk, laugh, and occasionally, just sit in silence, enjoying the tranquillity of the moment.

During a sun-soaked afternoon, Max teaches you how to steer the yacht. Your fingers brush against each other, and there are shared glances, stolen moments, and an electric charge between you that’s impossible to ignore.

Each day deepens the growing bond between you. There are sunrises watched from the deck, dinners under the stars, and long conversations that last into the early hours of the morning.

One night, as the yacht anchors near a secluded cove, Max takes your hand, leading you to a quiet spot. The moonlight dances on the water, creating a magical atmosphere.

“You know,” he begins, his voice soft, “this trip has been special. Not because of the destinations but because of the company.”

You smile, leaning into him. “I couldn’t agree more.”

A tender moment passes between you, one filled with promise and the potential for something more. The yacht trip might be coming to an end but both of you sense that this journey, this new chapter in your lives, has only just begun.

***

The gentle lull of the waves against the yacht rocks you as the moon hangs low in the sky. The night air is warm and fragrant, carrying with it a sense of peace. Tomorrow, the yacht will dock back in Monaco and reality will catch up with you once more. But for now, you’re content to savor these final moments of the trip.

You find Max leaning against the railing, gazing out at the sea. As you approach him, he turns, his expression softening into a smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, standing beside him, your shoulders brushing against each other.

“I can’t believe the break is almost over,” Max muses, his voice carrying a hint of wistfulness.

You nod in agreement, casting your gaze out to the horizon. “It still feels like a dream.”

Max glances at you, his eyes holding a certain intensity. “You know, I’ve had an amazing time with you.”

A flutter of warmth ignites in your chest at his words. “Me too. The best time.”

The moment is charged with unspoken feelings, the connection between you growing stronger with each passing day. Max’s fingers brush against yours and the touch sends a shiver down your spine.

“I don’t want this to end,” he confesses, gaze never leaving yours.

You take a deep breath, your heart racing. “I’ve never felt so connected to someone, so understood.”

He cups your cheek with his hand, his touch tender and affectionate. “I feel the same way. And I don’t want this to end.”

The tension in the air is palpable, heavy with anticipation and longing. And then, as if drawn by an invisible force, your lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss. It’s a kiss filled with all the emotions that have been building between you, a kiss that bridges the gap between friendship and something more.

As the kiss deepens, Max’s arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. The world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you under the moonlit sky.

When you finally pull apart, your foreheads rest against each other, your breaths mingling. Max’s voice is a gentle murmur against your lips. “I don’t want to rush anything. But I also don’t want to pretend that this connection we have isn’t real.”

You meet his gaze, your eyes reflecting the same sincerity. “I don’t want to pretend either. Max, I want to give this — give us — a chance.”

A genuine smile graces Max’s lips and he kisses your forehead in reassurance. “Then let’s take it one step at a time.”

***

“Where to now?” Max asks, his hand lightly touching your arm as the yacht crew busies themselves with docking procedures.

You hesitate, the reality of your situation setting in. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I … I moved here from my home country to be with Charles.”

Max looks concerned. “You can’t stay with him, not after everything.”

“No, definitely not.” You exhale deeply, feeling the weight of the situation. “I’ll figure something out. Maybe find a hotel for a few days.”

Before you can say more, Max interjects, “Stay with me.”

You look at him, a bit taken aback. “Are you sure? We’re still navigating whatever this is between us.”

He nods, his gaze steady and sincere. “I know. But I also know you shouldn’t be alone right now. You can take the guest room or,” he pauses, a hint of mischief in his eyes, “the master bedroom, if you prefer.”

A blush creeps up your cheeks at his teasing tone but his offer feels genuine. “Alright but only if you promise not to snore.”

Max chuckles, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as the two of you head off the yacht. “Deal.”

The familiarity of Max’s penthouse greets you as you step inside. It's comforting and safe, an oasis to escape the shattered memories that line the Monaco streets.

While you unpack, Max makes dinner. The two of you eat in comfortable silence, the city lights casting a soft glow through the apartment.

“Thank you for this,” you say, gesturing around the dining room, the food, the moment. “It’s more than I could’ve ever asked for.”

Max meets your gaze, his blue eyes reflecting warmth and understanding. “You’re not alone in this. Whatever comes next, we’ll face it together.”

The night unfolds, a sense of peace settling between you. Whether it's the soft hum of the city below or the comforting presence of Max beside you, you drift into a deep, restful sleep.

Waking up the next morning, the events of the past weeks feel like a distant memory. But the man beside you, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist, is a calming reminder of new beginnings.

With Max by your side, you feel ready to face whatever challenges lie ahead, knowing that no matter what, you’re not alone.

***

“Are you ready for the madness?” Max asks, offering you a hand as you step out of the car, the roar of the crowd at Zandvoort Circuit immediately evident.

Taking a deep breath, you nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

The two of you walk hand-in-hand towards the paddock, drawing attention from fans, crew, and media alike. Whispers spread like wildfire but neither of you flinch. Together, you are a united front.

Suddenly, Charles appears from around the corner, his gaze immediately locking onto yours. “So this is the big reveal?” he asks, dripping with condensing sarcasm.

Max steps protectively in front of you. “It’s none of your business anymore.”

Charles scoffs, his eyes darting to the Red Bull VIP pass around your neck. “Jumping ship already? You always were fickle.”

Ignoring the jab, you retort, “You lost any right to an opinion about my life the second you threw away our relationship.”

Charles’ eyes flare with anger. “And you,” he snaps, turning his attention to the reigning world champion, “you think you can just swoop in—”

Max cuts him off sharply, “I think you’ve said enough.”

“You two deserve each other,” Charles hisses before storming off.

Max wraps an arm around you, his touch reassuring. “Ignore him. Today is about the race, about us. Nothing else.”

You nod, taking a deep breath. “Thank you.”

The race itself is thrilling. From Red Bull garage, you watch as Max masterfully maneuvers his car, leading the pack with unparalleled skill. Every turn, every overtake steals your breath. And when he crosses the finish line, the roar of the crowd painting the grandstands orange is deafening.

As Max emerges from his car, he’s immediately surrounded by his team, celebrating yet another victory. And then, spotting you in the crowd, he breaks away, making a beeline towards you. Without a word, he pulls you into his arms, his lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss.

The world fades away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect moment. As you pull apart, Max’s eyes shine with triumph and love. “For you,” he murmurs, holding up the trophy.

Laughing, you pull him close once more. The challenges and confrontations of the day pale in comparison to the joy of this moment. Together, you and Max are unstoppable. And as you celebrate his victory, you know that this is just the beginning of many more triumphant moments to come.

***

The familiar sounds of roaring engines, the scent of burning rubber, and the vibrant energy of the paddock have been a part of your life for years. But being around the Red Bull team feels like a different world compared to your previous experiences with Ferrari.

Christian Horner welcomes you with open arms. “It’s great to have you on board,” he says during a quiet moment in the Red Bull motorhome. “Max seems happier than he’s been in a long time.”

You smile, thinking of the nights spent laughing with Max, the whispered conversations, and reflected dreams. “I’m grateful to be here. And to be with Max.”

Helmut Marko, although initially intimidating with his sharp gaze, soon warms up to you. “Just take care of our champ,” he jokes one evening after another successful race.

As the weeks pass, the bond between you and the Red Bull team strengthens. Daniel Ricciardo becomes a close friend, often joining you and Max for dinner or movie nights. Sergio Perez, with his playful humor, keeps everyone laughing, while the mechanics and engineers teach you the deeper intricacies of the sport.

Yet, it’s not all smooth sailing. The media, always hungry for a story, constantly probes into your relationship with Max. Rumors swirl, some true, most fabricated. Yet, through it all, Max remains your anchor, always supporting and defending you.

One evening, as the two of you relax in his suite after a grueling race weekend, Max turns to you, his eyes serious. “I know this world can be intense, the scrutiny constant. But I hope you know that you’re not alone in this.”

You nod, feeling a swell of emotion. “Being with you, being part of this team, it’s incredible. Like finding a family I never knew I needed.”

Max smiles, pulling you close. “That’s because you are family. And I promise, no matter what, we’ll face everyone and everything together.”

The season progresses, and as Max inches closer to clinching the championship title once again, the excitement within the Red Bull team reaches a fever pitch. Through every high and low, every victory and setback, you stand beside Max, cheering him on.

***

“Easy there!” Christian says, catching you just as the world starts to spin and your vision blurs.

The sound of concerned voices surrounds you as you struggle to stay conscious but it’s too much. Everything goes black.

When you come to, you’re lying on a couch in Red Bull hospitality, Max’s anxious face hovering above yours. “Hey,” he murmurs, relief evident in his voice. “You scared me there.”

“What ... what happened?” you ask, your voice weak.

“You fainted,” Daniel chimes in from nearby. “We’re getting a doctor to check on you.”

True to his word, a doctor soon arrives, performing a series of tests and asking various questions. He recommends a more thorough examination and you find yourself being whisked away to a nearby clinic.

As you await the results, Max holds your hand, his thumb gently stroking your skin. “I’m right here,” he assures you. “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it together.”

The doctor returns, a knowing smile on his face. “Congratulations,” he says, looking at both of you. “You’re going to be parents.”

The room goes silent, the weight of the revelation sinking in. You turn to Max, searching his face for a reaction. “I’m sorry. I ... I didn’t expect this. It’s so soon.”

Max pulls you close, his eyes glassy with tears of joy. “Life has a funny way of surprising us,” he murmurs. “But I know one thing for sure. I can’t imagine having a family with anyone else.”

Your emotions swirl, a mix of surprise, joy, and fear. “Are you sure? What about your career? The media?”

Max silences you with a gentle kiss. “None of that matters. The only thing I care about is us. Our family.”

Tears roll down your cheeks, touched by his words. “I love you,” you whisper, heart full to overflowing.

Max grins, his blue eyes shining. “And I love you. This might be unexpected but it’s the best surprise of my life.”

***

“Three-time World Champion! How does that feel?” A journalist thrusts a microphone towards Max moments after his astounding win in Qatar.

“It’s surreal,” Max responds, his gaze seeking you out among the crowd. “Every championship is special but this one ... it’s different.”

The winter months are a haven of privacy for the two of you in your own little bubble. As the world speculates about the upcoming racing season, you and Max nest away from prying eyes, savoring the anticipation of your growing family.

However, when the 2024 season kicks off, it’s impossible to hide your baby bump any longer. Whispers ripple through the crowd as you walk through the paddock with Max for the first day of preseason testing.

“It’s so obvious now!”

“They look so happy together.”

“She’s glowing.”

But one voice rises above the rest from the sea of murmurs, filled with venom. “So this is your grand plan? Trap Max by getting pregnant?”

You turn to find Charles, his face contorted with anger. You take a deep breath, preparing to face the storm. “Charles, this really isn’t the place—”

Max steps forward, partially blocking you from Charles’ view, his voice colder than ice. “What do you want?”

Charles scoffs, looking you up and down with disdain. “Just wanted to see the spectacle for myself. You always did know how to play the game.”

Max’s eyes flash with anger, his posture tense. “Let me make this clear. You don’t get to disrespect Y/N or our relationship. You lost that right a long time ago.”

“You think this will make him stay with you?” Charles sneers towards you. “That he won’t get tired of you just like he did with all the others?”

Before you can respond, Daniel steps in, his presence commanding and the joking smile that usually graces his face nowhere to be found. “Enough. Show some respect.”

Christian, overhearing the commotion, joins the fray. “Is there a problem here?” he asks, voice firm.

Charles hesitates, glancing around at the united front against him. “No,” he finally mutters, turning on his heel and walking away.

Max’s grip on your hand tightens, his expression stormy. “You know you’re never alone in this, right?” he asks.

You nod, your voice soft but resolute. “I do. And I know you’ll always have my back. Just like I’ll always have yours.”

He squeezes your hand. “Always. Nothing and no one can ever come between us. Our family is the most important thing in my life.”

***

The soft hum of chatter surrounds the preschool’s main entrance. Parents eagerly await their children, discussing the excitement of the first day. You stand beside Max, his hand resting protectively on your protruding belly.

“Look, Mama!” A little voice exclaims and two giggling children rush towards you — your daughter, Sophie, and a boy with familiar dark hair.

Before you can respond, another voice joins the fray. “Henri! Over here!”

You turn, finding Charles standing there, Elise by his side, her arm entwined with his. Their eyes meet yours, a mixture of surprise and recognition.

Sophie hugs her little friend, Henri. “This is my new best friend!”

Max bends down, ruffling Sophie’s hair. “That’s great, liefje.” He then stands and addresses Charles, his tone neutral, “Seems our children have taken a liking to each other.”

Charles nods, attempting a smile. “It appears so.”

There’s an awkward silence, the past hanging heavily between you all.

Finally, Elise speaks, her voice quivering, “I’m sorry ... for everything. I never expected things to turn out like this.”

You meet her gaze, seeing genuine remorse. “Life is full of surprises. But it led me to Max and he is the best thing that’s ever been mine.”

Max adds, “What’s important is that we’re all here for our kids. Let’s not make our past their burden.”

Charles sighs, rubbing his temples. “You’re right. I regret many things but right now, Henri is my world and I want the best for him.”

You place a hand on your belly, feeling the tiny kicks. “Our children have a chance at a fresh start, a friendship untainted by the history of their parents. Let’s not stand in their way.”

The two children, oblivious to the emotional weight of the moment, tug at your arms. “Can we go to the park? Pretty please.” Sophie asks, her eyes shining with excitement.

You smile down at her, “Of course.”

As your two families part ways, there’s a sense of closure. The past, with its pain and betrayal, has been acknowledged, but the future, the innocent laughter of your children, holds promise. Life has moved on, leading each of you down different paths, but in this moment, there’s newfound unity in the shared hope for a brighter tomorrow.

[redheadspark]

May I have Azriel from ACOTAR with #10?

A/N - AWWW Adoranle for Azriel! Thanks for requesting this, anon!

Warm

Summary - Azriel wants to keep warm on his day off

Warnings - Just fluff :)

You felt it again your toes at first: his own toes being cold.

It made you shiver and shake a bit in the embrace you were in, though the rest of the body was pressed up behind you with muscular arms around your waist and front and knees against your own.  It was a safe and comfortable position, something you and your mate have down with one another for centuries.  Both of a sense of protection, given that your mate’s back was to the door at all times in case of a bush or attack.  But mainly because he liked holding you, a sense of peace was for him when he had you in his arms.

It dated back to before you were mates, out on a spy recon mission together and needing to huddle together for warmth one winter night during a massive storm.  Tucked in your small makeshift tent, he held you close to keep you warm and safe, before you both found yourself falling for one another throughout the night.  He leaned down to kiss you, trusting his instincts and his gut more than his intellect that was telling him that it was a bad idea to kiss his partner. 

But that kiss led to a courtship, then being mates, and now being married for over 300 years.

“Mmmph,” You heard behind yourself against your neck as you blinked slowly and looked out at the massive windows in front of you, massive snowflakes falling from the sky and hitting the cobbled streets in front of the Townhouse.  A fire appeared in the massive fireplace of the bedroom, warmth instantly filling the room along with an orange tint and glow along the four-post bed you and your mate were snuggled in.

The first signs of winter came through Velaris, with the howling winds from the mountains bringing in the first snowfalls and bringing the holiday cheer that would be Winter Solstice.  Shops were open for longer hours, plenty of businesses were conducting sales and bundling items for the holiday to come, and an all-around sense of joy was within the busy town.  You could barely hear some of the citizens already out and about, the sun was not evident since it was hidden behind the gray clouds that were dumping the snow onto Velaris.

“Go back to sleep,” You felt in a whisper against your neck, you humming as you reached down to lace your fingers together against your bare stomach.  

“I will once you warm up your toes,” You replied groggily, the body behind you shifting a bit as you felt his foot push out from under the covers, pointing in the same direction of the roaring fireplace.  

“There, happy?” He asked in a huff, his lips moving along your skin as you chuckled and shifted.  Turning to face the other side, you finally saw the face of your mate: Azriel.  Sleepiness was in his eyes, his bare chest was now pressed in front of yours that had some small scars that were now silver lines along his skin, and his inky black hair which was short and mostly well-kept was tossed against the dark green pillow, and his bright hazel orbs of eyes shined from the dancing light of the fireplace.  No matter how many years you two were married and mates, you still got lost in his eyes and fell in love all over again.

“It’s the first day of our vacation, of course, I’m happy,” You remind him, seeing him sleepily smile back at you as you lean over to peck him on the cheek.  Both you and Azriel were looking for some time together, the past several months were busy with recon missions and visits to other Courts.  Not that you two hated your jobs: you both loved it.  Serving Night Court and helping Rhysand and the others keep Night Court safe.  

You would defend Night Court with all your life, even on the brink of exhaustion and worn muscles.  But for the next few weeks, with peace amongst the other Courts thanks to new treaties and alliances, there was no need for you and Azriel to go out and be busy.  Rhysand made sure of that, giving you both at least two weeks to yourselves just in time for Winter Solstice.  

“What should we do for our first official day of vacation?” You asked him in a tease against his cheek, about to pull away from him before he gently grabbed your chin within his fingers to keep you close.  You stared lovingly at him, breathing in the scent he had and carried ever since you two became mates.  Tree pine, orange slices, and something that reminded you of a storm or a Custer of clouds. 

“Stay in this bed, all day long, so you can warm up my toes with your warm feet,” he murmured, tracing your nose with his.  Seeing him plaint like this, no Truth Teller strapped on his leg, no wearing his leathers, simply open and vulnerable for only his mate to enjoy made you proud of him.  He came so far in his life, from his rough childhood and pain to how having a mate at his side and no fears that would haunt him.

It was not easy being his mate and wife, you knew that from the moment you kissed him and became his mate.  You knew the long nights he would be away on a solo recon mission, or even when you two would work together.  Both of you being spies for Night Court, sometimes that meant your emotions would be on the back burner.  You both had fights and spats because of close calls and injuries, but you’d never go to bed mad at one another.  It was a promise you two made when it got together: you were still mates through and through. 

But it would be such a sight for others to see Azriel, bare under the sheets with his mate without a worry.  Especially Cassian, who would make fun of him for days.

“What if we get hungry?” You asked in a teasing tone. Azriel nearly rolled his eyes as you laughed and he peppered you with kisses.  He was about to pull you in within his awaiting arms but you shoved him away, hearing him groan in protest as you slipped out of bed.  Although you were bare, with your hair cascading down your back, you looked behind your shoulder and saw Azriel sprawled out on the bed and watching you with love and intrigue in his orbs.

“Join me in the shower before we have breakfast in bed then, hm?” You asked, walking off before he could even protest.  You never heard him move out of bed fast enough as you laughed and he bombarded you in the bathroom.

These two weeks will be memorable.

The End

[ravensliterature]

If you are taking more requests could you make more Magneto (Erik) x men 97 x reader with fluff?

A/N: Of course! Some Magneto (Erik) fluffy times coming right up!

pairing: Magneto (Erik) x Human!GN!Reader

warnings: NA

w/c: 784

Prompt: Magneto is having a nightmare, and the reader decides to provide their partner comfort.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was tossing, turning, sweat dripping down his brow as they furrowed in distress. Erik has many demons that he fought through his lifetime and you had done your best to help him fight each one. He had seen the worst humanity had to offer - Yet you gave him hope. Hope that humanity could be and do better. You were better than any human he had seen before.

You slept soundly next to him, until a cry erupted in the night. Your eyes fluttered open alert. A cry in the X-Mansion could be caused by any number of things. An enemy, intruder, protestors, Nightcrawler stubbing his toes again. You lifted yourself abruptly to a sitting position to see your paramore to your left gripping his chest with a silk sheet in hand. Erik’s breathing was heavy and his head shifted from side-to-side, clearly having a nightmare.

You placed a hand on his chest, gently calling out to him, “Erik…”

He continued to toss around causing you to say his name a little louder, waking him from slumber.

As Erik's eyes snapped open, they were wide with panic, still clouded by the remnants of his nightmare. The room around him seemed to flicker in and out of focus as he struggled to orient himself in the present moment. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breaths shallow and ragged, as if he were still trapped in the depths of whatever haunted his dreams.

You could see the tension etched into every line of his face, the strain of years of struggle and conflict manifesting in the furrow of his brow and the tightness of his jaw. The moonlight streaming through the window cast long shadows across the room, painting his features in a haunting chiaroscuro.

Without hesitation, you leaned closer, your hand still resting gently on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm. "Erik," you repeated softly, your voice a soothing melody cutting through the darkness. "It's okay, you're safe. You're here with me."

Slowly, as if emerging from the depths of a turbulent sea, Erik's breathing began to steady, the frantic rhythm gradually giving way to a more measured cadence. His eyes met yours, still clouded with remnants of fear but slowly clearing as he focused on your presence beside him.

"Y/N," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "I… I'm sorry."

You shook your head gently, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. "There's nothing to apologize for, Erik. Nightmares happen. You're not alone."

His gaze softened, a flicker of gratitude shining in his eyes as he reached out to grasp your hand, anchoring himself to the comforting reality of your touch. In that moment, amidst the chaos of his inner demons and the uncertainty of the world outside, there was solace in the simple act of connection, in the knowledge that you were there to weather the storm by his side.

As the tension slowly ebbed from Erik's body, he let out a long, shaky breath, his fingers intertwining with yours in a silent plea for reassurance. The echoes of his nightmare lingered like ghostly whispers in the air, but with each passing moment, they faded into the background, overshadowed by the warmth of your presence.

Gently, you brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, your touch light and comforting against his skin. "Do you want to talk about it?" you asked softly, your voice a tender invitation to share the burden of his fears.

Erik hesitated for a moment, his gaze drifting to the window where the moon hung like a silver coin in the night sky. Memories, both distant and recent, tugged at the edges of his consciousness, fragments of a past that refused to stay buried.

"It was… a memory," he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Of a time when I… failed. When I couldn't protect those I cared about."

You squeezed his hand gently, offering silent encouragement as he struggled to put words to the ghosts that haunted him. In the dim light of the room, the shadows seemed to dance around him, mirroring the turmoil of his thoughts.

"I know the feeling," you replied softly, your own memories of loss and pain echoing in the quiet space between you. "But you're not alone anymore, Erik. You have people who care about you, who stand by you no matter what."

For a moment, there was a fragile silence, as if the weight of the world hung suspended in the air. But then, slowly, Erik's features softened, the lines of tension smoothing away as he turned to face you fully, his eyes searching yours for some semblance of solace.

"You're right," he murmured, a faint glimmer of hope stirring in his gaze. "Thank you, Y/N. For being here."

Without a word, you leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, a silent promise of solidarity and support. In that moment, amidst the echoes of the past and the uncertainties of the future, there was only the simple truth of your connection, a beacon of light guiding them through the darkness.

[novaursa]

Between Pride and Fire (prelude to war)

- Summary: It was a challenge of the hunt that drew the lion to you, but it was your fire that made him yours.

- Paring: targ!reader/Jason Lannister

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: the flint

- Next part: stolen crown

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @punk-in-docs @barnes70stark

The morning air was crisp and cool as you stood at the gates of the Red Keep, your crimson cloak billowing gently in the breeze. At your side, Jason Lannister wore his customary expression of smug amusement, though a flicker of impatience tugged at the corner of his mouth. The arrival of Rhaenyra and Daemon had been expected for hours, yet no welcoming party had been summoned to greet the heir to the throne. It was a slight so deliberate that even Jason had found it insulting.

“They couldn’t have mustered even a septon and a handful of guards?” Jason muttered under his breath, adjusting the lion clasp at his collar. “I’ve seen beggars treated with more fanfare than this.”

“They intend to make a point,” you replied softly, your silver hair gleaming as the sunlight broke through the clouds. “But Rhaenyra will notice—and so will Daemon.”

Jason chuckled darkly, his green eyes shining with usual mischief. “Then the Hand might find himself in need of a new throne room by the time your uncle’s done with him.”

Before you could reply, the sound of hooves broke the silence. You turned your gaze toward the bridge leading into the Keep, where a procession now approached. At its center rode Daemon Targaryen, unmistakable atop the sleek black mare he favored. His silver hair, streaked with faint lines of age, whipped gently in the wind as his sharp eyes swept over the waiting courtyard. At his side rode Rhaenyra, radiant despite the swell of her pregnant belly, her expression set into a carefully composed mask of serenity. Behind them, Jace and Luke rode tall and proud on their steeds, their silvery curls unmistakable against their dark cloaks. Little Aegon clung tightly to a nursemaid on a pony, and baby Viserys was cradled in another maid’s arms in a small, covered carriage.

Jason stepped forward with the effortless confidence he always wore, his voice carrying as the party reached the gate. “Well, look who has graced us with their presence at last—the rogue prince and the realm’s rightful heir!”

Daemon’s smirk was faint but unmistakable as he brought his horse to a halt, dismounting with an easy grace. “No banners, no horns?” he quipped dryly, his sharp eyes flicking over the empty courtyard. “What is this, Lannister? Have the Hightowers misplaced their hospitality?”

Jason bowed theatrically, his tone dripping with exaggerated politeness. “It seems the welcome party has lost its way, Prince Daemon. I assure you, my wife and I stand ready to compensate for the oversight.”

You stepped forward as Rhaenyra dismounted, reaching for her hands with a warm smile. “Sister,” you said softly, your voice laced with affection. “Welcome home.”

Rhaenyra’s cool expression melted slightly as she squeezed your hands. “It feels far less like home with every visit,” she murmured, though her tone held more exhaustion than bitterness. Her violet eyes flickered toward Jason. “I trust you’ve been keeping my sister entertained.”

“Endlessly,” Jason replied with a grin, though his gaze drifted toward Daemon, who was now surveying the Red Keep with a narrowed eye. “Though I’d advise you to close your eyes once you step inside, Prince Daemon. The new decor is ghastly. Seven-pointed stars as far as the eye can see—makes me long for the banners of fire and blood.”

Daemon’s mouth curved into something sharper, though his eyes were dark. “Is that so?”

Jason shrugged, his tone light but pointed. “I fear I might burst into flames if I linger too long. A Lannister’s soul is rarely devout enough to survive the constant gaze of the gods.”

“Or too prideful,” you muttered under your breath, though Jason’s smirk only widened.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened as she looked toward the towering entrance of the Keep. “They’ve covered the Targaryen heraldry?”

“To the last dragon,” Jason replied smoothly, though his voice carried an edge. “I suspect the queen would rather her banners hang than ours.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, though she said nothing. Beside her, Jace and Luke dismounted with practiced ease, their expressions wary as they looked up at the stone walls of the Keep. You stepped forward to greet them both, placing a hand briefly on Jace’s shoulder.

“You’ve grown,” you said softly, offering him a smile.

Jace gave you a faint grin in return, though his eyes carried the same guarded wariness as his mother’s. “It’s good to see you, Aunt.”

Luke nodded beside him, though he looked less at ease, his gaze darting to his parents as though seeking reassurance.

Jason glanced at the boys with a touch of amusement before turning back to Daemon. “A strong brood,” he remarked, though there was no hint of mockery in his tone. “And yet, I pity them for what they’ll see inside these halls.”

Daemon’s smirk vanished as he met Jason’s gaze directly. “Then let us not delay it,” he said curtly, motioning for the procession to move forward.

You fell into step beside Rhaenyra, walking at her pace as Jason lingered just behind with Daemon. The boys followed close, with Aegon and Viserys tended to carefully by their nursemaids.

“Jason wasn’t lying, was he?” Rhaenyra murmured softly as she glanced up at the stone archways. “Even the entryway reeks of their influence.”

“They’ve taken much of the castle,” you replied, your voice quiet. “But they cannot take us.”

Rhaenyra gave you a small, weary smile, though her hand lingered briefly on her belly as she walked. “That remains to be seen.”

Behind you, Jason’s voice drifted through the air, as light and irreverent as ever. “Careful, Daemon. You’ll find little welcome here unless you’ve brought a prayer book.”

Daemon snorted faintly, though his expression was as sharp as ever as he swept his gaze over the castle walls. “I’d sooner burn a prayer book than read it.”

Jason grinned, nudging Daemon lightly with his elbow. “Then we are of one mind, my prince. And I’d wager we’re not the only ones.”

The laughter that followed was dry and faint, but it cut through the tension that hung heavy in the air. You glanced back over your shoulder, your gaze meeting Jason’s for the briefest moment. He offered you a wink, as if to say I told you so, before falling into step beside Daemon once more.

As the gates of the Keep swallowed your family whole, you couldn’t help but feel a sense of foreboding settle in your chest. The castle had changed, its halls darkened and its warmth stripped away.

But you were not afraid—not with Jason at your side, your children behind you, and fire still burning in your blood.

The throne room of the Red Keep was a cavern of whispers and heavy expectation, its cold stone walls adorned with banners bearing the seven-pointed star instead of dragons. Light from high, arched windows cast sharp angles across the floor, where the lords and ladies of court had gathered in uneasy silence. At the heart of it all sat Otto Hightower on the Iron Throne, his expression smug and composed as he presided in King Viserys’s stead. To his right stood Queen Alicent, her face carefully schooled into serenity, though her sharp green gaze swept across the chamber with deliberate intent. Beside her were her sons—Prince Aegon, lounging lazily in his seat with faint boredom, and Aemond, who stood tall and tense, his gaze cold and unblinking. Princess Helaena sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, humming something softly to herself.

It was a stage set for conflict, the air thick with tension. And at its center stood Vaemond Velaryon, his voice ringing with righteous indignation as he addressed the court.

“The Driftwood Throne belongs to me,” Vaemond declared, his tone sharp and unyielding, his eyes blazing as they swept over the chamber. “It is my blood that runs true. My name that carries the weight of history.”

His words echoed off the stone, the court murmuring in hushed voices as they looked on. At the foot of the throne, Rhaenyra stood tall, unbowed and regal, though her face was tense with quiet fury. Daemon lingered just behind her, his arms crossed and his eyes dark as they fixed on Vaemond with a predator’s calm.

To the left of the princess, you stood beside Jason, your crimson gown draped in a way that spoke of understated Targaryen power. Jason, ever defiant, had his arm just a little too close to yours for decorum’s sake, his gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Leona and Loren flanked you both, standing tall and unyielding with expressions that mirrored their father’s quiet confidence.

“Gods save me,” Jason muttered under his breath, leaning slightly toward you with that familiar tone of dry irreverence. “This man drones on like a maester who loves his own voice.”

“Jason,” you whispered sharply, though you couldn’t suppress the flicker of amusement tugging at your lips.

“Does he think if he shouts it loudly enough, we’ll all simply agree?” Jason added, ignoring the sharp look you shot him. He straightened slightly, his green eyes narrowing as they flicked to Otto and Alicent. “Mark me—this was their plan all along. A show of strength disguised as a plea for justice.”

You didn’t respond, though your fingers curled faintly around the fabric of your gown as Vaemond continued.

“Lucerys Velaryon is no true Velaryon!” Vaemond spat, his voice ringing across the hall like a blade striking iron. “His blood is tainted. His name is a lie.”

At that, the chamber erupted into murmurs, the tension splintering as nobles whispered amongst themselves. Jason let out a derisive scoff loud enough for those nearest to hear.

“Careful, my lord,” Jason drawled, his voice carrying faintly across the room. “You risk choking on your own words.”

Vaemond shot Jason a sharp glare, though he did not deign to reply. Instead, he turned his gaze back to Rhaenyra, his lip curling. “You cannot defend this farce, princess. The Driftwood Throne will not pass to a bastard.”

Rhaenyra stepped forward, her posture unwavering despite the insult hurled at her son. Her face was pale with restrained anger, but her voice was steady and clear as she addressed the court.

“My son, Lucerys Velaryon, is the rightful heir to Driftmark,” she said, her tone carrying both authority and quiet defiance. “My father, King Viserys, himself decreed it so. The blood of the dragon and the sea flows in his veins—”

“If he carries Velaryon blood at all,” Vaemond interrupted, his words like venom.

The court fell deathly silent, all eyes turning to Rhaenyra as she stilled. Her lips parted to speak, but before she could reply, the heavy doors to the throne room groaned open with a resounding echo.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen. The first of his name. King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. And protector of the Realm.”

The voice of the herald rang through the chamber, and every head turned as the announcement shattered the tense stillness. Gasps and murmurs erupted as the gathered court watched the doors part to reveal the king himself.

Viserys had returned.

The sight of him struck like a thunderclap. The king moved slowly, every step measured as he leaned heavily on his cane. His body was bent with age and illness, his skin pallid and marked with decay, yet there was an undeniable power to his presence. A golden mask covered half his face, shone faintly in the light, while the crown of Targaryen kings rested proudly upon his brow.

Beside you, Jason straightened, his face shifting into something rare—quiet respect. “The king returns,” he murmured, his voice low but clear. “The Hightowers won’t like this.”

You turned your gaze to Rhaenyra and Daemon, whose expressions were frozen in a mix of surprise and relief. Rhaenyra’s lips parted slightly, her shoulders easing as her father, her king, stepped into the hall. Even Vaemond faltered, his self-assured poise shifting to uncertainty as the man he had not expected to see began his slow, deliberate walk toward the throne.

As Viserys moved forward, the Iron Throne loomed before him like an unforgiving mountain of swords, yet the weight of the moment was all his own.

And though he trembled, the court trembled more.

King Viserys I Targaryen, though gaunt and decayed, wore his crown like a true king. His breathing was shallow, but his voice was steady as he looked upon the gathered court.

“I confess myself surprised,” Viserys began, his words cutting through the silence like the keenest blade. “I was under the impression that Lord Corlys Velaryon had named Lucerys Velaryon as his rightful heir to Driftmark.” His gaze lingered on Vaemond Velaryon, whose face had turned crimson with suppressed anger.

From the base of the throne, Otto Hightower shifted, stepping forward from where he had been perched, his expression tight but careful. “Your Grace,” Otto began, his tone measured, “Lord Vaemond presents himself to ensure the Driftwood Throne passes to its proper heir. There are questions—grave ones—that require your judgment.”

The king turned his head slowly, his weary eyes narrowing at the Hand. “Questions?” Viserys rasped, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “Are we to question a man’s own wishes now?”

Otto opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Viserys raised his trembling hand to silence him. “Enough. I will hear it from a voice I trust.” He turned his gaze outward, sweeping over the court until it settled on Princess Rhaenys Targaryen.

“Princess Rhaenys,” Viserys called, his voice carrying through the hall, “you are Lord Corlys’s wife. Who does the Driftwood Throne belong to, in your husband’s absence?”

All heads turned to the Queen Who Never Was. Rhaenys stepped forward, her silver hair glinting beneath the light, her expression composed and unreadable as ever. She let the pause linger for a heartbeat longer than needed, before speaking.

“Lucerys Velaryon,” Rhaenys declared firmly, her voice calm and unshaken. “He is Corlys’s chosen heir. His lordship’s blood runs through the boy’s veins, and it is his birthright.” Her violet eyes cut to Vaemond, daring him to object.

The murmurs that swept through the court were like waves crashing against rocks, loud and turbulent. Vaemond’s face twisted, his fists clenching tightly at his sides.

Rhaenys continued before he could interject. “Moreover, my lord husband and I accept a union between our houses—a marriage alliance between Lucerys Velaryon and my granddaughter, Rhaena Targaryen.”

This drew gasps and exclamations from the gathered nobles, who immediately understood the implications. Jason, standing tall beside you, let out a low hum of approval, murmuring, “A fine move. Seals the matter in blood.”

You said nothing, your gaze fixed on Rhaenyra, who stood proudly beside her father’s throne, her shoulders squared as the tide turned in her favor.

Viserys’s lips curved faintly, his frail voice carrying across the room. “An alliance of fire and sea… I find it fitting. And I declare the matter settled.” He turned his sunken eyes toward Vaemond, whose face now betrayed fury. “Lucerys Velaryon is the heir to Driftmark.”

The court erupted into murmurs once more. Vaemond stepped forward, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his expression livid as he pointed a shaking finger toward Rhaenyra. “This is an insult! You would have me bow to a bastard—bastards!”

The word rang through the throne room like a hammer striking an anvil. The murmurs fell to a hush, and every eye turned to the scene unfolding before them.

Daemon Targaryen stepped forward then, his expression as calm as a still lake, though his eyes gleamed with something dangerous. He smirked faintly, tilting his head. “Say it again,” he said softly, his tone almost teasing. “I dare you.”

Vaemond’s nostrils flared as he turned toward Daemon, his rage blinding him to the danger. “They are bastards,” he snarled, his voice rising. “And she is a whore.”

The court froze. Rhaenyra’s face paled, her hands curling into fists. Jason’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword, his sharp gaze flickering between Vaemond and Daemon. Leona and Loren stood rigidly, their faces hard.

Daemon’s smirk widened ever so slightly as he murmured, “As you wish.”

The next moment happened faster than anyone could react. Daemon’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, Dark Sister, and with a single smooth motion, the blade flashed through the air. Vaemond’s voice cut off mid-breath as his head was severed cleanly from his body. It tumbled to the floor with a sickening thud, rolling a few paces before coming to rest in a pool of blood.

The silence that followed was deafening.

The court was frozen in place, eyes wide with shock and horror. Queen Alicent gasped aloud, her hand flying to her mouth, while Otto Hightower’s face went pale with fury. Even Prince Aegon, lazy and irreverent, sat up straight, his wine forgotten.

Daemon stepped back calmly, wiping the blade of Dark Sister with an idle flick of his wrist as the headless body crumpled to the ground. He turned his head slightly, smirking up at the Iron Throne as though nothing had happened.

“Mind your tongue,” he said evenly, as if offering advice to the corpse.

Viserys, still seated on the throne, looked down at the scene with hollow eyes. The king exhaled, the sound long and weary. “Settle his remains to Driftmark,” he commanded faintly, his voice cracking with age. “And let it be done.”

The room remained silent as guards moved hesitantly to remove Vaemond’s body, their movements slow and careful, as though afraid to disturb the stillness.

Jason broke the silence at last, leaning toward you with an expression of wry amusement. “Remind me never to speak ill of your sister,” he whispered dryly.

You shot him a sharp look, though your heart still raced. This was not just a man’s death—it was a declaration of where power lay. You turned your gaze to Rhaenyra, whose face remained composed, though her shoulders were taut with tension. She had won today, but at a bloody cost.

And as the court slowly began to stir again, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was only the beginning of something far darker.

The air inside your chambers was warm, heavy with the lingering scent of myrrh and lavender from the oils you used earlier in the bath. Sunlight spilled lazily through the open windows, gilding the ornate crimson and gold furnishings that Jason had ensured made their way from Casterly Rock. The familiar comforts of the room should have calmed you, but your hands trembled slightly as you adjusted the silk sash of your gown, your mind still replaying the events from the throne room.

Viserys had returned—he had chosen Rhaenyra, solidifying Lucerys’s claim. But the cost had been high, Vaemond’s head lying in a pool of blood at the steps of the Iron Throne. That memory lingered like smoke in your thoughts.

“Why do you look like you’re dressing for war, my love?” Jason’s voice broke through the silence, smooth and laced with that dry humor you’d come to know so well.

You turned toward him, only to find him reclining in a chair near the hearth, his legs sprawled out in that infuriatingly relaxed way of his. His doublet was half unlaced, his curls mussed from where he’d run his hands through them earlier. Green eyes watched you with an intensity that could melt steel, though his smile carried that familiar roguish edge.

“This dinner will feel like a battlefield,” you replied dryly, pulling your sleeves up over your shoulders. “Your wit won’t save us if Daemon decides he’s had enough and starts swinging Dark Sister again.”

Jason barked out a short laugh, sitting up slightly. “I daresay the prince has had his fill of blood today. Even he must find beheadings exhausting after the first one.” His gaze swept over you then, lingering far too long for your liking. “Now come here. You’re making me nervous with all that pacing.”

“I’ve no time for your nonsense,” you muttered, turning your back to him as you reached for the golden pins that would secure your gown. “Viserys insisted the entire family attend—entire being the key word. I imagine we’ll need every shred of diplomacy to survive the night.”

Jason rose with deliberate slowness, his footsteps soft as he approached. “Diplomacy is for Hightowers,” he murmured behind you, his voice low as his hands settled suddenly on your waist. You startled at the touch, your breath catching as he leaned in close, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. “We have better things to concern ourselves with.”

“Jason,” you warned, though the word lacked bite.

He hummed in acknowledgment, his fingers tracing the edge of your gown’s laces as though inspecting them. “Why must you wear so many damned pins?” he complained. “What’s the point of dressing up so finely when I’m only going to take it all off again?”

You turned slightly, shooting him a sharp look over your shoulder. “Because you won’t keep your hands to yourself at a family dinner.”

His grin widened, wicked and unapologetic. “Have I ever pretended otherwise?”

Before you could respond, his hands slid up to the silk fastenings of your gown, loosening them with deliberate ease. “Jason,” you protested, swatting at his hands as he untied one ribbon. “Stop that. I’m trying to dress.”

“And I’m trying to undress you,” he replied smoothly, his lips brushing the back of your neck again, igniting a warmth that curled low in your belly. “Seems we’re at an impasse.”

He pulled at another ribbon, loosening the bodice of your gown enough that it slid an inch lower down your shoulders. “Jason,” you hissed, though your voice came out weaker now, betrayed by the way his touch sent sparks through you. “The dinner—”

“Can wait,” he interrupted softly, spinning you to face him. The green of his eyes seemed darker now, shadowed by the heat building between you. “I’ll not have you fretting over Hightowers and politics when I’ve scarcely had you to myself all day.”

You opened your mouth to argue further, but Jason kissed you before you could find the words. It was slow at first, almost teasing, his lips capturing yours with practiced ease. He deepened it then, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw as his other arm looped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The half-laced bodice of your gown slipped further, baring the curve of your shoulder as his hand traced your spine.

“Jason,” you breathed as he pulled back just enough to speak. “We need to stop, others are waiting for us.”

“Let them wait,” he countered, his voice low and rough now, the smugness replaced by raw desire. “The gods themselves couldn’t stop me.”

Before you could reply, Jason lifted you effortlessly, spinning slightly to place you atop the polished oak table nearby. The cool surface against your thighs was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body as he stepped between your legs, his hands spreading your gown’s skirts further.

“Jason—” you began, though the way he looked at you stole the words from your tongue. His gaze swept over you—half-dressed and breathless—like a man admiring something precious yet dangerously his. “The servants will come—”

“Then I’ll have the door barred,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you again. His hands pushed the fabric further aside, baring your thighs to his touch. His fingers traced slowly up your leg, igniting a trail of fire wherever he touched.

“You always strive to make a scandal,” you whispered, though your voice betrayed you, soft and wanting.

“Say what you will,” Jason replied, his voice dark and low as he tugged at the belt of his own attire, “but you’ll not deny that you’ve missed this.”

Before you could retort, he guided himself inside you with familiar ease, filling you completely with a single, practiced thrust. A gasp escaped your lips as your arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer. He groaned softly against your mouth, his body pressing flush against yours as he began to move, setting a rhythm that was both deliberate and relentless.

“You feel like home,” he whispered roughly, his forehead resting against yours as his hips snapped forward again, drawing a moan from deep within you. “Always have.”

Your fingers tangled in his curls, your breaths coming faster as your bodies found their rhythm, wild and unrestrained as ever. Jason kissed you again, deep and possessive, swallowing every sound you made as he held you close.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured between kisses, his voice husky with effort. “We should have another babe.”

His words caught you off guard, though his pace didn’t falter, each thrust sending you arching closer to him. “Another?” you managed breathlessly, a sharp gasp escaping as he angled himself just so.

Jason grinned against your skin, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Why not? Seven is a fine number, but eight…” He punctuated his words with another thrust, his hands gripping your hips tightly. “Eight feels perfect.”

“You’re mad,” you gasped, though you were too far gone to care. The pleasure he drew from you rose higher, your body trembling as his pace grew faster, more desperate. “Mad—”

“Mad for you,” he growled, his mouth finding yours again as he drove into you harder, his movements growing wilder, more frenzied. “Say yes.”

Your answer came in the form of a sharp cry as pleasure crashed over you like a wave, your body tightening around him as you came undone. Jason groaned deeply as he followed soon after, burying himself fully within you as his release shuddered through him.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, the only sounds in the room your ragged breaths and the faint rustle of silk. Jason rested his forehead against yours again, his hands smoothing gently over your back as though grounding you both.

“You’re a greedy man, Jason,” you whispered finally, though the soft smile on your lips betrayed you.

Jason grinned, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he replied, his voice smug but soft now.

You huffed a quiet laugh, though you didn’t pull away, content to rest in the warmth of his embrace for just a moment longer. The world beyond the chamber doors—the politics, the dangers, the dinner—could wait.

The dinner began with a quiet murmur that slowly grew into a lively hum. The long table in the great hall had been laid with the finest silver, ornate goblets catching the dim light of flickering candles. At the head of it all sat King Viserys, his frail frame sagging in his chair, though a content smile softened his sunken features. His crown tilted slightly atop his head as though even it had grown too heavy for him to bear. Beside him sat Alicent, her face composed and proper, though her knuckles whitened where her hands rested against the table.

On one side of the table sat her children: Aegon, already languidly toying with his wine cup; Aemond, sharp and observant as ever, his lone eye catching the candlelight; and Helaena, who muttered softly to herself as she played idly with a carved insect nestled between her slender fingers. Otto Hightower sat further down, his usual stoic demeanor a quiet reminder of his ever-looming influence.

On the other side sat your family. Jason, dressed in Lannister colors, lounged comfortably in his chair with a goblet in hand. His gaze flickered about the room, always alert despite the way he sprawled as if the chair belonged to him alone. Leona and Loren sat at his side—Leona’s mask gleaming like the sun, her scar hidden beneath its crafted splendor. Her brother, protective as ever, sat close to her, his eyes wary as they surveyed the table. Aemma, with her soft, curious features, sat beside you, watching the older children with wide eyes, her hands folded neatly in her lap as though she were trying to disappear.

Rhaenyra’s family rounded out the table. The Princess sat near you, her swollen belly unmistakable, though she bore it with the same regal air she always did. Daemon lounged beside her, his smirk ever-present but faint tonight, a hawkish gaze flickering across the room like a predator in its lair. Jace and Luke sat near their parents, their expressions uncertain, though Jace carried himself with a quiet pride that mirrored his mother’s. Across from them, Baela and Rhaena sat close together, their silver hair and violet eyes giving them the striking appearance of their Velaryon blood.

A trio of musicians strummed softly from the corner of the room, their gentle notes filling the silence as the meal began. For a time, all seemed calm—peaceful even—as plates were passed and goblets refilled. Jason had begun to relax beside you, muttering a jest under his breath about the overcooked meat as you subtly elbowed him.

Then, as the musicians’ tune shifted to something more lively, Jace stood from his seat, the scrape of his chair breaking the quiet hum of conversation. He crossed to where Leona sat, her mask catching the candlelight in ripples of gold. “Lady Leona,” he said, offering his hand with a polite bow of his head. “Would you honor me with this dance?”

Leona hesitated briefly, her fingers brushing the edge of her mask before she accepted his hand with grace, rising from her seat. Loren’s gaze followed them like a shadow as they moved to the cleared space near the musicians. Jace led her confidently into the first steps of the dance, his movements practiced but reverent, while Leona, elegant as ever, followed his lead.

Rhaenyra leaned slightly toward you then, her voice pitched low beneath the hum of conversation. “Your daughter dances beautifully,” she said with a faint, proud smile. “Jace has grown fond of her. He says she is stronger than most knights he’s met.”

You gave her a sidelong look, hearing something in her tone that gave you pause. “He flatters her.”

“Perhaps, but it would not be unfounded,” Rhaenyra replied. Her gaze lingered on the two dancing figures before turning back to you, her expression thoughtful. “What would you think of a match between them? Leona and Jace?”

Before you could answer, Jason sputtered audibly, choking on a mouthful of wine. You turned to see him wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, shooting you and Rhaenyra a disbelieving look. “A match?” he managed, his voice only half under control. “My daughter’s hand to your son?” His green eyes narrowed slightly, though his tone remained light, masking the protective edge in his words. “Surely we needn’t rush such matters.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, unamused. “It would strengthen our families. Surely that’s worth considering.”

Jason looked to you for support, but you merely pressed your lips together, fighting the faintest smile at his obvious discomfort. He muttered something into his wine that sounded like, "Madness..." before turning his attention back to the table.

Across the room, Aegon watched the dance with undisguised disdain. His goblet dangled loosely in his hand, his wine sloshing precariously with every lazy movement. “Pathetic,” he muttered, leaning toward Aemond, who sat beside him. “Dancing around like fools, as if that will solve anything.”

Aemond shot him a sharp look, his eye narrowing. “You sound jealous, brother.”

Aegon scoffed and slouched further, though his gaze lingered briefly on Leona before he turned away. Aemond, however, shifted his attention to Loren first, then to Aemma. The way his gaze settled on her was brief but noticeable, his expression unreadable.

Loren, sharp as ever, caught Aemond’s lingering look and leaned forward, his voice low but firm. “Don’t look at my sister, Aemond.”

Aemond’s lip curled faintly, though he said nothing, merely sitting back in his chair with a faint hum of amusement, his eye shifting back to the dance. Loren’s warning had not gone unnoticed.

Meanwhile, Viserys looked on at his family, his face pale but smiling faintly as though content for the moment. But as the meal continued, his breathing grew more labored, and the trembling in his hands worsened. Finally, as Jace and Leona returned to their seats, he made a faint gesture to the Kingsguard. “Enough,” he rasped weakly, though his voice carried through the hall. “I have… I have seen enough.”

The room quieted instantly. Alicent rose quickly from her chair, her hand steadying her husband’s shoulder. “The King will retire for the evening,” she announced, her voice calm but firm as she signaled to the servants.

Viserys slumped back slightly as the Kingsguard approached with his chair, preparing to carry him back to his chambers. The sight of him so frail, so diminished, sent a ripple of unease through the room.

As the King was lifted and carried out, Jason’s hand found yours beneath the table, squeezing it tightly. You looked to him, finding the same concern reflected in his green eyes. Whatever fragile peace this dinner had brought was already crumbling at the edges.

And you knew it would not last.

The meal continued, though the air had grown thick with unspoken anxiety, as though every member of the room held their breath, waiting for something—or someone—to shatter the fragile calm. Servants flitted about with trembling hands, refilling goblets and replacing dishes no one seemed to care for. The music, once lively, had dulled into something quieter, almost somber.

And then Aemond Targaryen rose.

The scrape of his chair against the stone floor rang like a bell tolling doom. The room stilled instantly, all eyes turning toward him as he lifted his goblet high, the candlelight catching the sapphire gleaming in place of his missing eye. His expression was the picture of polite calm, though the faintest smirk played at the edges of his mouth.

“Final toasts must be made,” Aemond said smoothly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. “It would be ungrateful of me not to acknowledge the… many blessings seated around this table.”

You stiffened instinctively, your hand slipping beneath the table to find Jason’s. He squeezed your fingers gently, though you could feel the unease radiating through him. Across the table, Rhaenyra sat still as stone, her gaze fixed on Aemond, while Daemon merely smirked faintly, as though waiting for the inevitable.

“To my nephews, Jace and Luke,” Aemond began, inclining his head toward the two boys, who stiffened beneath his gaze. “Wise, handsome, and strong beyond measure.”

The deliberate weight on the word strong drew murmurs across the hall, sharp and loud as knives scraping against steel. Rhaenyra’s knuckles whitened against the table, while Daemon’s smirk curled ever so slightly.

Luke bristled visibly in his seat, his cheeks flushed with anger, and Jace pushed his goblet aside, already rising halfway out of his chair. “Say it again,” he bit out, his voice low and dangerous.

Aemond’s eye gleamed with something cruel as he turned his attention to the other side of the table. “And to my Lannister nieces and nephew,” he continued, ignoring Jace for the moment. His goblet tilted slightly in Leona and Loren’s direction. “Leona, ever radiant, hiding her scars behind gold like the proud lioness she is. Loren—fierce and watchful, just as he should be. And young Aemma—” His gaze shifted briefly, unsettlingly, toward your younger daughter. “So sweet, so curious. I imagine the lions must guard her closely, lest someone take too great an interest.”

“Enough,” Jason said sharply, his voice a growl beneath the hum of murmurs that followed Aemond’s taunt. He set his goblet down with deliberate force, his green eyes narrowed dangerously at the prince. “You’ll speak of my children with respect.”

Aemond met Jason’s glare unflinchingly but offered only a mocking tilt of his head. “Of course, Lord Jason. Respect is earned, after all.”

That was when the room broke.

Aegon exchanged a look with Aemond, a wicked gleam of encouragement passing between them, and then Aegon was up—rising too quickly from his chair as though drunk on wine and chaos alike. He strode toward Jace with a mocking grin, reaching out and shoving him back sharply, away from Leona.

“Your dancing was a fine show, nephew,” Aegon sneered, his voice laced with mockery. “But I’d watch where you step.”

“Don’t touch her!” Jace snapped, shoving Aegon back with equal force. The scrape of boots on stone echoed as both boys moved to square off.

Jason was on his feet in an instant, his hand catching Jace’s shoulder as he pulled his son-in-law-to-be back with practiced strength. “Enough,” Jason barked, his voice low but thunderous. “Sit down, both of you.”

Aegon only smirked, though he didn’t push further, clearly enjoying the chaos.

Across the table, Loren rose next, his chair scraping against the stone as his sharp gaze turned on Aemond. “Say what you like about us, uncle,” he said coldly, “but keep your eye off my sister.”

Aemond smirked, unbothered, as he took another slow sip of his wine. “I’ve only one eye, Loren, and I use it well.”

That was enough. Loren lunged forward with a snarl, his fist already raised. Luke moved to join him, as though instinct demanded he back his cousin. Aemond’s chair toppled over as he dodged Loren’s blow, his own arm snapping up to block. The clash sent a ripple of chaos through the room as the boys’ scuffle began to spill across the floor.

“Loren, stop!” you cried, rising quickly, but your son could not hear you, his focus locked on Aemond.

“Out of my way!” Aemond sneered, shoving Luke back as he traded blows with Loren, the older boy matching him strike for strike despite the clear disadvantage in size.

“Enough of this!” Rhaenyra snapped, her voice sharp with fury. She rose to intervene just as Daemon moved with far more ease, his presence cutting through the chaos like a knife.

Daemon stepped between them, his hands raised, though his posture was unmistakably predatory. “You heard your sisters,” he said coolly, his violet eyes locking onto Aemond as though daring him to push further. “Sit down, boy, before you lose more than the eye you have.”

Aemond’s lip curled, his gaze lingering on Daemon before he finally relented, brushing himself off and stepping back. Loren was panting slightly, his fists still clenched, but Jason moved quickly to his son’s side, gripping his shoulder firmly.

“Enough,” Jason said lowly, his voice leaving no room for argument as he looked between the boys. “Sit down, all of you. Before I lose my temper.”

Jace shot Aegon one last glare but listened to Jason, moving to sit. Aegon followed, though his smug grin lingered. Luke hesitated, looking toward his mother for direction before slinking back to his seat. Loren, still seething, obeyed his father’s hand and sat beside his sister, though his eyes never left Aemond.

Leona, Aemma, Helaena, Baela and Rhaena remained silent, their expressions composed despite the chaos. Leona’s golden mask hid much, but her knuckles were white against the edge of the table.

“Enough of this farce,” Rhaenyra’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding. She rose fully then, her hands pressing against the table as she addressed the room. “My family will take our leave.” Her gaze turned to you, softer now. “And I imagine yours will as well, sister.”

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, rising to stand alongside Jason. “We’ll begin our preparations for the trip to the Rock by sunrise,” you announced, your tone steady despite the anomasity still crackling through the air.

Rhaenyra turned toward Alicent, her voice cool but formal. “We thank you for your hospitality, Queen Alicent, but our welcome here has run its course.”

Alicent rose quickly, her hands fluttering as though trying to calm the storm. “Rhaenyra, wait—surely you needn’t go so soon. The King would wish—”

“He would wish for peace,” Rhaenyra interrupted sharply. “And there will be none so long as your sons cannot hold their tongues.”

Otto Hightower stepped forward then, his face stony. “Leaving so abruptly will only fan the flames of rumor, Princess. You cannot simply flee.”

Daemon’s smirk returned faintly as he looked to Otto. “If Rhaenyra leaves, I leave. That should be reason enough for the realm to tremble.”

Rhaenyra turned back to you then, her expression softening. “Come to Dragonstone,” she said quietly. “Stay with us for a time. The Rock is far, and we are stronger together.”

Jason looked to you, his green eyes asking the silent question. You nodded once, resting a hand lightly against his arm. “We’ll consider it,” you said simply, your voice leaving no room for argument.

Alicent turned to you then, her face taut with something between anger and desperation. “Please, Y/N, stay a little longer. For the King.”

Jason’s hand found yours beneath the table once more, and you squeezed it lightly before answering. “For my father’s sake, I will not cause further upset tonight. But this—” you gestured faintly to the remnants of chaos around the table—“is a family already torn. My children will not linger in its shadow.”

And with that, the matter was decided. The hall seemed to hold its breath as you and Jason gathered your family, Loren and Leona lingering protectively near their younger sister as you prepared to leave.

Viserys’s earlier contentment had turned to dust. The king was gone, his crown abandoned, and the peace he had tried to force upon his family had shattered irreparably.

The storm was coming. You could feel it.

[thesensteawitch]

What's Your Beauty?🥀

Pick A Pile Reading

💚(Left to Right- Pile 1, Pile 2, Pile 3)💚

Hello, Senstea Souls!

I am back with another collective reading that will tell you what's beautiful about you. Take this reading as it resonates. For any personal readings feel free to DM me or email me at thesensteawitch@gmail.com.

Pile 1

Tarot Cards: 2 of Swords, 8 of Pentacles, 4 of Wands, 5 of Wands, 2 of Wands, Ace of Cups, 3 of Cups, 7 of Swords

My dear pile 1, you are as beautiful as it gets. It's only you who cannot see it. Just like a deer doesn't know that the fragrance is coming from its naval and searches for it in the whole forest same is the case with you. You see beauty in everything and everyone except yourself. Have you forgotten that the beauty that we see in others is in ourselves? Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder. God, I feel so sorry for you that I have to remind you this because something happened to you your own thoughts make you believe that you're not beautiful. I will tell you what's your beauty. Your beauty is that you are hardcore loyal when it comes to relationships in your life. You make sure that every friendship and relationship is based on strong foundations. You provide stability and protection to your loved ones. You don't see people as competitors and this quality of you is such emanant that others envy you. Even those who are close to you. It's those who you cherish the most. They secretly want to cut your wings and they even do. Someone is fishy around you. Some of you may be great planners, adventurers, and artists. I sense strong Sagittarius and Capricorn placements. The thread that you bind with others is your beauty. How you intricate relationships with calm and how you give others space to pour their heart out is your beauty, pile 1. Your only weak point is you give others words more value than yours. And that's where you lose your beauty. New voices emerge in your head and keep feeding you with information about someone that you are not. Your beauty grows on people. It's slow but refreshing. You nurture others to the extent that you sometimes end up parenting them. You're so beautiful pile 1 save yourself from predators. Sending so much love your way. If you want to know your Divine Masculine/Feminine energy then feel free to drop a message in my Tumblr inbox. Below I am sharing my:

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Pile 2

Tarot Cards: 9 of swords, 6 of wands, 3 of cups, 6 of swords, the hanged man, 7 of cups, 2 of wands, king of pentacles

Hello, my dear pile 2. I see something strange here. You stick to extremes. If you shift your perception and choose to see the situation upside down you'll notice what you've achieved till now. If you just keep aside the sleepless nights you'll see what those sleepless nights have given to you. They made you shine like a star in front of a crowd. You've been praised by many people in your lifetime. There may be many who broke your heart but there was always that one person who acted as the silver lining to your dark clouds. You're a great performer pile 2. You are a great friend. You are an overachiever despite facing so many challenges in your life. And you doubt your beauty? Come on!!!!! You have the quality of Jesus, self-sacrifice. You've sacrificed a lot to be where you are today. You are very good at balancing things, pile 2. Somewhere your career might be suffering nowadays but believe me you can manage. I hear, “We have come so far my dear look how we have grown.” Free yourself from all the wrong narratives of beauty you have got stuck in your brain. Beauty comes from within. Focus on grooming your soul and pull it out of the mud. You need emotional healing. You are too concerned about your relationships. You are everything a person can ask for. You don't need assurance from anybody. You don't even need it from me. You know that deep down ARE A BEAUTIFUL SOUL. Your dreams are waiting for you to achieve them. You think things through is your beauty. For some of you, I am getting that your sibling may be your strength. Those who stayed are the ones who know what you have. Those who force you to stay now don't know how to stop themselves from taking from you. You can sometimes be that addictive for people. Ask yourself what's there that you need to heal within. If you want to know your Divine Masculine/Feminine energy then feel free to drop a message in my Tumblr inbox. Below I am sharing my:

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Pile 3

Tarot Cards: Temperance, The Fool, 5 of Pentacles, The Empress, Knight of Wands, The Star, 3 of Cups, 8 of Cups

Hello, my beautiful pile 3. I see that your beauty is that you stay with people through thick and thin. Even if you suffer you stay. You only walk away when you are not cherished or valued for what you are giving to another person. You have passion for life. You know your limits but you still carry yourself as if you are limitless. You stretch your dreams as far as you can. You are not afraid to demand. You don't think you deserve less but life at times throws difficulties your way. When the choice is needed to be made you realise that you're only human and you can only do so much. You have many wishes and there's no way that you feel you can't have them. Some of you may have life path 5. You are dreamers. Your beauty lies in your never-ending optimism. You work hard and smart. Your ideas are unmatchable. You not only think but show the world what we can dream we can achieve. I am amazed! So beautiful, pile 3. No one can stop you from achieving what you want and people around you know that. You have the strength to walk away from relationships that come in the way of your big goals. The world you want to create is just not about money. It's also about the community. As you have so many desires and things to do your life asks you to organize well so that you can perform tasks well and on time. It's important for you to not let yourself get involved in work that doesn't fit well with you. Your enthusiasm can sometimes take the best of you. Make sure you plan things through by not letting your passion go out of your hand. Last but not least you carry the faith of a child. If you once prayed for something you believe it's going to happen. It's a quality that adults struggle with but I am happy to see that you still carry faith in your heart. It is the only thing that is going to bring your dreams into reality. It's the most important ingredient, my friend. If you want to know your Divine Masculine/Feminine energy then feel free to drop a message in my Tumblr inbox. Below I am sharing my:

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[edutainer2022]

So it's done! The little story that tidied me over this week of missile hellfire and long stretches of power outages. Jeff is back from Oort Cloud and is forced to question his strengths and aptitudes when things go unexpectedly very, very wrong very fast. All boys get to feature, eventually, but Scotty is having the worst time of all. Many thanks to @janetm74 for cheering me on through brief patches of power going up.

GRAVITY

Some days were worse than others. Some days the heady rush of pure JOY and BLISS of being back with his beloved boys, his Ma, in his own home, back on his own PLANET, beneath the blue skies, breathing unprocessed air... were not enough to tide him over the bone deep weariness. Days, when the bustling world around was suddenly too much effort. Too much, period.

That morning he woke up, gruff and bleary, feeling every ounce of gravity amplified weight down to his marrow. He didn't remember sleeping a wink, but he knew he was late. The corner of the blanket peeled away, catching on his stubble, revealed a silhouette perched on the side of his bed. Scott. Already dressed to the nines in a suit that looked like it was shipped straight from the Milan runway. It probably had been. His son's aftershave was fancier and more expensive than he could ever afford or had any clue to choose at that same age. Predawn light was casting a grey hue over Scott's features, gleaming in silver highlights, making him look older. Tired. His eldest looked hauntingly like Jeff felt, sagging under the crashing weight, stretched thin, even put together all sharp like that, bright and early. The sudden heartache of that thought came out as a hoarse groan.

They were supposed to meet several executives first thing in the morning to get Jeff up to speed a bit more. To get the company brass reacquainted with the Tracy Patriarch too. There had been many new promotions and appointments over the past eight years. But Jeff could barely keep his eyes open. The thought of getting up and moving gave him a shiver, which, in turn, deepened the worried frown on Scott's face. The taut lines in the corners of his son's eyes and mouth became prominent. Much as the pallor and dark circles, belying a sleepless night. Scott took a call out in One, right off the roof of Tracy Tower. It was the fastest and most expedient option, regardless of Virgil's protests. That's how Jeff remembered most of his sleep being drained by nightmares - One screeching off and him spending eight endless years calculating and hoping (praying) the rocket plane made it out of the Zero-X launch blast radius in time, taking his son to safely far enough. He winced at the memory and squinted against a nauseating headache. Scott's worry was obviously reaching the red zone.

A firm hand landed on his shoulder, then moved to press for the pulse. His boy's fingers were uncharacteristically cold, but maybe Jeff was just catching space chills.

"Dad, are you alright? I will cancel the morning! I'll get you to the hospital right now, then Virgil will fly Grandma in!"

The on the go plan was all IR Commander, but blue eyes blown up twice the usual size in panic was Scotty at any given time Dad was about to disappear. Again. He hated the treacherous frailty that got his unwavering boy so scared. As much as he hated the very idea of hospitals, enthusiastically shared by all his children.

"It's okay, Bluejay! No need to worry! Just one of those days. I'll sleep it off. You go ahead with the meeting and I'll rise and shine to have brunch with you, deal?"

Between the Zero-XL assembly under wraps, the possibly one-way mission to the middle of the galactic nowhere, and Jeff's subsequent laborious rehabilitation, the Tracy Industries senior executives really needed some quality face time with the Tracy-in-charge. So they would have it. Jeff was under no illusion he was in any shape to be that, anymore. Scott was, still. But that would have to change maybe sooner, than they both wished, if mornings like that became a recurrent thing.

Scott didn't appear entirely convinced and there was definitely a ping being sent up to Five to monitor Jeff's space-addled sleeping hunk extra closely. However, the anxious scowl softened into warm mirth as Scott smiled down at Dad's rugged face. Cool fingers moved from the pulse point to brush away the matted grey curls from Jeff's forehead. The gesture was definitely well practiced on any and all of the younger brothers, but in that moment all Jeff could see in the slight tilt of the head and a special, radiant fondness in the blue gaze, was the boys' mother. He nearly choked on a sob and covered his eyes, feigning a fit of cough. Scott moved immediately to give him a glass of water from the bedside table. Once done blinking away the stinging moisture, Jeff caught the tail end of a hastily covered wince in the boy's features. If he were operating at full capacity, he would have probably dug to the bottom of it with proper insistence. As it were, Jeff settled for a squeeze of the premium wool clad bicep:

"How're you holding up, son? Tough night?"

"I'm okay, Dad! You don't need to worry! A couple of bruises here and there. Mostly my ego, as I landed in a heap when the jetpack gave out. I'll never hear the end of it from everyone!"

The edges of Scott's "cheeky flyboy" smile were tighter than Jeff should have been placated with. But gravity was already pulling his lids down.

***

He marginally remembered a quick tender peck on his forehead, or maybe he dreamt it up, conflating the endless years of longing for his mother and for his wife even before that. The scent of his eldest's aftershave, laced with a familiar wiff of One's fumes, lingered and calmed him down. He came to think of it as home and hope over the past months. Jeff next woke up to an anxious face of a different son.

John's hologram practically vibrated with anguish, bouncing on the bedside comm unit. Eyes wide and wild, John looked all too much like an Alan Jeff last remembered - eight years old and left at the Warton boarding school for the very first time.

"Dad!!! What's going on!?!! Are you alright?!!!"

Jeff's headache still didn't agree with the yell, audible practically from orbit. He didn't master much but an incoherent grumble to that.

"Somebody called 911 to the TI Conference Room for Mr. Tracy! I can't get through to Scott's comm! You were supposed to have a meeting first thing today! Are you okay!?"

Words rushed and stumbled one over the other, so unlike John's usually impeccable, professionally honed articulation. It took an extra moment for John to compute Dad's state of underdress - a testament in and of itself of the ginger's distress.

"Dad? Are you still in bed?"

Awareness was catching up with him and with it the heavy drag of gravity and dread. His ginger spaceman was still faster on the uptake, his own overwhelming horror finally pinned on a name:

"SCOTT!!!"

The only Mr. Tracy at the TI Conference room at that moment. It all was coming to Jeff in bits of a disjointed puzzle - the overnight rescue, Scott's ashen paleness he chalked up to lack of sleep, the stifled painful grimace his son wasn't quick enough to hide. And Jeff wasn't there for him!

***

If the younger employees of Tracy Tower were secretly looking forward to meeting the Resurrected Space Outcast, Founder of Tracy Industries and International Rescue, Hero of the Century and a Living Legend - Jeff Tracy - it was probably not barefoot and clad in pink flamingo print pijamas, sporting a bedhead and an overnight shadow, stumbling his way down the hallway at an alarming speed with a formidable assistance of the wall and an occasional doorknob. Jeff practically flung himself into the Conference room and nearly toppled over several people in expensive suits, crowded over a prone body on the floor. He shoved somebody's shoulder aside with enough force and less ceremony than was maybe appropriate.

His knees hitting the floor gave a jaw-jiggling rattle and it remained to be seen if he'd be able to make it back up unassisted, but he didn't give a damn. Scott was still and sheet white against the navy blue of the carpeting. Somebody had the presence of mind to loosen his tie and unbutton the shirt. Scott's face and chest were wet as someone apparently tried to sprinkle water on him to ease the fainting. To obviously no effect. Jeff might have noticed a shadow of bruising on the toned torso, but his eyes were on the beloved yet lifeless waxy face. He cupped Scott's cheek and shifted the other hand to rub his sternum forcefully .

"C'mon, Bluejay! Give me those eyes! Time to wake up!"

Either the father's voice or the strenal rub had the effect - Scott eyelashes fluttered and a sliver of blue became visible. Jeff felt encouraged, thankful the baffled and paniced executives were giving him a wide berth.

"There you go, Scotty! Open them up for me, eh? Dad is here, Bluejay!"

Jeff moved his palm from Scott's chest to grab a cold limp hand and squeeze. His other hand never left the son's cheek, the thumb caressing cool clammy skin carefully. Give the boy a sensory anchor.

"Stay with me, kiddo! It's alright!"

Blue eyes were still cloudy and unfocused, eyelids heavy. Scott seemed to have just then noticed Dad's presence.

"Dad? Yu'came?"

Jeff's chest constricted. Of course, they were supposed to be in that meeting together. But Jeff succumbed to weakness and left Scott alone. Again.

"I'm right here, Bluejay! Dad is here!"

The pained, far-away gaze still didn't land on him.

"Yu'never come... Only Mom comes... I call'n'call an'yu'never come..."

He was feeling cold sweat and shivers raking his own body, his head was swimming from strain and fear, but he had to keep Scott conscious and talking.

"Dad is right here! I'm with you, Scotty! Just look at me! Can you do that for Dad?"

Scott seemed to have made an effort to look at him, the brilliant blue almost black with strain.

"Yu'never come when I'm dying..."

With that Scott's eyes rolled back into his head and a thin rivulet of blood trickled down the corner of his lips. Jeff couldn't tell if his son's skin went colder to his touch as his own hands went icy numb. There was a distant sound coming through the pounding in his ears - an animal-like wail of Scott's name in a voice Jeff didn't recognize as his own. Space shifted around him, bodies shuffling urgently as more people entered the room. Multiple hands were prying him away from Scott's unmoving body, but they would need a crowbar. Jeff was putting up a fight to stay latched to his son, or so he thought. In the middle of a vicious flail he was suddenly tipping sideways some distance away, Scott completely obscured from view by a wall off luminicent lined uniforms of paramedics. And Jeff's world went black.

***

[Lucy, please! I know you miss him, love! Oh my God, I KNOW, baby! I know you're all alone there! Please, don't take him! PLEASE! He hasn't lived yet! Our boy, Luce! I let him down so much! I'm so sorry! I asked so much of him, and he gave up everything! I screwed up! Take me, hon! If you absolutely must, take me instead! I'll watch over them all with you, dear! But you can't take him! You won't! I know you won't let him! He needs to live! Please, don't let him stay with you, Lucy! PLEASE!]

***

He started awake yet again with his eldest son's name on his lips, voice hoarse like he'd been shouting over the ocean surf, crashing on the island shore. Caramel eyes were startled by his roar that time. Gordon was quick to collect himself and put on a smile.

"Hey, Dad! You're awake!"

Not unlike Scott's early that morning (was it still the same day?), Gordon's grin was thin, taut, not bright enough to cover the shadows visible on tanned skin. Jeff tried again, putting a worth of questions into the name:

"Scott?"

Gordon's smile faltered and Jeff felt the heady rush of weightlessness, his mind slipping away from the tether of sanity.

"Scotty's in surgery, Dad! There was internal bleeding and he crashed in the Conference room. The paramedics said he coded there, but they got him to the hospital on time! They're working on him now!"

Coded. Scott died on his watch. Because Jeff wasn't there. He took a breather, let his boy take over his slack and his duty. Again. Scott was paying with his life when Jeff was unfit to deal. Again.

He shifted in what appeared to be a hospital bed, but the range of his movement was limited by the IV line, now pulling at his hand. Gordon stopped him from getting up, hands, weighing his shoulders back on the mattress, a lot stronger than he remembered.

"Whoa, Dad! Nah-uh! Stay put! Your BP tanked and you blacked out there too!"

That probably explained the dizziness and the hospital ward spinning slowly around him. Jeff took a cautious look around the room, but for the monitor tracing his vitals it was empty. Gordon read the question in his gaze.

"Allie got so worked up with worry - he threw up. John's with him, helping to clean up. Grandma's watching the surgery and consulting in the OR gallery. They actually let Virgil in the OR! Those puppy eyes are a menace! Or maybe Johnny-boy donated the hospital a research lab or something. Anyhow, they let him stay with the anesthesiologist - you know how Scooter's body eats through painkillers! Freakish metabolism and all! So they wouldn't want him wake up mid surgery,  and Virgie knows the dosage and his stats by heart. It's good, right? Scotty's not all alone in there!"

Gordon was rambling, not pausing for air, and Jeff knew that to be the boy's primary tell for intense anxiety. He reached for his second youngest hand to ground himself as much as to offer comfort.

The door hissed open and Alan waded in, followed by a mile of ginger topped blue. Allie's face was blotchy and ashen, fresh tear tracks marking the skin. John was gripping the boy's shoulder with one hand. He had a tablet clutched to his chest with the other.

"Dad!"

Alan sounded so young Jeff's heart ached. He lifted the IV bound arm and Alan was quick to tuck himself to Dad's side, lanky teen limbs curled into a ball. The boy was not bothering to be discrete about crying again. Gordon flopped over Jeff's legs, uncharacteristically lost for words and craving contact too. Jeff waited till John walked around and perched by his shoulder. The ginger was engrossed by the video feed on his tablet. The live stream from the OR Jeff was not sure the hospital authorized or even knew about. He didn't care. He was dying to ask how the surgery was going, for how long, but Jeff wasn't sure how much John had clued the Tinies in. So he craned his neck to better see the screen and waited. Silence stretched. Virgil's massive form in sterile scrubs, cap and mask was visible, hunched over Scott's face, his fingers drumming lightly over the brother's bare shoulder. Jeff couldn't tell if Virgil was tapping in Morse code or playing out a mute tune. Either way it was definitely a way to reach through to big brother and not to disrupt the doctors. The surgery site was a hustle of frantic activity Jeff didn't dare follow too closely. At some point John's eyes went almost sea-green dark and the grip on the tablet turned his knuckles white. Jeff squeezed his shut, hugging Alan's trembling shoulder closer.

[Please, Lucy! No! Please!]

Time stretched further without meaning in perfect silence. John finally shifted to get up and announced:

"They closed him up! He'll be wheeled to Critical Care now."

Turquoise met caramel across the ward and it occurred to Jeff the statement was addressed more Gordon's way, as the blond was on his feet immediately. There was a LOT of communication between his family going right over his head. Maybe they didn't trust his strength that day. Or maybe they were just too used to not factor him into the synergy of their tightly knit world. Either way, it hurt more than he could ever let them know.

Gordon got his cue and was peeling Alan up and away from Jeff's side.

"C'mon, Al! Let's go find Grandma before she instills fear of hell into the nurses! And maybe grab some snacks for everyone! On my word, Dad DOESN'T want the local variety of green jell-o!"

Alan, as well as everyone else in the room, knew it for what it was worth - a diversion tactics to get him away. Allie could be stubborn with the best of them, and he wasn't a kid anymore, despite a widely acknowledged belief, but he knew there would be no real talk of Scott's post op prospects with him around. Not right then at least. Besides, the boy looked veritably drained by fear and all the uncertainty, and could use a change of scenery.

Shortly after Gordon chaperoned Alan out the doors to Jeff's ward hissed again. Virgil appeared like a giant ghost, swaying on his feet. He shed the surgical mask, gloves and cap, but was still in the OR scrubs. Drenched through with sweat. John was by his brother's side in one long stride. The boys leaned into each other for a long moment, their foreheads touching. Jeff longed to envelope his sons into a massive hug and let them draw strength from their father, as should be. He longed to rush to Scott's side and hold on to him as tightly as he knew how, not letting the boy slip away. He longed to console the Tinies and shoo away the haunted desperation from their eyes. He longed to ascertain them all they were not loosing Scott. Because they couldn't. HE couldn't. But he was marooned by the stupid IV, bedridden by gravity, exhausted by dread and guilt, eating him alive. Not for the first time that day Jeff felt redundant and useless, a fragile husk rolling around, causing mere nuisance.

Virgil heaved a breath to center himself and John stepped around him to head out. But not before giving his brother another quick fierce hug. Virgil seemed to be gathering his bearings, his mind booting up, previously lost in whatever he saw and felt going on in that OR.

"John, wait! Scott is critical. They won't let you in!"

John's face was a chiseled mask, a shade paler yet, if it were at all possible.

"I just bought this hospital equipment enough to research immortality. I'm going to be with my brother!"

With that he was gone through the door. Virgil seemed lost for a moment, lonely in the middle of the room. Chocolate eyes landed on Dad and just like that - the dam broke. The tidal wave of years worth of fear and pain, and toll of anticipatory grief as well as the actual one, for reasons Jeff only began to piece together, breached through defenses and Virgil collapsed into his father's eager arms, sobbing.

***

Maybe it was fitting he only got to do his vigil bid by Scott's side after all his kids, and his Ma, had exhausted themselves. Maybe it was his turn to step up, finally. Or maybe he wasn't ready before. How could he be? No amount of bracing himself could prepare Jeff for seeing Scott in the Critical Care unit - translucent and perfectly still - machines doing breathing for him, pumping blood for him, doing all the living for him. Even after That Place there was more life in his son's body, more tangible reality beneath the gossamer skin. His son's spirit was nearly unmoored, yet Jeff felt like he was the one needing life support. A lifeline. So he reached for the one that had yanked him from the brink more than once, led him out of cosmic limbo, sure and true - his son's hand. And held fast.

***

[I'm right here, Bluejay! Dad is here! I never come when you're dying, because you're NOT! I'm right beside you! Mom will show you the way home! I'll be waiting right here, son! I'm not going anywhere, I promise!]

[ichorai]

get better ; hobie brown.

track nine of BROKEN MACHINE.

pairing ; hobie brown x spider!cottagecore!reader (gender neutral)

synopsis ; electric guitars and strawberries, leather jackets and quilted skirts, city spiders and cottage spiders. the two of you were perfect for each other.

words ; 5.5k

themes ; fluff, mild angst & action, established relationship (dating)

warnings / includes ; mentions of death, a nightmare/mild panic attack, reader is a mutant on top of being a spider (has the ability to conjure flowers), reader's universe is basically cottagecore universe, pav is there even tho he shouldn't be bcs i wanted to include him, hobie is an amazing bf and affectionately calls reader 'cheeky' :( and a little charles xavier mention bcs <3 the x-men are everything to me

main masterlist.

London was a cold, dreary place. You didn’t belong there, no, sticking out like a sore thumb from the cold, harsh corners of buildings that grazed the clouds and the damp, narrow streets. But you were there anyway, almost as often as you spent time in your own quaint universe, where York was nothing but homey cottages and endless green fields of flowers, strawberries, and farmer’s markets.

You were there for your boyfriend, who cared for the people of the city enough to criticize its leaders—a feat the large portion of the country couldn’t be bothered doing.

Today was a long day of protesting. Inhumane laws were being passed, the government was in shambles, and the PM was a fucking joke. You wanted to be there for him and show him support—it wasn’t your universe, sure, but it was important to you, anyway. Nobody deserved to live in fear of tomorrow.

The two of you made your way back up into Hobie’s dingy little apartment when the sky began to grey with gloomy clouds and cold rain dribbled down dirty rooftops. Hobie slammed the door behind him, the faded Sex Pistols poster loosely tacked on the back warbling with the sudden movement. In turn, you made a bee-line for his bed on the opposite side of the room—really, Hobie’s apartment was just a narrow rectangle, with a cramped bed in one corner, a beaten-up green sofa in another, and the kitchen furthest away from the door. There was another door by the other end that led to the bathroom with cracked mirrors. All the walls were covered with art, posters, random memorabilia, and stickers. 

It was a claustrophobe’s nightmare, but it was home to Hobie, which made it your home, as well.

You moaned with relief when you laid down on his thick comforter, shutting your eyes for a moment. Still leaning against the door, Hobie watched you eagle-spread over his bed with a small, amused smile. 

He could never get over how funny you looked, surrounded by dark colors and ripped clothes and filthy artwork, when you yourself were the exact opposite—all soft hues and gentle nature and sunshine. Hobie loved that about you. How you were unabashedly so lovely no matter where you were, or what you were doing.

“You falling asleep on me, Cheeky?” he asked, voice lilting with the affectionate pet name, languidly striding over to sit onto the mattress beside you. The bed creaked with protest under the additional weight.

“Mhm,” you hummed in reply, turning your head so you could offer him a tired grin. “Rain always gets me sleepy.”

The silver of his piercings glinted with what little light streamed through his window. “Take a nap, then, yeah? I’ll wake you up for dinner.” 

With your final murmur of thanks, Hobie dipped down to sweep the hair away from your face, placing a chaste kiss to your forehead, before standing back up to go fix himself a snack. 

Hours later, when you had only begun to twitch with the beginnings of a nightmare, Hobie had gently shaken you awake, beaming at the way your nose wrinkled and your heavy eyes fluttered open to meet his bright ones. 

“Rise and shine,” he greeted, smoothing out the creases of the shirt you were wearing. “Well, it’s not really shinin’ out there, innit? Rise and gloom.” 

A steaming cup of peppermint tea was pushed into your hands. You didn’t even have to taste it to know that he’d added just the right amount of sugar for you. “Thanks, Hobie,” you mumbled, craning your neck to kiss his cheek.

“Got you somethin’ from the chippie—it’s in the microwave whenever you want it.”

Still groggy, you loosely wound your arms around his neck to tug him into a warm embrace, careful not to spill any of the tea. Half of your body was slung over his legs, the other hanging off the bed. Without hesitation, Hobie’s long arms came around to pull you tighter against him, hugging you close. 

“Argh, you’re just too good to me,” you whispered, clutching him tight. “How much was the food?”

“Ah, ah,” he said, pulling away to click his tongue and shake his head. “Don’t worry about it. My shitty universe, my shitty quid.”

With an affectionate roll of your eyes, you pulled away from him. “Alright, well, next time we’re at my place, I’m treating you.”

“Would expect nothing less, Cheeky.”

The two of you shared the microwaved dinner from the chippie together, the large fries nearly burning your tongue and the fish drenched in far too much vinegar for your taste, but the two of you ate it happily regardless. 

After the food was cleaned out, you curled up into Hobie’s sofa—which smelled just like the mango perfume you had given to him for his birthday—and brandished the sewing kit you had kept here, hidden beneath the cushions. Your boyfriend took a seat beside you, his guitar situated over his lap and a dull pocket knife gripped in his hand. He took to engraving his initials against its side (and planned on engraving yours right next to it), as you pulled his leather vest closer, stitching one of the patches that had come loose back on. 

A comfortable silence stretched over the both of you, like a warm blanket draped over your shoulders. It was only broken by Hobie’s disjointed humming to a song you couldn’t recognize, and the soft pattering of rain outside. 

Once he was done with the ‘B’ of his last name, he peered over your shoulder, leaning down to press a kiss to the base of your neck. “How’s it coming?”

You turned with a sweet smile, one that made Hobie’s chest warm. To him, you were the literal embodiment of sunshine. “All fixed,” you chirped, nudging him slightly. “How’s the guitar?”

“Good as ever. D’you mind if I put your name next to mine?”

Your eyes shone. “Go ahead,” you replied, before reaching down to fish something out of your pocket. “Oh, I totally forgot—I embroidered this for you! Made it from my own synthesized silk ‘n everything.”

It was another patch, about half the size of his palm, depicting a bright red strawberry sitting against an equally vibrant yellow backdrop. A genuine smile flickered over Hobie’s countenance. 

“Oh, this is wicked, Y/N! Looks fuckin’ fab,” he exclaimed, leaning closer to inspect all the tiny details. Somehow, his beam grew wider. Hobie situated the patch over an empty spot on his vest. “Could you sew it here?”

You nodded whilst humming an affirmative. A rush of heat pulsed over your face when Hobie leaned down to kiss your cheek, pulling back with an obnoxious mwah. 

“You’re a talent, you know that? Thank you.”

It was a few minutes later when you showed him his vest—finally ready and decked out with a multitude of both new and fixed patches. In turn, he showed you your name etched right next to his. Overwhelmed by just how much you loved your boyfriend, every single bit of his punk, anarchist self, you threw yourself into his open arms, hugging him tight. A flower appeared behind his ear, and he pinched it between two fingers, pulling it away to inspect its small white petals and smooth green stem. With a hum, Hobie pushed it back onto his ear and returned your embrace.

A week later, you and Hobie were at another underground music concert, filled to the brim with punk rock enthusiasts and anarchists of the very same ilk as him. Seeing as he was the last gig to play, the night ended with an elongated guitar riff, and Hobie’s fist thrusting high up as the final notes crashed against the cheering crowd. It wasn’t long before he was hopping off the rickety stage, immediately greeted with your wide smile and more tiny flowers blooming within the moist cracks of the sidewalk by your feet. 

“You did amazing!” you exclaimed, bouncing on the heels of your feet excitedly. “Argh, I’m so proud of you! When you did that thing—with that guitar—and then you just—AH! I loved it, Hobie!”

Your boyfriend slung an arm over your shoulders, briefly pressing his nose against your hairline. “Thanks, Cheeky.” He glanced at the large box you were holding. “What’s all this now?”

“Merchandise,” you chirped with bright eyes. “Made it all myself back in my universe. Free of charge, of course. Everyone deserves to enjoy art without worrying about its price.”

Hobie swore he fell in love with you just a smidge more right then and there.

With nimble fingers, he plucked a bundle out of the box, unfurling it to reveal a dark black t-shirt with a messy crimson scrawl of ANARCHY! across the chest. To his fond delight, there was a little flower drawn just beneath the large text. A touch of him, and a touch of you.

Not waiting another second, Hobie slipped the shirt over his head, one of his piercings momentarily snagging against the collar. You were quick to shift the box onto one arm so you could help him safely tug the shirt down without ripping his earlobe into two. 

After murmuring his thanks, Hobie cupped his palms over his hands to yell, “Oi, you lot! Come ‘round here for free shirts! Made by the loveliest person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing!”

The two of you stayed at the venue until all your shirts were given away, and even then there were a few stragglers left, disappointed they hadn’t gotten anything.

“Come to Hobie’s next gig, I’ll bring some more things by then,” you reassured them with a kind smile. 

After another series of goodbyes, Hobie finally pulled you out of the dingy venue, his hand curled over your upper back and your arm wrapped around his hips. 

Hobie was a true artist. Everything he touched, he could turn into something of beauty, something raw and pure and breathtaking. When you had vocalized such thoughts to him, he smirked, loose and humored. 

“Don’t like labels,” he said, gaze fixed on his guitar and the uncapped marker he was using to draw just beneath the strings. “You sure you’re not biased?”

“Not at all,” you hummed in reply, leaning against him. The two of you were in your universe, laying spread over a checkered blanket on a vast field not too far from your little cottage. The grass was greener than what Hobie had back home, and the air was clearer and lighter than anything he’d ever breathed before. Somehow, the breeze that whistled between the two of you smelled of strawberries and peaches—or maybe that was your perfume. Hobie couldn’t get enough of it, either way. Your universe was beautiful—nearly as beautiful as you were. 

Whilst he was concentrating on his scribbled drawings, you were tinkering with one of your web shooters—a series of miniscule gadgets with brown fixings to wrap around your wrist. Once you clicked it back into place, you jutted it out to Hobie, the round capsules hovering only inches beneath his nose.

He laughed, gently pulling your hand away so he wouldn’t go cross-eyed. “You make these yourself?”

“Synthesized them with all natural ingredients. Took a lot of trial-and-error, but I think I’ve finally perfected the colored formula,” you said, pressing down with both your middle and index finger, showing him how the webs shot out so far he couldn’t even see where it disappeared within the swishing blades of grass.

Arching a brow, he echoed, “Colored formula?”

You grinned. “Take a look. I made them green! I think it’s much prettier than plain ol’ white,” you said.

“Green spider webs, huh? You really are something else,” he surmised with a half-chuckle, half-snort, a goofy smile to his lips. Your excitement was beginning to rub off on him, so he took your hands again, admiring your craftsmanship. “These are so fucking cool.”

“I could make you colored webs, too—whatever color you want!” You perked up with the idea, smiling brighter than the golden sun hanging sweetly in the soft pink sky (the skies were pink during the day in your universe, it was trippy as hell). Little flowers bloomed around you, a few appearing in the surrounding grass, some popping into his hair, others materializing on your flowing blouse.

Flustered, you reached over to pluck out the flowers in his hair, murmuring a quiet apology. 

“Nah, it’s cute,” he reassured you, shooting you a curious look. “So—does your universe have others that are also called ‘mutants’ or is it just you?”

“There’s not a lot of us,” you admitted. “It was scary, at first. I was completely… normal until I hit thirteen years old—all of a sudden, flowers started blooming everywhere and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t control it and it only grew worse the more scared I got. A man named Charles Xavier took me under his wing at his school for gifted students—well, that’s just a code word for mutants—and he helped me train to control it. Obviously… not well enough—flowers still sprout when I feel strong emotions.”

Hobie’s nose wrinkled. “My fault. You like me a bit too much, Cheeky.”

With a playful shove, you huffed out a tinkering laugh. “Anyways, while I was at the school, there was a student with the ability to turn objects radioactive. Highly dangerous, and he could’ve been used as a weapon of war if in the wrong hands. One day, he was just fucking around and… he accidentally turned a spider radioactive. He didn’t tell anyone because he was scared he was going to get in trouble. Lo and behold, it got loose, and the next day, it bit me while I was out on a walk. So not only was I a mutant, I became a Spider, as well. I trained with my newfound powers every day in the Danger Room. I graduated top of nearly all my classes. And not too long after, Miguel came popping out of nowhere—the look on his face when flowers started appearing all over his suit was hilarious.” You chuckled lightly, leaning your head against Hobie’s shoulder. “Your powers are much cooler, though. I wish I had electric abilities.”

The marker in Hobie’s hand was quickly capped, and put to the side so he could raise it to stroke the back of your head. “Flower power is cool as fuck, what are you on about?”

You smiled. Another flower, a fragile pink thing, blossomed onto his lap. Hobie barked out a roguish laugh.

“I love you,” you hummed. 

“Love you back, Cheeky.”

Nueva York was the exact antithesis to your world. Everything was new and modern and cutting-edge, heavy on minimalism and plain white canvases of nothing. It lacked art and humanity and just… life, in general. You didn’t really enjoy coming to this universe—the only reason you did was to help out with anomalies whenever you were needed. Though you didn’t quite agree with Miguel’s canon theory (it was messy and evidently didn’t apply to every Spider), you had to agree that villains running amok in rogue universes was no good for anyone. You had personal experience with the matter when a glitching Mysterio came tumbling through a farmer’s market in your universe, baskets of fruit flying every which way and bouquets trampled beneath his descent. 

Today, however, you were called in because of your boyfriend. His hologram had appeared over your wrist, offering you a loose smile and a two-fingered salute.

“Hey, Hobie,” you greeted, pausing your baking and brushing errant strands of your hair away with flour-covered hands. “What’s going on?”

“I’m at HQ. Heading over to see Miguel. D’you mind coming, if you’re not too busy?”

“Oh, uh, sure,” you said, heading over to the wash basin to rinse off your hands. “Is everything okay?”

The hologram of Hobie hummed, warbling as you rushed to change out of your clothes and into your suit—a white top with beige and green accents, webbing into a spiral around an embroidered collection of flowers on your chest shaped into a spider. Your boyfriend lowered his voice to say, “The original is here.”

“Original?”

“The first anomaly.”

“Oh,” you said, eyes widening a fraction. Oh. 

Hobie pursed his lips. Though he was doing well to hide it, you could see the buried worry behind his dark irises. The both of you were well aware that Miguel wouldn’t take this lightly. “Yeah. You’ll be here?”

“I’ll be there. See you in a minute, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll be waiting by the Spider-burger place. Love ya, Cheeky.” With that, he flickered out of view. You blew out a breath, snagged a bag from your room, and pressed a few buttons on your watch. A glowing orange portal opened by your kitchen door. You stepped through, and a tunnel, an elevator, and a hall later, you found yourself at the heart of Spider Society.

Hundreds of Spidermen, Spiderwomen, and Arachnids alike were passing by, chattering aimlessly, or rushing to wrangle their anomalies to the Go-Home Machine. After weaving through the crowd, you made your way to the McSpiders booth, where they sold the most delicious burgers, but you didn’t think you had time for that today. 

Hobie was waiting at one of the tables, Pav glued to his side, and Gwen on the other. 

Your boyfriend waved, shooting you a wink just as Pavitr shot up, dashing forward to envelop you in a tight hug. 

“It’s been so long!” the younger Spider exclaimed. “How’ve you been? How are you?”

“I’m good, Pav,” you warmly replied, patting his back affectionately. Then, you waved to Gwen, who looked a little uncomfortable at the predicament she was in, but tried her best to push it down for a moment to say hello.

You gave her a warm embrace, squeezing tight, a nonverbal confirmation of telling her you were there for her. Knowing that she was technically universeless, both you and Hobie would often let her crash over at your respective places. In fact, she slept in one of your extra rooms so much it was practically hers by now, filled with plenty of her personal belongings. She was one of your closest friends, and seeing her so anxious did nothing but fill you with worry. 

Once you pulled away from your two friends, you gave Hobie a quick hug, kissing his cheek. Pav cooed obnoxiously whilst Gwen lightly joked for the two of you to get a room.

Hobie shoved at the blonde’s shoulder with scoff. “Come off it, we wouldn’t have the time anyway.” 

Finally, you turned your gaze to the last one in the group—Miles Morales. 

It was certainly strange to see him in the flesh, when he was such a popular topic of discussion amongst the verse-traveling Spiders. He was a gangly yet handsome boy, with a head of dark, curly hair, and large brown eyes. 

He offered you a nervous smile. “So, uh, you must be Y/N! I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I can say the same thing,” you replied, thinking back to all the times Gwen would lounge in your bed and tell you about her time helping Miles with Kingpin. “It’s nice to put a face to your name after all this time.”

“Yeah, yeah, same.” Awkward as ever, Miles let out something akin to a laugh. His eyes darted down when he noticed Hobie’s hand slipping over your midriff. “So! You’re Hobie’s partner, right? I thought he didn’t believe in consistency.”

You grinned when Hobie drummed his fingers along your hip, shrugging in a nonchalant manner. “If I was inconsistent all the time, that’d be me being consistent, no? Keep with the times, mate.”

Confused, Miles’ lips parted to ask another question but you shook your head. “Just don’t question it. God knows how many times I’ve stumped myself trying to figure him out.”

Hobie shot you an amused look. Before anyone could say anything else, Gwen swung onto her feet, shifting her weight in a fidgety manner. “We should probably get a move on, before Miguel gets mad.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. You guys mind filling me in with what happened on the way?”

And so the five of you set off, with Pav and Gwen taking turns on telling you what had transpired in Mumbhattan, with Hobie occasionally chiming in. Miles was far too enamored by all the other Spiders to really pay attention to what they were saying. 

Once you were all informed, you supplied a worried look in Miles’ direction. Stopping a canon event from happening… Miguel definitely wouldn’t be happy about that.

Sensing your eyes on him, Miles met your eyes. “Is there something on my face?” he asked. 

“Oh, no. Sorry. I was just distracted.” A flower popped on your shoulder, and another appeared in Miles’ hair. He pulled it out with a surprised raise of his brows.

“Huh. That’s new,” he said with a slightly curious smile. “So, you and Hobie! I guess I just didn’t expect him to be with someone so…”

You tilted your head. “So…?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You guys look, like, complete opposites.”

Pavitr clapped his hands. “Well, opposites do attract!”

With half a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth, Hobie chimed, “We aren’t complete opposites. We both have a crippling hatred for capitalism and greedy billionaire corporations.”

“That we do,” you agreed, beaming warmly at him. Suddenly, you perked up, remembering what you had brought with you. “Oh, I almost forgot! Pav, Gwen—I made you tote bags a while ago and haven’t gotten the chance to give it to you guys. They’re all made from ethically sourced materials, of course. Sorry, Miles, I would’ve made you one if I’d known I was going to meet you today.”

“It’s no problem. There’ll be a next time, right?” he said, watching as you handed the rolled up bags to an excited Pav, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a litany of thank you so much, this is amazing on his tongue, and a hesitant Gwen, smiling despite being so strung-up to face Miguel. 

“Right… A next time…” you echoed, unsure if there’d even be a next time if Miguel had his way with things.

Everything was going wrong. 

Miguel went too far, as he often did in his tunnel-visioned haze for order, and trapped Miles in a laser cage, intending to keep him in Nueva York while his father died back in his home universe. A sick feeling curdled within the pits of your stomach—none of this felt right to you. Peter and Gwen were yelling at Miguel, their words washing over you in a blur, like the crashing and the retreat of a wave against an unsuspecting shore. 

You watched helplessly as Miles turned around, betrayal lacing heavily across his crestfallen features, staring at the people he had once considered his friends. For half a second, Miles caught your gaze. Anxious flowers—various shades of violet and scarlet—blossomed by your feet. To your side, your boyfriend held both his hands up, gaze fixed on Miles.

“Palms,” he silently mouthed. 

Heeding his advice, Miles pressed both his palms against the barrier.

And three beats of a heart later, he had broken free. A blast of energy pushed everybody back a few feet, and you could hear Hobie’s faint laughter echo right beside your ear. You couldn’t help but smile along with him. 

Someone had to look out for the little guy, right?

Apparently, Miguel had other ideas. He wasn’t a rational man. No, he was a perfectionist to the core, needing everything to go according to his plan, his theory, his ideology. When the stakes were this high, who was to say no to him? And now, he had somehow convinced nearly the entire population of the Spider Society to chase after a fifteen year old.

Then what? Lock him up? Force him away from his home and wait out his father’s death?

No. It wasn’t right. None of it was.

As pandemonium broke out during the chase after Miles, Hobie gave you a glance. “Just for the record, I quit,” he announced. It wasn’t directed at you, per se, but it was important to him that you knew of his stance. That he wouldn’t sit around and idly twiddle his thumbs at this bullshit. 

A portal opened behind him, bathing his dark skin in a bright clementine glow. He unclasped his watch and let it fall to the ground. “You coming, Cheeky?”

“I’ll meet you at your place,” you reassured him. An unspoken trust me hung heavy between you. A white little wildflower appeared in his hair, but Hobie didn’t move to pluck it away. Instead, he ducked his head to press a lasting kiss onto your forehead. You shot him a fond grin before leaning forward to peck his cheek in return, and hurriedly rushed off to go help Miles, canary-hued flowers floating behind you with every swing.

It was by pure chance that you happened upon Miles and Peter, the latter begging for him to hold his baby, which he most definitely shouldn’t have brought along to a chase. You hid behind a large metal pipe, waiting for Miles to leave Peter. It wasn’t long before Miles was running away again, believing his mentor had betrayed him once again, and you were quick to follow after him. Green webs shot out from the fixings on your wrist, and you caught up to the younger Spider in no time.

“Miles!” you exclaimed.

“Please, just let me go back home!” he yelled, stress and panic coiled around his words as he rounded around cars and signs.

Guilt settled around your lungs in a constricting manner. You’d lend him your watch to get home, but with a quick glance behind you, noting the several dozens of Spiders hot on your tail, you realized that there was no way that he’d make it there in time without them following after. There had to be another way.

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” you replied, trying your best to convey that you were on his side. “Trust me, I’m with you on this! If not for you becoming Spider-Man, there’d be no Spider Society, and I would’ve never met Hobie. Of course I’d try to help you, Miles! Listen to me—there’s a bullet train that goes to the moon here—if you draw all the Spiders away from HQ, then you can use the Go-Home machine to get back to your universe!”

Miles shot you an initially dubious glance, which soon melded into one of cautious appreciation. “Where?”

“A couple miles that way! You won’t miss it—it’s a huge glass tube going up to space.” You nodded in the direction he was to be headed. “Good luck, Miles. I’m rooting for you!”

With a shout of his gratitude and a slight smile, Miles swung away from you. 

It’s a shame that this was goodbye. Both you and Hobie were really starting to grow on him.

It was raining again, as it almost always was in gloomy London. You were in bed with Hobie, having passed out after letting him know about how you helped Miles, and listening to him tell you about the watch he made for Gwen, knowing she’d most likely need it later down the line if things didn’t work out. He was taking up most of the space on the bed, one arm behind his head on the pillow and the other curved beneath the small of your waist, fingers splayed out over your stomach. Chests rising and falling in synchronized tandem, you were curled up onto your side so that your spine brushed against his side with each breath.

Nightmares weren’t a common thing for you, but when they did slink into your unconscious mind, they were always terrifyingly realistic, and always of the same event. Your canon event. 

Tonight was no different. 

Soft pink skies. Swinging through the trees after something—someone. Prowler. 

The forest gave way to steep mountains. Steep stones and ice and cliffs. The pink above you bled into a menacing shade of purple.

Nets of webbing shooting from your wrists. Desperation. Pleads on your tongue, but you didn’t quite know what you were saying. 

The villain tripped over the webbing, rolling down a mountainside that tapered off into a sheer drop. You darted forward, shooting out a web to catch the Prowler.

But it was too late. 

They tipped over the edge, stray pebbles tumbling down in their wake. If the Prowler screamed, you couldn’t hear it over the thrumming blood in your ears. 

It took over a minute for their body to hit the ground with a sickening thud. 

Horror stained your insides black. You weren’t quick enough. You failed.

You made your way down the mountain, wide eyes fixed on the motionless body. You crept forward, checking for a pulse. Dead. 

Gingerly, you peeled the mask away from their face. The hazy face of your best friend stared back up at you, beaten and bloody. 

Your fault, your fault, your fault—

You woke up with a gut-wrenching sob, jolting up with a broken wail. Hobie had startled from his slumber at the sudden commotion, quick to prop himself up on an elbow, his hand shooting out to properly wrap around you.

Comforting words were murmured into your hair. You only cried harder, gently pushing the blankets away from you, feeling overwhelmingly hot and crowded. It took you another moment to realize that you were hyperventilating, large flowers popping up everywhere around the two of you. 

“Breathe,” you could hear your boyfriend say, tracing slow circles along your lower back. “That’s it, love. You got this.”

After a few minutes, your breaths had slowed down, and the tears stopped flowing. You sniffled quietly, turning to Hobie with an apology on the tip of your tongue.

“Don’t apologize,” he said, seeming to know exactly what was on your mind. “You alright?”

“Nightmare,” you whispered in return, voice hoarse with disuse and thirst. “My canon event. It’s my fault Prowler died. My best friend.”

Another circle along your spine. “You wanna talk about it?”

Your eyes, puffy and red-rimmed, blinked back more cresting tears. You nodded, croaking out the tragic story of you and your best friend—the Spider and the Prowler. Hobie listened intently, humming soothingly into your skin. 

Once you were finished, he adamantly shook his head. “You can’t blame yourself for that. It’s not your fault.”

But it is, you wanted to say. You swallowed the words, deciding instead to remain quiet and simply lean further into his touch. 

“I love you,” he said, voice low and soothing. “You hear me, Cheeky?”

“I hear you. Thank you for… for always being there for me. You’re the punkest punk that’s ever punked.” 

A hum rumbled from his throat. “I’ll always be here for you. I trust you’ll do the same for me. We’re all broken, but… it’s a good thing we Spiders got sticky webs to keep us together, yeah?” A pause before Hobie backtracked, “That didn’t come out the way I intended it to but you get my point.”

You wrinkled your nose in amusement. “Yeah. I’m glad we found each other in all this chaos, Hobbes.”

“Mmh. Nothing better than a bit of chaos, innit?”

The two of you sat in silence for a bit longer, simply soaking in each other’s comforting presence. When you arched your neck to press a lasting kiss along the underside of Hobie’s jaw, you could feel his face shift with a fond smile. Before he could reciprocate the gesture, a tangerine glow shone from outside the window, warbling with the rain, but still a stark juxtaposition to the macabre grey of the city.

Both you and Hobie peered out of the window, limbs still tangled. 

Outside was Gwen, her cowl pulled over her uneven strands of blonde-pink hair, hexagonal portal rings shifting behind her. Her features were solemn and grim as she locked eyes with the both of you. You and Hobie glanced at each other. Small pink flowers started to bloom along the windowsill, much to your chagrin.

With not another second of hesitation, the two of you leapt out of bed, hastily yanking on your suits and swinging out of the window to join Gwen.

To join her in saving Miles Morales, and, ultimately, the multiverse.

[tadpolesonalgae]

To Old Gods

Tamlin x reader

synopsis: you spend a clear, spring night under the pale moon with the High Lord of Spring, only you had not understood the intimacy he was inviting you to join him in, under a night where the veil thins, and things become slightly other

a/n: I realised as a writer, I am technically able to put my own spin on each character. I hope you enjoy this peaceful night journey, and would recommend reading this somewhere you can see the moon :)

Day 1 for @tamlinweek : Heir of Spring

music: Tamlin, by Faun

word count: 1k~

This is the High Lord of Spring you respect and worship—the one who leads the rituals and pays his dues to the old magic.

How he walks silently through the grassy fields, the blades allowed to grow tall and wild so they whisper against his legs as he walks bare-footed along the trail. With small twigs and wild berries woven throughout his regal hair, swaying free in the fresh spring breeze, he resembles a disciple of the old priestesses. Clothed in a thin pale robe, the dark marking are stark against his skin—soot-like dust clouding the rims of his eyes, streaking in three lines outward like scars, and as sharply drawn as talons. One set up over his brows, streaking back into the pale gold of his hair; the second set dripping a tear’s path over the sharp high of his cheekbones disappearing just above the point of his ears around his temples; the third pair cutting straight down from his dark emerald eyes, flowing down over the harsh cut of his jaw, over the strength of his neck, down to the tangle of swirls and symbols that branch across his partially bare chest.

Beneath the moonlight, solemn and stern, you can’t help the comparison that springs to mind—with how the gods were drawn long ago, etched on parchment, or carved into stone. Those same marking that are so frequently forgotten, a tradition sacred to the Spring Court, that the rest of Prythian, even fae-kind as a whole, seem to have either forgotten or discarded. But not here. Here, those carvings are remembered and preserved, worshipped and awed over.

It’s precious, an experience you treasure, being allowed the honour of watching over such a private ceremony. To be permitted near him on this night when he honours his past fathers, the bloodline that stretches and twines like a new stream that has yet to forge its own straight lines through the earth, so meanders and ambles.

How the moonlight spills across his robes, shining over the pale gold of his hair—sacred and holy. Beneath the silver light, you can make out the triskelion that’s been marked on his chest, partially concealed beneath the robes that have been arranged over his broad shoulders. The interlocking spirals stand out clearly, the familiar marking easy to recognise. Earth, water, and sky. Birth, life, and death. The patient cycle of life as it repeats quietly, relentlessly. Repeating persistently yet ever-evolving.

A star falls across the sky, and his green-gold eyes follow its path, attention unfaltering despite the will-o-wisps that glow and bumble about in the field, casting pale blue light about the place as they bob and swirl with the breeze. There are few clouds in the sky this night, meaning their distinct, calming glow is enhanced by the moonlight, practically shimmering beneath its cool-toned light.

He turns in the field, a slow shift of his torso as his gaze finds you effortlessly, features patient and somber, and you move as softly as you can manage, unaccustomed to being barefoot. Aware of the earth beneath your feet, how surprisingly bouncy it feels, like freshly tilled soil that sinks as you step upon it. You wade through the grass, pausing at his side as to not overstep—it is a privilege to even be witnessing this moment, let alone to be invited so close.

Initially you hadn’t understood the importance of the night. Had understood its significance, the value of paying respect to those who had come before, recognising he owed much to his fathers—but had failed to consider the personal ramifications of undergoing the ceremony. What it means, for him—he, who should never have become High Lord in the first place. To stand in the open fields and welcome the past spirits closer, the veil thinning between here and elsewhere. What that could mean for a person who has lost his family, to have this one night where they might once more be together, united on one plane.

Tamlin’s gold flecked eyes are quiet but clear, sharp and as aware as ever, refusing to cower from the night, insisting on being fully present to honour his line.

His gaze locks with yours, and in this brief moment they seem almost ancient, carrying a weight he’s never allowed you to see before. Perhaps one even he’s unaware of carrying, simply having taken over from his father without examining what was being passed onto him. The kind of burden he would be forced to hold upon his back. It’s gone as swiftly as it appeared, his expression patient but solemn as he watches you with an acute understanding that has the hairs on your forearms rising. Feeling bare in a way no amount of clothing could aid with, like he’s somehow able to look directly within you, to scoop up pure starlight from the pool of your soul.

He makes no effort to speak, and you have no inclination to disrupt the peace, so join him in his silence, sharing the whisper of the breeze between you, the swish of grass and the far off snap of twigs as they break beneath soft paws. Tamlin’s gaze returns back to the sky, and the will-o-wisps dance closer, near enough to cast light upon your own robes. Quiet and together, the two of you stand, side by side as you share in the sacred moment. Looking up into the bright, night sky, lit by shimmering starlight, swirling and wonderfully complex. Even in the darkest hours, it’s surprising how bright the world is.

Your heart falters a little when his broad palm extends toward you, and you find deep emerald eyes once again peering down at you, far older than the male before you. There’s a sincerity in the gold flecks of his gaze that has your mind quietening, understanding the request for company on a night as long and as tiring as this. Not tiring in the sense of physical exertion, but in the kind that sleeping poorly despite having rested for so long brings. In the kind of restless strain that grief offers, heavy and mournful, yet enlivened by the rebirth of Spring. A relentless awareness that persists tirelessly, but that has been put into a creature that requires sleep and recuperation to recover and continue.

Your fingers slide over the surprisingly rough skin of his hands, settling in his palm as you’re brought closer, stood directly beside him, beneath this long night.

A night of mourning, and longing. A night for wishes to be made, and relations to be resolved.

A night for past worries to be released, and new beginnings to take root.

A night for rebirth, the kind only Spring can offer.

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

[thescarletnargacuga]

AVIATION ENTHUSIAST

A TIME CAPSULE AU SHOWTIME ONESHOT

Caine geeks over airplanes, Pomni finds it informative and adorable

AU credit @mangotangerinepastry @the-amazing-digital-time-capsule

WARNING: none

~~~

In the late evening hours, long after the guests had gone for the day, Caine sat at the grand piano backstage. The large wooden cover for the keys was down, as he wasn't planning on playing it tonight. Instead, multiple model WW1 era airplanes sat the length of the piano like it was a runway. Small jars of paint and tiny brushes sat on a messy rag draped over the closed top of the piano.

Caine dipped one of his fine bristled brushes into the red paint to work on the detail of the biplane he held delicately in his hand. Light splotches of paint stained his gloves. He hummed to himself as he worked.

"Keep the home fires burning...while your hearts are yearning..." He finished the fine detail on his freshly painted plane and carefully set it down to let it dry. "Though your lads are far away...they dream of home..." He cleaned off his brush and grabbed a plane that was barren of any paint. With a new, larger brush, he started applying the base coat. "There's a silver lining... through the dark cloud shining..." He was so focused on his work, he didn't see Pomni out of the corner of his eye. "Turn the dark could inside out, till the boys coooome hoooome."

Pomni quietly approached and sat on the piano bench next to Caine. Caine paused what he was doing for half a second, impressed he didn't hear her get close until she was sitting down. "What are you doing up so late?" He asked without looking up.

"I don't really know. Just one of those nights." Pomni sighed, overlooking the display of model aircraft. "You made these?"

"Yep. Built and painted every one of them. Please don't touch, they're delicate."

Pomni put her outstretched hand in her lap bashfully. "I wasn't gonna-"

Caine sent her a strong side eye.

"I wasn't." Pomni reaffirmed with a defiant pout.

Caine didn't fight the small smile her adorable reaction gave him, and went back to focusing on painting the model in his hand.

Pomni kept her hands firmly in her lap as she took close looks at the impressively detailed airplanes. "What's this one?" She pointed to a sleek, steel grey sesquiplane.

Caine only glanced briefly to see which one she was referring to. "The Nieuport 17. One of the most agile planes of its time. It could outmaneuver the German eindeckers with a climbing speed of over 113 mph."

"Wow, very impressive." Pomni smirked at his info dumping. "What about this one?" She pointed to a bright blue plane with three sets of wings stacked on top of each other.

Caine looked away from his work a bit longer this time. "Uh, that is a Sopwith Triplane. Also known as Tripes, only 160 were ever made and exclusively for the British Royal Navy. Don't let their weird design fool you, they were exceptionally maneuverable and packed serious heat with a Vickers .303 machine gun mounted behind the propeller."

"Cool. Oh! What about this one? I really like the paint job." Pomni excitedly pointed to a grey-green biplane with a black lightning-shaped arrow painted on the sides.

Caine set down his paintbrush to pick up the chosen plane. "One of my personal favorites, the Albatross D.VA. They were the first fighters powered by 160-hp Mercedes in-line engines which gave them the power to carry two 7.92mm synchronized machine guns. These proved superior to all other Western Front one-gun fighters. They were sent first to specialized squadrons of one-seat scout fighters that were established to achieve local battlefield air superiority. A real shame these marvels of engineering were mainly used by the Germans."

Pomni smiled at how relaxed and open Caine seemed to be while talking about the airplanes in his collection. She wasn't looking at the Ringmaster. She was looking at a man passionate about a hobby. He made these little models feel like real replicas of epic aerial combatants.

Caine noticed how Pomni was looking at him and stopped talking. "Uh- not that, uh, any of this is particularly relevant. Heh." He nervously looked away and set the Albatross down. "Never mind my rambling."

"I don't mind. This is fascinating stuff. I never knew you knew so much about early 1900s aerospace technology, and...I like hearing you talk." Pomni admitted, fiddling with her thumbs.

Caine could swear his heart skipped a beat. "You...do?"

Pomni blushed and quickly pointed to the unfinished plane in Caine's hand. "What'sthatone?" She said so quickly, she was nearly incomprehensible.

"Oh-" Caine cleared his throat, feeling a little warm under the collar. "This is a Fokker."

Pomni did a mental double take. "A what now?"

"I swear, that's its real name. There were quite a few different types of Fokkers, actually. The V38, the E.V. and D.V. series, the eindeckers, and the drideckers. Just to name a few." Caine held up the unfinished model. "This one is an original model Fokker."

"Sounds like the first world war was full of Fokkers." Pomni said with a crooked smile.

Caine saw the joke coming a mile away, but it was still funny. He chuckled, "That it was, my dear. That it was."

[sashi-ya]

𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

⭒ pairing: dr. trafalgar law x f! reader. R 18+ ⭒ requested by @anniee-ya ⭒ inspired on the song: 𝄞 moonlight by Kali Uchis 𝄞 ⭒ tw: explicit. oral. vag. alcohol. fingering. cream pie. public. I made the manga edit mixing Law's face with a panel from Team Medical Dragon manga | wc: 0.9k

Strong dark circles, and a tired façade. His shoulders so tight, not even your skilful hands could ease the tension.

“What happened?” you ask, murmuring by his ear as he takes the white coat off. “As always, a hell of a shift (Name-ya)” Law sighs, cracking his neck. His tattooed hands grab yours, pulling them towards his chest. They sink into the blue scrubs he wear, sliding through his collarbones.

The bumps of his sternum, the muscles of his pecs reacting to your soft touch. Law is the type of man where words aren’t needed, and you, are the type of woman to understand what he needs with just the signs of his body.

“Yeah, baby, it's been a hell of a day… but I know a place we can escape”

You caress his lower lip with your thumb; while Law reacts with a smirk, because he knows exactly where you wanna go…

He could have picked the car, but, he chose the bike. Fresh air on your faces, it was something he needed.

With your arms wrapped around his waist, and your cheek resting on his back, he drives you both to the beach.

A beautiful spring night, that’s almost a summer one. Moonlight shining on the coast, with its silver glowing strings over the crashing waves.

The lonely path to a secret place you only both know. With still some traces of the footprints that once were yours.

His hand pulling from yours, running and giggling. The sound of some cans of cheap alcohol and perhaps something else that feels a little bit illegal. Like those teenager days, once again finding shelter with each other, from those days where life gets too heavy.

The dry and bitter taste of those cans run through your throats, burning everything inside you. Your tongues meet, mixing the taste of the alcohol and your own, in sweet kisses.

Little moans slip in between those seconds in which you two take time to breathe. You feel dizzy, Law feels his head is in the clouds.

“Take this off, (Name)-ya” he whispers, kissing your neck as he tries to lift your shirt.

The little abandoned cabin that once seemed to be a beach house still has some spare humid cushions and the lantern of your phones are the only source of light besides the moonlight.

Your skin getting bumpy, as the soft breeze kisses your naked shoulders. Law does the same, kneeling on the ground, kissing your belly with butterfly pecks and with his hands resting on the small of your back.

“I am already feeling better, (Name)-ya” he whispers, licking the line down your belly bottom to the hem of your jeans. He unbuttons it with great expertise, sliding them down to discover your thighs.

Oh, your legs. The place where Law would love to perish, his favourite deathbed.

The little spot of wetness covering your panties, growing bigger the more Law bites the inner side of your thighs.

“God, you are like a drug to me… look yourself into the mirror… don’t you see a doll?” he sighs, pulling down your lingerie to uncover your now dripping sex and moving you to the side so that your profile could reflect on a piece of and old mirror.

You take a look at the most beautiful piece of erotic art ever depicted and is to have such a devoted man about to devour your whole entirety.

His inked fingers spread your labia, like the professional he is. The tip of his tongue, receives the little drop of the elixir he would like to indulge in forever. The warmth of his breathe reaches your sex, making you tremble.

“La-w, you- you were the one stressed out…” you stutter, as his whole tongue reach your core and his golden eyes fix in yours.

He slowly blinks, and you could even sense the smirk he holds as he buries his mouth into your femininity.

Throwing your head back, you wrap your fingers on his spiky hair. Pulling more and more as he goes harder with his tongue, sucking everything out of you.

And just by the peak of pleasure, he stops. “Come here…” he orders, helping you out completely from your clothes and walking you outside where your skin receives the shine of the moon like a holy silver mantle.

Law grabs your wrists and in a swift quick motion he turns you around and pins you against the decaying walls of the cabin.

His chin on your shoulder, whispering from behind for you to get ready to be fucked until you drop.

“Be a good girl to me, help me destress… yes, (Name)-ya?” he whispers into your mouth while grabbing your trembling chin in between his fingertips to face him from the side.

You nod, with eyes semi closed and enjoying the sound of his jeans’ zipper going down.

Freed his sex, it gets absolutely smashed against your dripping core. Alone, and as hard as it is, it slides right in ripping a moan out of your mouth.

The surgeon’s hand passes to your neck, and while he impales you he squeezes your carotids to the point of almost shutting the bloodstream from your heart to your brain. Leaving you stupidly on the verge of climax.

High, high you go. He goes as high as you, with your cheek pressed against the wall and your breasts now squeezed in between his fingers.

“Come, sweet one” he commands, giving you the last thrust that has never been violent but rather deep and slow… so slow that could be enough to break your spirit and mind. You obey, bathing his shaft with your orgasmic explosion. A splashing sound that reverberates into your ears as he keeps slamming himself to finally finish, under a beautiful moonlight, so deep inside of you.

[wellpresseddaisy]

There's a Silver Lining Through the Dark Clouds Shining pt 2

Apparently I wrote this nearly a year ago and completely forgot to post it. Or at the very least I can't find Part 2 anywhere on my Tumblr from March 2022 on. Part 1 here. If I posted this already, well, it's getting reposted. :)

Severus stared around the room wildly, heart hammering in his chest. He didn't…he had to be at Hogwarts, but no one looked right. The blond boy could only be a Malfoy and he'd know that thatch of messy dark hair anywhere, but they weren't right.

"Er, professor, do you remember anything?" The boy with the Potter hair asked, shoving broken glasses up his nose.

Green eyes. He knew those eyes. Those eyes and that hair together…

"Fuck sake, tell me she didn't!" He demanded.

"Who didn't, sir?" The boy fidgeted.

"Tell me Lily didn't marry that Potter berk!" He demanded.

The boy choked and the group behind him sucked in a breath as one, eyes wide. They seemed inclined to just watch, though.

"Bloody fucking hell, she did." No matter what Lils said, he could pick up on some cues. And that one was an anvil.

"Er. Yeah. I…um…I'm Harry Potter." Well that decided it. Lily Evans had the worst taste in men.

"For your granddad." Severus murmured before he could help himself.

"Really?" The boy…Harry looked delighted. "I didn't know."

Oh, he wasn't touching that. If this child of theirs didn't know his grandparents…no…best not consider it. He cursed his ability to make connections so quickly.

"And…you called me professor." A quick subject change seemed the right way to go.

"You…well, you're usually a lot…older. There was an accident." Harry explained. "Er…I'm not sure what happened, really. We've sent for Madame Pomfrey."

He wasn't sure what to think. The blond boy could only be Lucius' child…with the Black eyes. Cissa? And the freckled specimen was likely a Weasley. You always knew a Weasley. And the Parkinson nose. Crabbe and Goyle looked about as one expected.

But no child of Sirius Black or Remus Lupin or Peter Pettigrew seemed to stand among them. No MacKinnon or Meadowes or Rosier or Lestrange seemed to be present. Features he ought to have recognized were nowhere to be seen.

"What happened?" He asked, finally. "What happened here?"

Harry looked back at the crowd behind him. He seemed to be communicating with a girl with the most extraordinary hair Severus had ever seen and the Weasley spawn. He turned back.

"War." He answered simply.

Severus swallowed hard. "So it happened, then."

"Yeah." Harry shrugged.

They fell to awkward silence. Severus' mind whirled, trying to assimilate new information.

"What year is it?" He asked.

"Nineteen ninety-two." Harry told him. "It's only just October. We're the second year Gryffindor/Slytherin Potions class."

"Which I'm meant to be teaching?" It came out more question than statement.

"Which you're meant to be teaching." Harry confirmed. He bit his lip. "Dunno what we're going to do for Potions now."

"Obviously, Potter, we'll have a new professor." The blond probably Malfoy drawled from behind Harry but didn't move. He'd found a seat and lounged in it.

"No one's asked you, Malfoy." Harry answered in the tone of someone who'd spent a great deal of time with a Malfoy.

Most of Lucius' dormmates sounded like that at least once a week. Generally it regarded haircare.

Slytherin would never forget the night Lucius Malfoy found a single split end. Pity that the child hadn't inherited Cissa's nice manners or way with people.

"Well you clearly haven't any idea of how anything works. Only to be expected, honestly, given your…parentage."

The bushy-haired girl grabbed a handful of the Weasley spawn's robes and hauled him back while Harry looked at the ceiling and seemed to count. Severus thought that this particular version of Malfoy could use a pasting, to be honest. Lucius at least had…charm…of a kind, anyway.

"Malfoy, no one's asked your opinion or needs to hear it." Harry gritted out.

Just then, the door opened and Madame Pomfrey bustled in.

"By the Cauldron." She breathed. "Professor Snape, what happened?"

Madame Pomfrey moved into the room, easily stepping around the mess on the floor. She cast a quick containment charm around Neville's cauldron on her way.

"I was told it was an accident." Severus answered. "I don't remember much beyond waking up with a lot of people I've never met."

Madame Pomfrey breathed in sharply.

"Well, why don't we go up to the Hospital Wing? We may need some help with this. All of you, please go to the Great Hall. I'll inform the Headmaster." She waited while students gathered what they could of their things.

"I could…" Harry started.

"Please go up to the Hall with everyone else, Mr. Potter." Madame Pomfrey interrupted firmly. "We'll either return your professor to you or…well…I'm sure we can come up with a solution."

"Yes, Madame Pomfrey." Harry answered dutifully and filed out with the rest of the students.

"Now, we'll get you sorted out." She smiled down at Severus.

An actual familiar face left him so relieved that he smiled back.

[emilykaldwen]

Title: Moonshadow Ship: Jacaerys x Helaena WC: 859 Rating: Gen Summary: Jace and Helaena tell stories beneath the light of the moon. Written for the @hotd-bigbang prompt: Moon Notes: Many many thanks to @acrossthesestars for her beta powers and helping me find the jace and helaena pictures and to @selfproclaimedunicorn reassuring me it wasn't terrible to begin with. this story isn't specifically related to any of my other projects, but you are welcome to consider it part of Maiden canon, or for last year's entry, The Lighting of the Blaze

The pair of them sat atop Visenya’s tower - the tallest in the Holdfast. Jace’s heart jumped into his throat when Helaena had clambered upon the red ledge, the wind catching at her silver hair, her laughter dancing on the breeze.

“You’ll fall,” he told her, but followed, as he always did, to perch beside her. The height was dizzying in a way that flying did not quite catch. He thought it was, perhaps, because there was no safety of his dragon beneath him. Just stone, warm from the day’s sun and his own practiced balance to be safe.

He tangled his fingers through Helaena’s, not for a moment thinking that he’d be able to pull her back should she fall. No, instead he would fall with her. She had woken up, frantic and tearful, and found her way to his rooms a night not so long ago, gasping as she crawled into bed with him. 

“I fell I fell I lost my wings I lost them they were taken I fell I fell.” 

Helaena had babbled those words over and over until his neck and nightshirt were soaked with her tears and he had to keep her sobs muffled lest one of the guards hear and discover them.

Her fingers were delicate, deceptively fragile when he knew how strong her grip was; how those very fingers could turn to claws just as they could stroke gently down the line of his spine.

“The Red Priest in the market told a story,” she whispered now, months later, far less frightened than before. The night was bright; the moon hung heavy and round in the sky, the blanket of twinkling stars so beautiful and wondrous, streaked with distant clouds that caught the light.He felt so small beneath the expanse. “He said that Azor Ahai thrust his sword into the breast of his wife, Nissa Nissa, and her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the moon.”

“I don’t see a crack,” Jace mused, his gaze searching across the bright shine of it. Dark blotches, certainly, but no tell-tale crack of an egg. “That’s a cruel way to treat the woman he loved the most in the world.”

“Are you saying you would not use my soul and blood to forge a great blade that would save the world?” Helaena laughed, her breath warm against his ear as the stone was warm beneath him. Jace squeezed her hand and her fingers tightened around his, reassuring. “There’s another story. There were two moons, my maid told me. One wandered too close to the sun and cracked open, birthing the dragons.”

“One of my grandfather’s crewmen told me a tale from Volantis.” It was Jace’s turn now. “That a shepherd approached the only dragon, to tame it by feeding him sheep. They would meet beneath the light of the moon.”

“In the night?” Helaena asked, a curious furrow to her brow that he brushed a kiss against to smooth. “But why is the shepherd visiting a dragon at night?”

“Because she was watching the flock to protect them from wolves,” he told her, tracking along the pictures in the sky, seeking out the fish, the lion, the hunter. “A dragon, she thought, would surely be the finest protector of her flock, for what wolf or thief would dare rouse the anger of the dragon.” She hummed softly but did not interrupt, her fingers playing with his. “Each night she came, feeding him one of the sheep to sate his hunger, so he might trust her, and eventually the shepherd lay with the dragon. The moons turned and the shepherd gave birth to more dragons.”

Helaena’s teeth scraped against her lower lip. “So the shepherd lay with the dragon and the dragon… fit?”

He snorted. “She was a very special woman.”

She shivered, giggling. “So the shepherd lay with the dragon. There were no other dragons?”

“I guess not. That’s what the story says: it was the only dragon. And that’s how the other dragons came to be, I suppose.”

“They do say that Old Valyria was founded by sheep herders,” Helaena mused. He felt her carefully shift to rest her chin upon his shoulder, and Jace turned his head slightly to brush his nose against hers. She smelled of citrus, of lemon balm and mint. “Kivio biantys,” she murmured. 

His cheeks turned red, his heart stuttering at the whisper. Promised shepherd, caretaker of the soul. Soulmates, as the Westerosi called it. His mouth went dry, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“Did you dream this?” he asked, the Valyrian he’d learned from the cradle rolling off his tongue, the accent of his mother, of Laenor, of his grandmother coating the words. It was warm, different from the elegant polish of Helaena’s maester taught tongue. Sometimes he felt they should exchange how they sounded, to match their insides.

“Daor.” She blinked, soft and slow, matching lavender gaze reflecting the shine of stars, the pierce of moonglow that caught on her hair and Jace thought she was otherworldly with it - the woman of the tale he’d spun for her. “I just know it.”

[mappingthesky]

planymphia wives honeymoon cutesy fluffy and overwhelmingly emotional drabble pleaseee

take my hand (take my whole life, too)

or: it’s their first week of being married - jane can’t stop referring to nymphia as ‘my wife’, nymphia can’t stop crying, and no one has ever been more in love in all of time.

Jane wakes up when Nymphia rolls over and flings a heavy arm across her torso in sleep.

Jane’s eyes flutter. Sunlight threatens to spill in from the other side of the heavy hotel room curtains all too soon. She’s only half conscious, and her eyes are still a little blurry with last night’s wine, and she’s content to drift back off to sleep, lulled by the gentle brush of Nymphia’s fingertips down her sternum, but then-

A little gasp, a sharp intake of breath. “Oh my god.”

“Mmwhat?” Nymphia mumbles, her eyes still closed as Jane grabs for her hand. Again, when her wrist is nearly pulled from the rest of her arm. “What?”

“Nymphia,” Jane whispers, but it’s thin, because she’s smiling. Nymphia can barely make it out through the dim light of the room and the sleep that clouds her vision, but she knows it just the same. She would recognize that smile by the sound of Jane’s words spoken through it, by the feeling of her soft gaze upon her. She would know it anywhere - even in the dark.

“We got married.”

Nymphia’s eyes blink open and look over at Jane. She’s on her back, holding Nymphia’s hand up to the light. She turns it over carefully, fingertips against her open palm, thumb tracing over the silver band on Nymphia’s ring finger. A diamond glitters in the dark.

“I know,” Nymphia grumbles, still half-asleep, still unwilling to be awoken for anything at all. “Spent eight months planning it, ’member?”

It was longer than that. It was the culmination of years of dreaming and months of planning, of Nymphia ironing out every last detail, Jane somehow even more stressed than she was, because she’d wanted it all to be perfect. For her.

(“You have a say, too,” Nymphia had reminded her on more than one occasion. “This day is about the both of us.”

“I know, baby,” Jane said, that spot between her brows that creases when she thinks too hard momentarily relaxing as she kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “But it’s really about you. Everything is about you.”)

Jane pulls Nymphia’s hand closer, studies it for a long while. Nymphia’s eyes are just closing again when Jane presses a kiss to her ring finger, then to her palm, more kisses up the inside of her wrist, the length of her arm, up her shoulder. Nymphia whines.

It comes back to her slowly as Jane coaxes her from her sleep, the only one she’d ever allow. Their night. It was everything they ever could have asked for, more than that. Their friends lining the aisle, swearing that they knew this day would come, arguing over who had really called it first. Jane, who had sworn she wouldn’t cry, who had warned Nymphia not to be worried if she didn’t, dissolving into tears the moment Nymphia emerged in all white. Nymphia, unsurprisingly to everyone, openly sobbing for half of the night, dabbing a tissue underneath her damp eyes at the dinner table. They’d had two glasses of champagne each, and nothing else.  They’d promised, because they wanted to remember this: the toasts, the dancing, each other, every moment.

Nymphia is beaming by the time Jane kisses her shoulder blade, eliciting a hum.

“Was it everything you wanted?” Jane murmurs, brushing a dark strand of hair back to kiss Nymphia’s ear.

A smile splits through Nymphia’s sleep, eyes still closed as she nuzzles deeper into the pillow, deeper into Jane. “It was perfect.”

Jane kisses Nymphia’s cheek. “What was your favorite part?”

“Mmm,” Nymphia hums, because how could she ever pick just one shining moment to stand out among the rest? How could she even begin to split the single most incandescent day of her life into segments? 

“The part where we went home,” Nymphia says, and Jane is pulling her closer. “The part where we went to bed and you let me sleep in.”

“Can’t let you sleep in,” Jane says, chin coming to rest on the crown of Nymphia’s head where it comes to press against her chest. “Too in love with you.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, basking in the warmth of last night as it rolls over to this morning.

“Wanna know my favorite part?” Jane asks, and Nymphia can feel the soft reverberation of her voice through her skin. “The part where we wake up and I get to say that you’re my wife.”

Nymphia can’t help but laugh at the sentiment. “This part?” she says, finally tilting her head up to look at Jane. She’s never gotten used to this - Jane looking at her every day like she’s still shiny and new. She doesn’t think she ever will. 

“Yeah. This part,” Jane beams, one hand coming to cradle Nymphia’s cheek as she smiles. “You’re my wife.”

“This part’s pretty good,” Nymphia stares into Jane, belly burning with butterflies, a love bigger and brighter than she ever thought was possible. “Say it again.”

Jane grins and brings her lips to Nymphia’s, kisses her with a lifetime of devotion. She pulls away, and there’s forever in her eyes. 

“You’re my wife,” Jane smiles. “And I’m yours.”

-

Jane doesn’t travel well.

She puts her packing off until the last possible minute and grumbles all the way to the airport. Nymphia can’t be upset though, because Jane ‘my wife’s’ Nymphia at every possible opportunity - she does it to the disgruntled employee who checks their bags, and the TSA agent who checks their passports, and the barista who makes their coffees while they’re killing time at their terminal. Nymphia rolls her eyes every time, but she’s smiling too, and can’t stop examining the sparkle on her left hand ring finger. 

Jane goes so anxious on the plane that Nymphia has to hold her hand through the takeoff. She doesn’t let go until thirty minutes into the flight, when Jane is finally distracted enough to drop her shoulders and stop thinking about the miniscule possibility that they go plummeting to the ground.

Eventually, they settle in. It’s a long flight, nearly twenty hours, and they shelled out on first class for the occasion. Nymphia’s got the window seat (partly because Jane knows she likes to look out the window, and partly because she can’t stomach seeing the ocean several thousand feet beneath them), and Jane wastes no time getting comfortable. 

(“It’s for my wife,” Jane tells the stewardess when she requests an extra blanket. “She runs cold.” 

Nymphia stares up from her book just long enough to swat Jane’s arm, muttering “that’s not even true.”

“I know,” Jane shrugs. “Just wanted to see what playing the wife card could get me.”

“Careful,” Nymphia warns. “You’re gonna wear it out.”

“What, calling you my wife?” Jane grins. “Baby, that’s never gonna get old.”)

They’re curled up together, alternating between books and movies and laughing at odd little happenings around them. Jane scoffs at shitty jokes on the screen, and Nymphia leans over to read her passages from her book, and Jane hums like she’s listening, but really she’s just admiring Nymphia in her comfy clothes, dark hair pulled back, glasses sliding down the bridge of her nose. She likes her the best like this.

At the end of her movie, Jane glances over at Nymphia. “Are you excited?”

She thinks she knows what the answer will be, but she’s asking anyway, because she wants it to be perfect - their honeymoon, their first trip together as a married couple, their first foray into the rest of their lives together. They’d debated on a destination for weeks on end. They’d considered a roadtrip across America (too pedestrian - they’ll save that one for another summer), or a week in Vegas where they’d get married again in some cheap chapel (too cliche - they’ll save it for their vow renewals). They’d debated on whether or not to book a room in the most luxurious resort they could find in Thailand, but had settled on a cozy beachside bungalow instead. Jane thought Nymphia would like that the best, knew she would too, because she’d be happy if Nymphia was.

It’s funny how someone can change you so completely and entirely, how they can bring out the best part of you that was waiting to be discovered. Before Nymphia, Jane had always put herself first, even at the expense of others. She was content like that, and then she met Nymphia, and the center of her universe shifted outside of herself. For the first time it wasn’t a chore to care for someone else, and Jane was better because of it. 

“For the honeymoon?” Nymphia asks, folding her book in her lap. She looks down at Jane all nestled in her blankets, hoodie pulled over her blonde hair, and can’t help but smile. 

Nymphia had always been a hopeless romantic, all too eager to hand her heart over to the wrong person. She was a tender thing then, bruising easily in careless hands, burning through her own wells of hope faster than she could replenish them, and after the almost-great-loves of her young adulthood, she felt like she’d been cored. Having her heart handed back to her so unrequitedly time after time, she’d thought she’d been selfish to want a love as big as her own, to expect anyone to be able to return what she gave to them. She’d stopped dreaming of it altogether, and then she’d met Jane. Jane, who reveres her like the Earth reveres the Sun, who worships the ground that she walks on, who straightened out every desire Nymphia had crumpled up inside of herself and gave her more than she could ever dare ask for. 

Now, Nymphia knows she can be selfish. She looks over at Jane and thinks that she wants this for all time - all of Jane, all to herself. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m so excited.” Nymphia reaches over to take Jane’s hand. “Jus’ wanna spend time with you.”

“Good,” Jane smiles, “me too.” She tilts her head up, puckers her lips in a silent request for a kiss, and Nymphia obliges.

-

The plane starts its descent several long hours after they’ve woken up, and Nymphia is grabbing Jane’s hand before she even has to ask, because she knows she hates this part the most. Jane sucks air through her teeth as the last bit of turbulence rocks the plane, and Nymphia rubs her thumb in soothing circles over the back of her hand. As soon as they hit the tarmac, Jane snaps back into place, blocking the whole aisle just to get Nymphia’s carry-on out of the overhead compartment.

“Sorry,” Jane says over her shoulder to a disgruntled passenger. “My wife. She’s pregnant.”

“Jane,” Nymphia hisses through her teeth. “You of all people should know I’m not pregnant.”

“Not yet,” Jane kisses her shoulder before they maneuver down the aisle. “But when I’m through with you…”

Nymphia scoffs, smiling into the air, because she knows it’s impossible, but if anyone’s love could defy the laws of science, it would be theirs.

-

Despite their sleep on the plane, Jane and Nymphia are so impossibly jetlagged, and the car ride to the bungalow is a delirious haze. Determined to push through the rest of the day, they tumble out of their room and onto the tree-lined streets, perusing the local offerings and getting dinner while they speak to each other in exhausted, two-word sentences that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It’s all they need.

And then they’re out under the sky, wandering in this beautiful place with blue-green water that laps in whispering waves over the sandy beach, and Nymphia has never looked so beautiful to Jane as she does under the moonlight. 

She’s running up the beach, shrieking as the water splashes at her feet, or when Jane chases her up the shore and catches her, spinning her around and pressing crazed kisses against her hairline. Nymphia is laughing, and then her cheeks are wet with tears, and Jane is wiping underneath her eyes.

“Hey,” Jane says, pushing Nymphia’s hair behind her ears, a careful concern crossing her face. “Why tears?”

“I’m just so happy,” Nymphia blubbers, smiling through the silver-wet stars in her eyes, because it’s all been such a beautiful blur, and it hasn’t hit her until right now that this is the rest of her life. “I can’t believe we get to do this forever.”

“God, you’re unbelievable, you know that?” Jane smiles. “Here I was thinking you stepped on a sea urchin. Or you got stung by a jellyfish. And I’d have to pee on your leg or something. Wouldn’t that be a great start to our honeymoon?”

“Shut up,” Nymphia sobs. “You’re ruining the moment!”

“M’sorry, my love,” Jane coos, wiping another tear from Nymphia’s face. “You’re the most sentimental girl alive, you know I can’t keep up with that.”

Nymphia just laughs, because yes, she’s endlessly sentimental, but, secretly, so is Jane. She still remembers the first time she’d opened a card from Jane and was met with pages filled almost entirely with ink, letters squished together to make room for as many as possible, words winding around whatever tacky quote was stamped in the middle. Jane had a way with words, despite whatever she’d tell you otherwise, and never ceased to amaze Nymphia with the sincerity she seemed to save just for her. 

(It crosses Nymphia’s mind then what her favorite part of the wedding really was - when Jane had recited her vows from memory in front of all their family and friends, had taken those impossibly beautiful things that were usually relinquished to their most intimate moments and had loved Nymphia enough to profess it in front of everyone. Not that they didn’t know already. You can’t hide a love as enormous as this one.)

“You keep up just fine,” Nymphia says softly, resting her cheek against Jane’s hand. She swears Jane’s eyes go misty just before she kisses her right there on the sand, beneath the stars, beneath the universe that brought them together.

-

Nymphia smiles when Jane crawls into bed. She’s in a gray crewneck that’s cut across her shoulders, and she’s propped up against fluffy pillows, and Jane is pushing the book out of her hands.

“Dinner was perfect,” Jane kisses her cheek before slipping into bed beside Nymphia. “But is it bad that I just wanted to get back to the room?”

“It’s terrible,” Nymphia turns over, slotting her back against Jane’s chest. “Is this the part where we get old and boring?”

“Yes,” Jane envelops Nymphia in her hold, fits against her in the way they’re going to for the rest of their lives, slides a hand down the length of her torso and up the inside of her thigh. 

“Not even gonna call you a whore or anything,” Jane kisses her ear. One hand cups Nymphia’s breast, the other dips between her legs. “Just gonna fuck you good and tell you how much I love you.”

“So boring,” Nymphia sighs, already melting away.

“So boring.”

(It’s not boring at all.)

-

Now that it’s hit Nymphia, she can’t stop crying every time the sheer enormity of it washes over her.

She’s always been emotional, but sometimes there’s a delay. Her life moves so fast, always swept up in the current of whatever dream she’s chasing, and sometimes it isn’t until she has a second to slow down that she realizes just how special every fleeting moment has been.

It’s been a whole week of being married, of wandering through villages and long hikes up mountain sides and afternoons spent sunning on the shore, of dawns and dinners and keeping a distance from the rest of the world as they know it. Now, Nymphia is sitting in a hammock at the edge of the beach, and she’s looking out over the water, and she’s basking in the overwhelming perfection of this moment. It’s something out of a dream, the sort of thing she’d long thought would be impossible for her to experience, and she can’t help but want to slow it all down, to draw out every precious moment long enough to memorize them, to make them last forever.

She’s sniffling just a bit when Jane finally finds her. She slides into place beside her, knees tucked into her chest, and stares quietly at the last of the sun as it sets over the ocean.

“Beautiful,” Jane murmurs, and it’s about the sunset, but it’s about Nymphia too. She presses a soft kiss to Nymphia’s shoulder.

“I don’t want it to end,” Nymphia sighs, unwilling to look away from the heaven that’s in front of her. They still have another day of this, one more perfect day at the edge of reality, and then they’ll be packing their things, leaving the quiet paradise of their bungalow and flying home. Back to work, back to their crazy, stupid friends, back to the never-ending rush and whirr of the city.

It’s not just that Nymphia doesn’t want the honeymoon to end. She doesn’t want this to end: her and Jane, so head-spinningly in love that nothing else matters, so finely attuned to one another, so freshly devoted to making it last. Nymphia wants so desperately to do it right, for their love to outlive that of either of their parents, for them to see all of their promises through for years to come. The possibility that they can’t pull it off is mind-numbingly terrifying, but the possibility that they can…

It’s an impossible promise to make to one another, and yet they’ve already done it. 

Nymphia sighs, mind swirling, and Jane somehow knows exactly what she means when she says, “what do we do now?”

Jane goes quiet for a moment, staring out over everything she’s ever wanted, and does her best to be brave for Nymphia.

“We sit out here until we’re too tired to keep our eyes open, and then I’ll take you to bed,” Jane says softly. “And then we have one more beautiful day, okay?”

“Okay,” Nymphia says, chewing on her cheek, still unable to look away from the landscape should it all disappear on her. “And then what?”

“And then we go home,” Jane looks over at Nymphia. “We go back to our house. And I’ll take you to work every morning, and then I’ll come home and be pissed about something, probably, and you’ll roll your eyes and tell me to shut up and I will, because I love you and, y’know, I generally think you’re right about everything. And we’ll have our stupid friends over and show them a billion pictures from our trip and kick them out so we can watch Project Runway and fuck. How does that sound?”

Nymphia giggles, and when she finally tears her gaze away from the beach, she realizes there’s another heaven right beside her, one that she gets to take home. And home, their home, the one with the fat cat and the mismatched furniture and their pictures all over the wall, that's another heaven too. Suddenly, the trip being over doesn’t seem like such a bad thing. Nymphia is almost looking forward to it.

“Are you scared?” Jane ventures softly, searching Nymphia’s face carefully. “It’s okay if you are.”

“Only a little,” Nymphia mumbles, voice wavering, eyes watering. 

“I’m a little scared too. We’ll take it one day at a time, okay?” Jane continues, looking a little smaller all of a sudden, pushing through every worry that threatens to override her strong front. “I know we’ll have bad days too, Nymph. I know I’m gonna fuck up and not listen enough and piss you off sometimes, but I love you to fucking pieces. I’m gonna give you the best I’ve got, I promise you.”

Nymphia takes Jane’s hand, and there are silent tears streaming down her face, because it’s only been a week and she already loves Jane more than she did on the day that she married her. It’s enough love to override everything that threatens to pierce through their perfect bubble, enough to fuel the years to come, enough to roll over into the next life and the one after that.

“And if you get sick of me,” Jane teases, squeezing Nymphia’s hand. “Y’know. Just say the word.”

“Shut up. I’ll never get sick of you,” Nymphia cries, throwing her arms around Jane’s shoulders. Jane laughs into her neck, pulls her closer into a bone-crushing embrace. This is the best part - Nymphia married her best friend. It’s enough just to hold her, just to be beside her. All those other parts, the sex and the sweet nothings and the swearing each other to forever, they’re just the luxuries of being in love with her. 

“You promise?” Jane says into Nymphia’s hair. She knows what the answer will be. She just wants to hear it anyway.

“I promise,” Nymphia whispers. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Jane says. “With all my heart.”

(They go home two mornings later, back to the city and their couch and their cat, and they aren’t scared anymore, because the warm glow of one another lasts much longer than fleeting sunsets over foreign shores. They wake up together, kiss goodbye on the way to work, hang their wedding photos on the wall and muse over the best day of their lives for years to come. They have lots of good days, and a few bad ones, too. They fight, and then they talk, and they never go to bed angry, just put each other back together in the way that only they can. And then they wake up and love each other more in spite of it.

The honeymoon was great, but here’s the best part: they make it last.)

[hybriddh]

The Colours of Her Soul by HybridDH

In the green of morning, she wakes with grace,

Her eyes like trees that softly trace

The world in hues of life and spring,

A quiet calm, a gentle thing.

Her laughter rustles like leaves in the breeze,

A touch of warmth beneath the trees.

But green is more than growth and light

It’s the envy stirring in the night,

A shadow creeping beneath the vine,

A longing for what isn’t mine.

Blue, like oceans in her gaze,

Reflects the depths of untold days.

Her tears, like rivers, softly flow,

In quiet sorrow, no one knows.

The skies above her shift to grey,

A blue that clouds and fades away.

Yet in this hue, there’s peace that lingers,

A hope that slips through gentle fingers.

For blue, though sad, still whispers clear,

The calm that comes when storm clouds clear.

Red is the fire within her chest,

A flame that burns without a rest.

Her passion bright, her spirit bold,

A story in the heat she holds.

Like autumn leaves, she bursts with light,

A sunset bleeding into night.

Yet red is rage, a searing pain,

The anger surging in her veins.

It crackles, sparks, it sets ablaze,

The path she walks, the world she sways.

In gold, she shines, a sun at dawn,

A joy so pure, it leads you on.

Her smile’s a sunrise, warm and bright,

Chasing away the cold of night.

She laughs like sunshine on the skin,

A warmth that wraps you from within.

But gold is fleeting, like the day,

A burst of light that slips away.

It dazzles, blinds, then leaves you cold,

A dream of riches turned to gold.

Purple drapes her in mystery,

A world that others rarely see.

Like twilight skies before the stars,

She hides her soul in subtle scars.

The purple dusk of quiet thoughts,

Where battles in her mind are fought.

It’s pride and power, regal, tall,

Yet carries with it fear of fall.

For purple’s strength is tinged with fear,

A silent battle, always near.

In silver, she is sharp and true,

A blade of wit that cuts right through.

Her words like stars, they pierce the night,

A guiding hand in endless flight.

But silver’s cold, a distant glow,

A light that’s bright, but seldom shows.

It’s clarity, it’s truth, it’s steel,

But lacks the warmth of what is real.

In silver silence, she retreats,

A moon above that never meets.

Yellow is the joy she gives,

The light within, the life she lives.

Her laughter is a burst of sun,

A brightness that can’t be undone.

Yet yellow’s fragile, quick to fade,

A fleeting beam, a dance in shade.

Like petals wilting in the heat,

It’s joy that’s tender, bittersweet.

For happiness, though bright and strong,

Is fleeting like a summer song.

And finally, black, where all things end,

The colour where her shadows blend.

It’s depth and quiet, sorrow’s mark,

A heart that wanders through the dark.

But black is not just grief or pain—

It’s strength in silence, loss in gain.

It’s every fear she’ll never show,

The midnight places none will know.

Yet in the black, a spark can burn,

A flicker waits for her return.

Each colour paints her, line by line,

A masterpiece of the divine.

From green to blue, from red to black,

She carries every shade intact.

And though her colours shift and blend,

Her soul’s a canvas without end.

[himegureisu]

bestie think abt this

Long haired snape

I'm talking like lucius malfoy style!!! Maybe he ties his hair with a little ribbon!

In my head Tobias used to insist keeping his hair short but he grew it out after lily died bcs he just didn't have the energy to do anything for awhile much less take care of his hair so he grew it out?

Does he braid it?? Who taught him how to braid? His mom? Lily? Did he teach himself?

Anyway he usually keeps it out of the way when he's alone but maybe he forgot to untie his hair before teaching or something and since then there are students who want braid his hair (imagine like the kids braiding rapunzel hair in tangled vibes 😭)

Hair

Summary: Severus Snape. Long Hair. In Braids. Wearing Glasses. You [Female]. I hope you like it. Teehee💓

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His long hair brought a sense of warmth to the cold that often went through the air.

In the past, the energy required to keep appearances was exhausting but must be done. His father threatened to shave his head, should he not cut his hair the appropriate length. His death and his mother’s neglect brought on the freedom to grow it long.

On the first winter of his long hair, at the Three Broomsticks, you couldn’t help but notice that he frequently attempted to tuck his hair behind his ear but remained futile.

His attention on a book of advanced potions when you approached, a friendly smile on your face, and a simple black scrunchie at hand.

“Would you like a tie for your hair?” you asked, his scowl disappeared, lips forming a thin line instead, “I noticed you were having trouble with it. Do you want me to tie it for you?”

Most people didn’t bother but you did. You even offered to tie and teach him. That’s how your relationship began.

It’s been eight years since then, five years married, three years dating.

In front of a mirror, you styled his dark locks, a braided half ponytail, on a silver velvet ribbon. Your cheeks flush at the sight of his serious face, round reading glasses on, as he read a book.

His hair was often in a half ponytail that would suffice until you could fix it. His fingers weren’t as nimble, arms not flexible, or long enough, as yours to do complicated braids. In time, he didn’t mind. Your hair braids becoming an intimate ritual between the two of you and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your bubbles were popped by the bell, echoing throughout the castle signifying the last five minutes before first period.

“Severus,” you remember, “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to first period?”

“Oh bloody hell,” he grumbled, standing to kiss your cheek, “Thank you, darling, I must go,”

It was a Friday. His third years has Potions for first period.

To say his snakes and the lions were surprised was an understatement, his entrance followed by the scent of sandalwood, fresh parchment, billowing robes, long braided hair, and round glasses left them speechless.

Who knew he could look so hot?

There were some of his students infatuated from then on. Their gazes clouded, cheeks pink, and giggles soft lest they raise his ire but the desire was there.

“Did you know you made hearts swoon today, Professor?” you teased, at the Great Hall, during dinner, “Several students came to me complimenting your looks,”

“You deserve the praise, you braided it,” he simply answered, the goblet of water on his lips, “Are you jealous?”

“No, is there any reason to be?” you asked, he shakes his head, “Then that’s that. Besides…”

Your left hand makes its’ way underneath the table, gently brushing over his shaft, and taking his left up above to your sight. His wedding ring, usually charmed to be invisible, shines at top of yours in the soft orange hues of the room.

Your engagement and wedding rings were known to the students but his wasn’t though you doubt they noticed it.

“It’s not the only thing you’d forgotten,” you smile, he groaned in realization, “It’s okay. It was bound to happen at some point,”

“Unbelievable,” he sighed.

His younger snakes started to approach and give gifts for him to put on his hair. At first, he declined but couldn’t bear the face when the little one nearly cried at the denial.

Since then, he would put them on and anyone who made a comment on it found themselves deducted of five house points. They tried to convince him to let them braid his hair but he was unyielding.

Only you would braid his hair. That’s sacred between the two of you.