#timeline; time of contempt

[ninadove]

💙 Clemmy Week - Day 5 💛

Friends to Lovers/Enemies to Lovers

-> Enemies to Friends to Lovers

“So I (29F) come back to London one day, and my friend/cousin/brother/former boss (43M) has taken in a terrorist (28M) and given him my job!!! And now that jerk has the audacity to say I am the one who needs to work on myself and take accountability for my past crimes??? Who the Hell does he think he is???

Anyways, we’re married now”

[whosscruffylooking]

Militiae Species Amor Est

Militiae species amor est - "Love is a kind of war."

Part II Is Up Now!

This is a story based on an original character, Iris. She has no description in regards to hair, skin color, eye color, etc. It doesn't follow any particular timeline and the events in this story extend longer than the events of the movie. I saw the movie last night and wrote this today in between appointments, so please don't judge if it's slightly messy haha. Please enjoy!

warnings:// some mentions of blood and weapons. time period typical violence.

word count: 6.7k

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The air in the colosseum was thick with noise—cheers, jeers, and the distant clang of swords meeting shields. You sat stiffly in the patrician’s box beside your fiancé, Caius, his hand possessively resting on the arm of your chair. He was absorbed in the spectacle, his dark eyes gleaming with excitement every time the sand turned red. You barely heard him as he leaned close, muttering about the skill of one gladiator. Your attention, however, was elsewhere.

“Hanno,” the announcer’s voice boomed over the crowd, and the colosseum erupted into a frenzy. “The Eagle of the Arena!”

The title was grand, but it wasn’t the name that sent a shiver down your spine. It was the description whispered about him in every corner of Rome: a fighter with unmatched presence, defiance in his eyes, and a grace that reminded you of someone you thought you’d lost forever.

Lucius.

The boy who had once been your entire world.

Your heart raced as the gates creaked open, and Hanno stepped into the sunlight. The sight of him stole your breath. He was older now, broader, his body honed by years of struggle, but there was no mistaking him. His hair, still curling the way you remembered, caught the light, and his eyes—those stormy blue eyes that had once looked at you as though you were the only thing that mattered—swept over the crowd.

Lucius.

He moved like the wind, his steps steady, his posture unshaken. The arena seemed to bend to him, the crowd hanging on his every movement. He raised his sword, saluting the emperor, but you knew him too well to miss the flicker of contempt in his gaze. That small defiance confirmed it.

You didn’t realize you were staring until Caius’s voice cut through your thoughts.

“You seem unusually captivated, my dear,” he said, his tone light but edged with suspicion.

You blinked, dragging your gaze away from the arena. “It’s… he’s remarkable,” you managed, hoping your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

Caius smirked, his pride swelling as if he were responsible for the spectacle before you. “Hanno is Rome’s finest now. A true warrior.”

Your eyes drifted back to Lucius—Hanno—before you could stop yourself. Memories of your childhood together flooded your mind: running through the gardens of Lucilla’s villa, the way his laughter had filled the air like music, the nights you whispered your dreams to each other under the stars.

He had been everything to you, even though the world told you he couldn’t be. You were a servant, an invisible presence in the household of his mother, Lucilla. But to Lucius, you had been more. He’d promised you, one night under the moon, that he would find a way for you to be together.

That promise had been shattered the day Maximus died. Lucius was sent away, his mother’s grief consuming everything in its path. You were left behind, forced to grow up in silence, betrothed to Caius—a man you didn’t love, who saw you as nothing more than a beautiful possession.

Now, years later, here he was. The boy who had held your hand in secret was now a man commanding the attention of thousands, and yet he was still fighting. Not just for survival, but for something greater. For freedom.

You couldn’t look away.

As the match began, Lucius moved with the precision and grace of someone born to the sword. Every strike, every parry, every step was measured and deliberate. He fought like a man who had nothing to lose and everything to prove.

When the fight ended—his opponent crumpled in the sand, and the crowd screamed his name—Lucius raised his head. For a fleeting moment, his eyes met yours, and you saw recognition spark there, sharp and immediate.

He knew you.

Your breath caught, your hands gripping the edge of your chair. He didn’t look away, his chest heaving as he stared up at you. The distance between you felt both vast and nonexistent.

“Are you unwell?” Caius’s voice jolted you back to reality, his brows furrowed in irritation.

You forced a smile, your heart pounding. “No. It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was him.

Lucius.

And you would find him again. No matter what it took.

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The roar of the crowd surged like a wave, crashing against the walls of the colosseum, but Lucius barely heard it. He stood in the center of the arena, the weight of his sword steady in his hand, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of the fight. The sand beneath his feet was stained red, the air thick with heat and blood.

Another victory. Another step toward survival.

He turned to acknowledge the emperor with a sharp salute, but his movements were mechanical. His body obeyed out of habit, but his mind was elsewhere, as it always was after a fight. Somewhere far from Rome, far from the sand and the chains. Somewhere warm and quiet, where he wasn’t a gladiator, wasn’t the Eagle of the Arena.

Then he looked up at the crowd, scanning the patrician’s box with a glance he’d perfected—casual enough not to attract suspicion, sharp enough to note every detail.

And he saw her.

At first, he thought his exhaustion was playing tricks on him. He blinked, his grip tightening on his sword as he stared at the woman seated high above. The sun caught her hair, and though she was dressed in the fine silks of a noblewoman, there was no mistaking her.

It was her.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The world around him blurred—the cheers of the crowd, the stink of the arena, even the pain radiating from his bruised ribs. None of it mattered. All that mattered was the woman in front of him.

She was older now, more poised, her features sharper, but it was still her. The same eyes he used to stare into when they were children, the same curve of her lips that had whispered his name in the dark corners of his mother’s villa. The servant girl who had once been his whole world.

The girl he had loved.

Her eyes widened as they locked on his, a mix of shock and disbelief crossing her face. He wondered if she thought him a ghost, just as he had often imagined her face in dreams, only to wake and find himself alone. But this wasn’t a dream. She was here.

His chest tightened as a thousand memories flooded back. Running barefoot through the gardens together, laughing as they dodged his tutors and stole food from the kitchens. Her small, warm hands brushing his as they sat by the fountain, sharing secrets no one else could know.

And then the promises. He had been so sure, so determined, swearing under a sky full of stars that he would always protect her, always come back for her. But life had taken that choice from him. His father’s death, his mother’s grief—it had torn him from her side and thrown him into a world where love had no place.

Yet here she was, staring at him as though no time had passed at all.

The man beside her shifted in his seat, leaning close to speak to her. Lucius’s jaw clenched as the man’s hand brushed hers, the gesture small but possessive. So, she was engaged. Of course, she was. A woman like her, even a servant, could be bartered into a match that served some Roman noble’s ambitions.

But when she looked at her betrothed, there was no warmth in her eyes. None of the light he remembered.

She turned back to him, and for a moment, it felt as though the years melted away. The noise of the arena faded, the weight of his chains forgotten. It was just her and him, as it had always been.

Lucius felt something stir inside him, something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in years.

Hope.

His salute lingered a moment longer than it should have, his gaze unwavering. He saw the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers gripped the edge of her chair as if grounding herself against the storm inside her.

And then the guards called for him to return to the cells. The gate creaked open behind him. He forced himself to turn, to walk away, but every step felt heavier than the last.

She was here. She had found him.

And now, no matter the cost, he would find her again.

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The barracks were dark and quiet, save for the faint crackle of the brazier in the corner. Lucius sat on the edge of the wooden bench, his head bowed, his hands idly tracing the grooves of the blade across his lap. Around him, the other gladiators had fallen into a tense silence, their usual jests and muttered complaints subdued after the day’s bloodshed.

He’d been Hanno for so long now, the name sliding easily from the lips of the guards, the crowd, the men who fought and bled beside him. Hanno, the invincible gladiator, the Eagle of the Arena. No one questioned where he had come from, why his skills surpassed so many others. They only saw what they wanted—a spectacle, a story to worship or envy.

But tonight, none of that mattered.

Her face had been burned into his mind since he’d seen her, her wide eyes locking with his in the colosseum. Every move he made since had been automatic, his body fighting and surviving on instinct, while his mind reeled with the impossible truth: she was alive.

He gritted his teeth, clenching the blade harder. For years, he’d allowed himself to believe she was lost to him, married off to some faceless noble, her life swallowed by the world of the Roman elite. He’d tried to bury the ache of it, the guilt that he hadn’t fought harder to keep her, the memories of her laugh, her touch, her whispered promises in the moonlight.

But now she was here, close enough to reach, yet still out of his grasp.

“Oi, Hanno,” a gruff voice broke the silence. One of the older gladiators, Gaius, sat sharpening his sword in the corner, his one good eye glinting in the firelight. “You’ve been starin’ at that blade like it owes you coin. What’s on your mind?”

Lucius glanced up, his expression carefully neutral. “Nothing.”

Gaius snorted, unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar. You’ve been off since the games today. Can’t say I blame you—crowds like that, they’ll rattle anyone.” He leaned forward, a sly grin spreading across his scarred face. “Or maybe it was someone in the crowd?”

Lucius froze, but only for a moment. Long enough for Gaius’s grin to widen.

“Thought so,” Gaius said. “Some patrician woman caught your eye, eh? Happens to the best of us. Those fine silks and soft hands… nothin’ like the sand and blood we’re used to.”

Lucius forced a smirk, playing along. “Maybe. She looked familiar, that’s all.”

“Familiar?” Gaius raised a brow. “A patrician you’d know? From before?” He lowered his voice, his tone suddenly serious. “Careful, lad. That kind of thinking’ll get you killed. We’re gladiators now, not men with pasts.”

Lucius ignored the warning, leaning back and keeping his voice casual. “You’ve been here longer than most. You hear things. You know people. If I wanted to find out about someone—just out of curiosity—how would I go about it?”

Gaius squinted at him, suspicious now. “Depends who you’re asking about.”

“Her,” Lucius said, his tone sharper than he intended. “She was in the patrician’s box today. y/h/c, y/e/c. Engaged to some nobleman.”

Gaius let out a low whistle. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Hanno. Asking about a patrician’s bride-to-be? What, you think you’ll sweep her off her feet, carry her out of here on your shield?” He laughed, but when Lucius didn’t respond, the humor faded from his face.

“You’re serious,” Gaius muttered.

Lucius didn’t answer, his jaw set in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to let this go.

Gaius sighed, shaking his head. “Fine. But you didn’t hear this from me. There’s a steward who works the colosseum, handles the guests in the noble galleries. Quintus is his name. He’s got loose lips when he’s had a bit to drink. You might learn something from him.”

Lucius nodded, already planning his next move. He would find this Quintus, he would learn what he could, and he would find a way to see her.

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The barracks were suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of sweat and blood. Lucius sat on the stone bench, his head bowed, hands clasped as though in prayer. But he wasn’t praying. Not to the gods, at least. If they had ever cared for him, they had long since turned their backs.

Her face haunted him—the moment he’d locked eyes with her in the patrician’s box. Everything about that instant had shattered his focus, his purpose. The games, the crowd, the blood—they had all faded in that one heartbeat when he saw her again. Iris.

The name stirred something deep within him—something he had buried long ago. She shouldn’t have been there. In this place, with him, after all this time. But there she was, sitting among the nobles, looking at him with a mixture of disbelief and recognition, as though she, too, had never forgotten their past. The girl he had loved. The girl he had lost.

He had to know who she was with now—who held her heart.

He caught Titus, one of the younger gladiators, in the corridor late that night when the air had cooled and the others were lost in their rest. The torchlight cast shadows that made everything feel like a dream.

“I need you to send a message,” Lucius said, his voice quiet but firm.

Titus hesitated, glancing nervously at the hallway. “A message? To who?”

“Quintus. The steward,” Lucius said. “Tell him Hanno requests an audience.”

Titus frowned, confused. “Quintus? Why him?”

“Just do it,” Lucius ordered, his tone hardening. “Tell him the Eagle wants to speak to him.”

Reluctantly, Titus nodded and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lucius alone again with his racing thoughts.

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It wasn’t long before Quintus arrived, stepping into the dim light of the corridor with a casual air that belied his sharp eyes. He stopped just outside the bars of Lucius’s cell, arms crossed, his usual smirk playing at the edges of his mouth.

“To what do I owe the honor, Hanno?” Quintus asked, his voice thick with mockery.

Lucius moved to the bars, his grip tight. “I need information.”

Quintus’s eyebrow arched. “Information? About what?”

“Her,” Lucius said, his voice barely above a whisper. “The woman who was in the patrician’s box today. Iris.” He said her name with a careful hesitation, as though he had spoken it too many times in his head already. “I want to know who she’s engaged to.”

Quintus’s smirk faltered for a moment, but he quickly masked his surprise. “Caius Livius, if you must know,” he replied, his tone as indifferent as ever. “She’s promised to him. A senator’s son.”

Lucius’s jaw tightened, anger rising like a fire within him. Caius. The name tasted bitter on his tongue. He had no claim on Iris anymore, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“And where do I find her?” Lucius asked, his voice colder than before.

Quintus leaned closer, his expression unreadable. “You think you can just walk into their life and take what’s already promised?”

“I didn’t ask for your judgment,” Lucius shot back, gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I asked for information.“

Quintus held his gaze for a long moment, as though weighing the consequences of giving away more than he should. “Fine ,” he said finally, his voice lowering. “The wedding is planned for the Saturnalia, and he’ll be parading around the city like any nobleman would. But you, Hanno, are nothing but a gladiator. You’re not in their world anymore.”

Lucius’s eyes hardened, his resolve set. He didn’t care. He would find a way.

Quintus sighed, seeing the determination in Lucius’s eyes. “Be careful. Men like Caius do not take kindly to those who try to steal what they believe belongs to them.”

“I don’t care about their world,” Lucius muttered, his grip still tight on the bars. 

Quintus chuckled softly, backing away. “As you wish, Hanno. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And with that, he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Lucius standing alone in the darkened cell.

Iris. She was still here, still within his reach. But now he had to find a way to cross the divide between the life she lived and the life he had been forced into. It would take time, cunning, and risks—he knew that.

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The days dragged on in the darkened confines of his cell, but Lucius’s mind was sharp, focused on one singular goal. Iris. Her name burned in his chest like a flame, and every passing hour only fueled his determination to find a way to see her again.

The opportunity finally came in the form of a pre-wedding celebration, a lavish event that would be held in honor of Caius Livius and Iris’s upcoming union. Lucius had learned the details from his fleeting conversation with Quintus. The nobles would gather, music would fill the air, and the festivities would overflow with rich food and wine. And what better place to make a grand appearance, to show his worth and cement his place in the arena, than there?

It was a risky move, but Lucius had long learned that risks were the only path to getting what he wanted. And he wanted Iris back in his life—somehow.

He had been pacing in his cell for days, his mind spinning with ways to gain Macrinus’s approval. The man who oversaw the gladiators was a hard man to impress, focused only on profit and spectacle. But Lucius knew something that could sway him—something that could make Macrinus see the value in letting him appear outside the arena.

When the time came, Lucius finally approached Macrinus after training. The large man stood by the door to the gladiator barracks, as usual, his eyes calculating, a permanent frown etched across his face.

“You’ve got something on your mind, Hanno?” Macrinus’s voice was rough, like gravel scraping against stone.

“I want to fight at the pre-wedding celebration,” Lucius said boldly, stepping forward, meeting Macrinus’s gaze without flinching.

Macrinus’s frown deepened, his brow furrowing as he studied Lucius with suspicion. “What do you mean? You’re already booked for the next game.”

Lucius’s voice remained calm, confident. “A demonstration. A show for the nobles. Not just a fight. A spectacle—something more than just the blood and sand they’re used to. I am worth more than that. My name is already known. They’ll talk about this for weeks. It’ll bring attention to the arena.”

Macrinus scoffed. “I’m not here to pander to noble whims. They want to see blood, Hanno, not performances.”

Lucius leaned in, dropping his voice to a low, convincing tone. “What if you gave them both? The fight, the blood, and the spectacle? You know how the rich love their games, their entertainment. They’ll throw more coin at you than you’ve seen in months. You think I’m just a tool for the sand? No. I’m a showman, too. I can be both your champion and your attraction, Macrinus.”

Macrinus studied him for a long moment, a trace of hesitation on his face. Lucius knew he had his attention. It was all about playing to the man’s greed.

“You think they’ll pay for that?” Macrinus asked skeptically.

“I know they will,” Lucius replied confidently. “You know they will.”

There was a long pause, the silence thick with the weight of the decision. Finally, Macrinus spoke, his tone begrudging. “Fine. But don’t disappoint me, Hanno. If you fail to deliver, you’ll never see the light of day again. Understood?”

Lucius gave him a single, sharp nod. “Understood.”

The deal was struck. He would appear at the celebration—not as a mere gladiator, but as an entertainer, a spectacle that would tantalize the nobles and remind them of the fierce warriors they had come to worship. But Lucius’s true goal wasn’t just to perform. It was to find Iris again.

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The night of the pre-wedding celebration arrived, and the grand estate was alive with opulence. Torches lined the paths, casting flickering shadows over the marble columns that held up the towering structure. The air was thick with the sound of music, the chatter of guests, the clinking of goblets filled with wine. Lucius stood in the center of the courtyard, wearing a costume not meant for battle but for spectacle—a fighter’s attire mixed with elaborate decorations meant to draw the eye.

The moment he stepped into the midst of the crowd, all eyes were on him. His reputation had already preceded him, and now, in the midst of this rich, noble gathering, the anticipation of the fight—his performance—was palpable.

Lucius’s heart pounded in his chest, but not because of the crowd’s gaze. He was searching for her. Iris.

It didn’t take long before his eyes found her, seated at the edge of the grand table, surrounded by the high-ranking men and women of Rome. She was seated next to Caius, her fiancé, but it was her presence that caught Lucius’s attention, her graceful posture, the way she held herself with a quiet elegance that made his heart ache.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, but Lucius knew this was his chance. He had to speak with her. He had to know if she remembered what they had shared. If she felt the same pull he did.

He played his part well, engaging in a mock duel with one of the other gladiators, performing for the crowd, his movements sharp and exaggerated. He could hear the gasps of excitement, the laughter, and the murmurs of approval. But his gaze never left her.

When the crowd finally began to thin out, when the festivities had moved inside to the banquet hall, Lucius saw his opportunity. He took a deep breath, stepping away from the cheering spectators and weaving through the courtyard, making his way toward the quiet area where Iris had slipped away from the crowd.

His pulse quickened as he neared her, and when he saw her alone for the briefest of moments, he stepped forward, his heart pounding with urgency. But just as his hand reached for the veil of the moment, a shadow fell across his path, and he froze.

“Iris.”

Her name, spoken with the weight of ownership, cut through the air. Lucius’s breath caught in his throat as Caius Livius stepped into view, his posture commanding and his eyes sharp with the kind of possessive authority that had always made Lucius’s skin crawl.

Iris’s face faltered for a split second, the mask she had been wearing slipping just enough to reveal the turmoil beneath. She turned, her eyes wide with shock at Caius’s sudden appearance.

“I was about to—” Iris began, but Caius stepped closer, his presence towering over her, blocking Lucius’s approach.

“You were about to what?” Caius’s voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it. His gaze flicked briefly to Lucius, a look of recognition passing between them before he returned his attention to Iris, his hand subtly resting possessively on her arm. “You should be with your guests, Iris. This isn’t the time for wandering off.”

Iris stiffened at his touch, but she said nothing, her eyes darting briefly toward Lucius.

“I just… needed a moment,” Iris murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She pulled her arm away from Caius’s grasp, the coldness of the gesture unnoticed by him, though Lucius felt the tension between them all the same.

Caius, however, didn’t miss the unspoken exchange. His eyes narrowed, and his tone sharpened. “I’ll take her back inside. It’s better that way.”

Without waiting for her to respond, he placed a firm hand at the small of her back and guided her away, leaving Lucius standing frozen in the shadows of the courtyard, the words he longed to say locked behind his teeth.

As they disappeared into the throng of nobles, Lucius’s gaze remained on Iris, heart sinking as the distance between them grew. He had come so close—too close—and yet fate had thrown him back into the same endless fight.

This was far from over.

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The atmosphere in the grand hall was suffocating. Candles flickered in golden sconces, casting long shadows along the marble floor. The chatter of the guests—nobles and dignitaries alike—filled the air, but Iris barely heard any of it. Her mind was elsewhere, her heart somewhere far from the lavish feast unfolding before her.

Tonight was supposed to be a celebration—a night to honor the union of herself and Caius Livius. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being trapped. She had played her part in the arrangements, had donned the gown of a bride and smiled for the guests, but everything felt like a dream she couldn’t wake from. Caius, standing at her side, had not noticed the distance growing between them. His attention was fixed on the guests, on his own image as a future senator, as a man who had already secured his place in Roman society. But for Iris, it was all just a gilded cage, and she was desperate to escape it.

Her gaze drifted toward the center of the room, where the gladiators—Lucius among them, disguised as Hanno—stood, their presence an odd contrast to the aristocratic crowd. They had been invited for spectacle, for entertainment, to make the celebration more “authentic” in the eyes of the nobles. But Iris only saw the man she had once known—Lucius.

There, in the corner of the hall, he stood with his fellow gladiators, their grim faces betraying nothing of what Iris felt in her chest. The way he moved—like a predator, every inch a warrior, but still, something about him seemed so familiar, so painfully alive.

Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met. It was brief, a moment suspended in time, but it was enough. He hadn’t seen her as a noblewoman. He hadn’t seen her as the fiancée of Caius Livius. He saw her, Iris, the girl who had once run barefoot through the gardens of Lucilla’s estate with him, the girl who had watched him train and fought by his side in secret. And in that instant, she could see the same longing in his eyes—the same recognition that told her he had never forgotten her, either.

Her heart raced, and she felt the familiar tug of old emotions threatening to pull her back to him. The years apart, the choices they had made, all seemed so distant now. But standing there, in the same room, everything she had tried to bury came flooding back.

“Iris?” Caius’s voice interrupted her thoughts, pulling her back to the reality of the celebration. She turned to face her fiancé, whose eyes were sharp with suspicion. “You’re not listening.”

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, offering him a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I was… distracted.” She forced her gaze away from Lucius and back to Caius, though the effort felt like a betrayal. “I need to step outside for a moment,” she added, the words tumbling from her lips before she could think better of it.

“Outside?” Caius raised an eyebrow, his face hardening. “Why?”

“I just… need air,” Iris said, her voice trembling. She couldn’t explain it to him—not in this moment, not in front of the guests. She didn’t even fully understand herself.

Caius’ frown deepened. “We’re in the middle of a celebration, Iris. You can’t just—”

“I must go,” she interrupted, her tone sharper than she intended. She could feel the weight of the room, the pressure of everyone watching, and it made her skin crawl. “I’ll return shortly.” She didn’t wait for his response, turning away and heading toward the door before he could say another word.

She had already rehearsed this moment in her mind a hundred times—slipping away unnoticed, making her way to the stables where the gladiators were kept. She wasn’t supposed to be there, but the pull of Lucius—the pull of him—was stronger than any duty she had.

Tonight, of all nights, he would be transported separately from the others. She had learned of his arrival through whispers, and she knew the gladiators would be kept in the cages, awaiting transport to the barracks after the night’s festivities.

But Iris didn’t want to wait. She needed to see him again, to know if it was truly him.

She had paid off a guard earlier, sliding him a small pouch of gold, instructing him to turn a blind eye to her movements. He had agreed, eyes gleaming with greed. She knew it was risky, but she had no choice.

She made her way to the small courtyard behind the villa, where the cages awaited the gladiators. It was dark here, the shadows stretching long and deep, and Iris felt the safety of being hidden, away from the scrutiny of the celebration. The night was still, save for the sound of distant chatter from the main hall.

Iris crouched low behind one of the larger cages, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew they’d arrive soon, and she had one chance—just one. The cage was meant to carry the gladiators back to their quarters, but Iris had found a way to be there first. She slid inside one of the empty cages, curling into the corner where the shadows would hide her. She had to remain out of sight. If anyone saw her, if anyone knew she was here, it would be over.

The cage door creaked open, and the sound of boots on stone grew louder. She held her breath, knowing who it was. When Lucius—or Hanno—finally stepped inside, his form battered, bloodied, and worn from the fight, he stopped, pausing in the doorway. His breathing was heavy, his chest rising and falling, his posture slightly hunched from exhaustion. But even in this broken state, there was no mistaking him.

He didn’t see her at first, his gaze on the floor, but then his eyes flicked up, and they locked. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Iris…” His voice was low, hoarse, almost disbelieving, as if he had to convince himself that she was real.

She swallowed, heart in her throat, and stepped forward. The air between them was thick with unsaid words, but neither of them moved. Not at first. “It’s me,” she said softly, almost in a whisper, afraid to break the fragile spell between them.

Lucius’s gaze softened as he took in the sight of her. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, but still, there was something holding him back. He paused, just a few feet away, as if trying to process the impossible truth of the moment. His eyes searched hers, as if looking for something—some reassurance that this wasn’t just a dream.

“What are you doing here, Iris?” he asked quietly, his voice rough. “You shouldn’t be here. You—” He glanced toward the entrance, where the guards had started moving around, no doubt expecting him to leave soon. “You should be with your fiancé. This is no place for you.”

Her heart stung at the mention of her betrothed. But she couldn’t turn away now, not when he was standing here in front of her, so close and yet so far. She took a tentative step toward him, her fingers brushing the cold bars of the cage, wanting to feel him, to know that he was still the same.

“I couldn’t stay away,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I just needed to see you. To know that you’re still here. That you’re still alive.”

Lucius’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away from her. His eyes were filled with something she couldn’t quite place—sorrow, regret, and something deeper, something that made her heart ache with a longing she knew she couldn’t act on.

“I’m not who I was,” he said, his voice quieter now, filled with a mixture of pain and something more. “I’m not that boy anymore, Iris.”

Iris closed her eyes for a moment, her hand still gripping the bars, trying to steady the whirlwind of emotions inside her. She knew the truth of his words. They both knew that nothing had changed—except everything had. The life she had once known with him was long gone. She was promised to another. Lucius was a gladiator, shackled by the life he had been forced into.

“I don’t need anything from you,” she said, her voice breaking as she opened her eyes to meet his. “I just wanted to see you. To know you’re still fighting. To remind myself that you’re real.” Her hand trembled slightly, reaching out. She could barely make herself do it—touch him, feel the reality of him. She just needed to know he wasn’t a memory.

He stood still, watching her, his own hand coming up as if he reached for her, but he didn’t. There was an unspoken understanding between them now—one that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. They couldn’t change what had happened, couldn’t undo the time that had passed. The distance between them now was unbridgeable.

“You have to keep fighting,” Iris said softly, her voice full of quiet desperation. “You have to win these battles, Lucius. Not just for your freedom—but for yourself.”

He nodded slowly, the weight of her words settling in his chest. “I’ll keep fighting,” he said, but his voice was strained. “But what if I don’t win? What if there’s nothing left for me once this is over?”

“You have to try,” she said, shaking her head. She felt her throat tighten, but she held it together, taking a deep breath. “For you. For the chance to have something more than this. I can’t change what’s already been decided. But you…” Her voice faltered for a moment. “You can still change your life. You can change Rome. The emperor’s reign terror over us all. The very thing Maximus fought to destroy has been reborn. This…this could be Rome’s second coming. You could change everything!” 

He stood still, eyes narrowed as she spoke, her voice growing more urgent, more pleading. The hope in her words was thick, almost suffocating. The weight of her expectations settled onto his shoulders, heavier than any armor he had ever worn in the arena. She was asking him to be a symbol, to be something more than just the man who had been torn apart by the brutal hands of fate. To rise up, to fight—not for his life, not for his freedom—but for something else, something bigger than them both.

The bitterness swirled inside him, bitterness he couldn’t quite shake, even though he knew it wasn’t fair. He wanted to pull her close and ask if she had really come here for him—or if she had come because she needed him to be more than the gladiator she saw. Was she still seeing the boy she once knew? Or had the weight of Rome’s problems and the brutality of their world transformed that image into something else?

“You think I’m here to save Rome?” His voice was low, thick with disbelief, and maybe something sharper, something closer to anger. He took a step closer, his breath quickening. “Have you really come to ask me to fix a city that’s rotting from the inside? To fight in the name of some grand idea, as if that would change anything?”

He could see the shock in her eyes, the way she stiffened at his words, but the feeling that burned inside him wouldn’t let him soften his tone. “I was a boy who used to laugh with you. Who dreamed of something better. And now, I’m here, in chains, fighting for my life like some beast in a cage—and you expect me to change the world? To fight for a cause that wasn’t mine? To be your hero? What do you even want from me, Iris?”

The sharpness of his words hung in the air, and he regretted them almost immediately. He knew it wasn’t her fault. He knew the weight of everything she had said came from a place of fear, of wanting him to be the person he used to be—the person she wanted him to be. But something inside him twisted in frustration, the lingering taste of his own disillusionment clouding his thoughts.

“You don’t even know what it’s like in here,” he continued, his voice quieter now, but still edged with that underlying anger. “What it takes to survive. I’m not some gladiator who can just rise up and change the world, Iris. I’m just a man trying to get through the next fight. And if I die in the arena tomorrow, what’s left of me? What good does it do Rome?”

His fists clenched at his sides, but his gaze softened just a little, though he didn’t allow himself to look away from her. “I know what your life is supposed to be. I know you’ve got your future planned out, with your betrothed and your family. You don’t need me. You don’t need this.” He gestured toward the cage, the arena that held him captive. “You don’t need someone like me anymore.”

There was silence between them now, and for a long moment, Lucius simply stared at her, the weight of his words still hanging between them. It wasn’t anger he felt—not entirely—but frustration, confusion, and something deeper that he couldn’t put into words.

"You do not get to ask me to be someone I’m not anymore.”

Iris stood there, her hand still gripping the bars, her body trembling slightly under the weight of his words. She hadn’t come here to convince him to save the empire. She had come to see him, to remind herself of who he was before he became Hanno—the gladiator. But Lucius, had taken it another way.

Maybe it was too much for him to hear. Maybe he didn’t know what to do with her presence here, what she expected from him, what he was still capable of giving. And maybe he was right to be angry, right to wonder what had brought her here tonight.

But Iris, standing in the cold dark of the cage with him, wanted to say that she didn’t care about all the politics, the battles, the blood. She didn’t care about Rome or her betrothed or the life that had been set out for her. She just wanted him. The boy she had known, the one who had made her laugh and dreamed of a future together. The man standing in front of her now, in chains, so far from the man he had once been.

But she didn’t know how to tell him that. Instead, she stepped back, slowly, her heart breaking with each movement. She had come here to see him, to remind herself of who he was—but now, as he stood there, unable to see past the fight that consumed him, it felt like all of that was slipping away again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. She turned away, the weight of his words still echoing in her ears. “I didn’t mean to ask you to be someone you’re not.”

And with that, she walked away, the door of the cage closing behind her with a final, resounding thud. Lucius watched her go, his chest heavy with regret, but no words came. The cage was cold. The night outside was full of laughter and light, and yet, it felt impossibly far away.

[hatsukeii]

think fast / childhood bsf!tsukshima kei x reader

genre(s): childhood best friends x soulmates???? past lives and normal people by sally rooney coded im a sally rooney MEATRIDER!! angsty, gut-wrenching longing, bittersweet / hopeful ending so it's not all bad!! nostalgia is going to carry this fic so hard it's going to be a fun, fun time...

warning(s): eventual smut!! all characters are aged up to 21!!MDNI (at least up until the observatory)!! unprotected sex here remember to wrap it before you tap it!! (sorry kids), female leaning anatomy because smut but pronouns are gn all throughout and honestly you could read it as gn anyways:)) dead dad warning (my dad is NOT dead this was just convenient to kick off the thing), i fw the timeline of the world??? pretend flip phones were still in use in like 2012 or something idk

wc: ~6.3k

tldr; time has a way of reminding Kei of its presence, and its escape. you are the reminder it has been sending to him for six years.

Fate: A power believed to cause and control all events, so that one cannot change or determine the way things will happen. 

It is a sunny afternoon when you step foot into Sendai, Miyagi. A beautiful day of golden warmth beaming onto petals of pink, red, and white, wrapped in coffee-stained newspapers and tied together with a spool of twine. The bouquet lies on browning grass, a contemptible reminder of the time that has passed since your last appearance here, six years ago, and you crouch down to the ground. Now face to face with the engraving of a full name on a slab of polished granite, you hesitate. Your father lived in a language that you can no longer speak, died in a country you no longer call your home. When you whisper blessings and apologies at the gravestone in broken Japanese and slurred syllables, you sound like a stranger. A stranger who sits in a graveyard at noon, with nothing but a bouquet from the nearby florist in hand, and a promise, stuttered out in half-decent Japanese, to return again the next year. 

When a second bouquet falls to the ground behind you, and you turn around, Tsukishima Kei thinks this is what English speakers like you would call fate. He’s a little taller now, and bulkier too, and you have to crane your head higher than you remember just to meet his eyes. You don’t recognise the glasses he dons anymore, the black rectangles from his teenage years swapped out for rounded squares and silver frames. But he has a towel in his hand, a towel that has his initials poorly stitched into the corner with red string. You wonder if the matching one he made you, eleven years ago, is collecting dust somewhere in your dormitory, halfway across the world. 

“You’re back.”

“It’s been a while, Kei.”

You can no longer differentiate Japanese syllables clearly, and your statement jumbles into nonsense in your head. Kei hears the English woven into your accent in the way you roll your tongue like foreigners do, and in the odd intonations that don’t exist in your mother tongue. You don’t even remember your father’s dislike for white flowers. London has truly done a number on you. 

“Why? Why now?”

You bite your nail, a persistent habit that Kei frowns at. He picks up his flowers, and steps towards the gravestone, just close enough for your knee to brush against him for a moment. The bouquet in his hand is wrapped in plastic and filled with red and pink, the white from your own sticking out like a sore thumb when he places his flowers gently on the grass beside yours. He tosses the towel in his hand, opening it up against his palm, and you take it from him. If you cannot get the language right, or the flowers, this is the least you can do. Cobwebs stick to the fabric as you sweep at the granite slab, watching soot and dust fall to the grass. The curves and dips of the gravestone are familiar once again, and you dig the towel into every nook and cranny. You feel Kei’s body shift, before his knee is touching yours and his face is finally level with your peripheral vision. He glances at you, waiting. His knees bounce in anticipation. 

“Never had the chance, college has been a lot.”

Your phone rings as you finish cleaning. The ringtone is familiar, unchanged from when you used to have a flip phone, in fact. Kei hums along to the jingle for the four seconds that the call is left unanswered, before it cuts off into a flurry of English. He catches something about research, and a thesis, his shabby English unable to fill in any more than that. He’s never known you were interested in research, let alone what it is that you’re researching. All he’s known is your aspiration of becoming a librarian when you were six, and his promise to borrow books from you for the museum that he swore he would one day work at. Now, he works at the museum, sorts antique scripts and yellowed books into cabinets and display shelves. He does not borrow books from you. Now, you talk, but nothing makes sense to him.

You end the call, mumbling foreign curses as you shove your phone back into your pocket. Clicking your tongue, you turn to Kei, who stares at the flowers on the ground. He pushes his glasses up when they slide down his nose, and you resist the familiar urge to nag him about buying the right frames for his face. 

“Yeah, college has been mostly phone calls like that.”

He nods, a half-hearted chuckle huffing from his nose. He’s forgotten what it’s like to sit at a graveyard with somebody else, the annual reminder of a lonely death replaced by another this year as you dust off his towel, and drop it onto his thigh. He swipes it from his leg, folding it into quarters and sliding it into his pocket. 

“So you choose to come now, without a word? Not even a heads up? Six years after leaving?” Kei’s voice rises at each question, the same way it did six years ago when you broke the news of leaving Japan to him. This hurts him to ask, that much you can still recognise.

“I would have come sooner if I had the chance. I’ve missed everyone so much.”

You pluck a petal from a white flower in your bouquet, then another, until all that remains is the naked bulb, and scatter them onto the ground beside you. Perhaps the next person that’s been buried under six feet of dirt used to have a liking for them. Kei remains unmoving, throat bobbing as he swallows thickly. His knee stops bouncing. 

“How long will you stay for?”

“Today, then Friday and Saturday too. Flight back is Sunday night.”

Six years of waiting, and this is what it amounts to. A weekend and a bit. Despite that, Kei still thinks this must be fate, in all the languages that it exists in. Six years of life, and love, and hurt, all to be condensed into four measly days. Yet as Kei pushes himself off the ground, dusting his trousers off, he still thinks that this unlikely, yet conveniently timed visit must be the answer to his pleas for your return. That this must be some heavenly reward, good karma for visiting your father’s grave annually on your behalf. You watch him turn to leave, and he calls out to you as he walks away from your father’s grave. 

“Everyone’s at Hinata’s old place tomorrow. You should come by if you can.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Change: to replace (something) with something else, especially something of the same kind that is newer or better; substitute one thing for (another).

All it takes is one coincidental exchange of panicked glances at the first throw up of the night for you and Kei to leave together. Hinata slurs a drunken farewell, tries to embrace you as you slip your sneakers on at the door, and you make a note to yourself that you really do not miss most of the people here, spare for the volleyball team. Kei waits at the door, holding it open for when you finally shake Hinata off of your back, and step through. The night is chilly, the warmth in your skin from the indoor heating system emanating into the midnight air. You kick rocks along the pavement as you walk, scattering pigeons that remain awake and active at this time, and Kei smiles at your antics. You still hate birds, and you still remember the trick he taught you when you were nine for chasing away pigeons that flocked around you for food. 

“Who are you staying with?”

“My mom’s.”

The road leads the two of you to a high school. Kei has not come back to Karasuno since graduation. You squint in the dark, scanning the school, and you don’t recognise the new building that stands in place of the old auditorium. He watches you crouch at the plaque next to the front gate, tracing the letters engraved on it with the pad of your thumb. Some part of him blames Karasuno for being a bad place to you, the other parts blame himself for not being good enough to outweigh it.

“It’s changed.”

“Everything has.”

You rattle the locked entrance, the chain and padlock hitting against cold metal. It won’t open, so you look up through the gap of the gate. Six years ago, on that rooftop, was where you stood over a cold lunch box and emptied convenience store drinks, back against the wire fence, saying to Kei, I’m leaving tomorrow. On that day, you had packed yakisoba for his lunch, and nothing for yourself. He could barely respond to your announcement, only dropping his chopsticks and asking you, why? You told him something along the lines of being an expat, and a better school for what you wanted, all in the fluent Japanese you once spoke. Nothing made sense to him anyways. 

When you turn back to him, his hands are in the pockets of his jacket, and his nose is red from the cold air. You stand beside him, staring aimlessly at Karasuno from outside its barriers. 

“Do you still play volleyball?” 

“Yeah, Sendai Frogs.”

You hum, and then wonder why you only asked tonight, and why you’re surprised. He shrugs, clouds of white puffing from his mouth when he breathes out. He tries to blow a wisp of hair away from his face, and you suddenly realise that his hair has grown too, along with his height. It fails, and he tries again. You reach up to swipe at his bangs, before running your fingers backwards through his hair. It parts itself as you lift your hands from his head, and falls into place neatly. A cold breeze whizzes by, and undoes your work, sending strands of gold into his face once again. You snicker a little.

“You know, you could ask my mom to trim it for you like she used to.”

“Nah, I prefer this.”

It isn’t until you turn to look at him properly that you see how much time has passed. He likes his hair longer these days, the choppy hairdo of his teenage years now nothing but an old preference, and you wonder if he is still a loyal customer of your mother’s salon. When he pulls his hands from his pockets and blows hot air into them, calluses line the bases of his fingers, the blisters of his high school years hardened by trials of time and effort. There are bags under his eyes, eyes that are now a little rounder, and softer too. When he speaks, monotone and tired, you realise his snarkiness has dissipated into general frustration. You stare until his eyes dart to you, and turn away quickly, ashamed. Leaving Karasuno has taken your hand and led you to a purpose that you never knew you were capable of. You wonder what the hell it has done to Tsukishima Kei. 

“It looks good.”

He breathes in sharply, then exhales with a huff, shoulders relaxing as he stuffs his hands back into his pockets. You suddenly realise that your fingers have gone numb from the cold of the night, fingertips tingling like a million frost-bitten needles poking into your skin. You also stuff your hands into your pockets, rubbing your fingers against each other to generate some heat. Then, Kei’s looping his arm around yours, and pulling you away from Karasuno High School. He keeps on his straight path, and you stumble along behind his leaping steps. When you round a corner, the night breeze grows into something less imperturbable, and more vicious, pushing the two of you forward from behind in slashes of cold. The sea is near. 

“Is this the beach we used to go to?”

“You still remember it.”

He drags you down a flight of stairs to Fukanuma Beach, and the misty sea air rushes to your head. When he leads you to the shoreline, you hesitate. The sea has been off limits since the two of you were five, a regulation put in place in remembrance of the Great Sendai Earthquake. An earthquake that saw Kei and yourself hunched beneath the same table in the middle of class, huddled next to each other as you cried for your parents. Now, in your final years of college, as the water slips beneath the soles of his shoes, pushing and receding in layers of aqua and bubbles of white, it seems that time has slipped by just as easily too. Time, that saw the fading of the earthquake’s devastation, despite the loss of thousands, including your father. Time, that frayed the string connecting yourself to Kei as you moved through life halfway across the world from Japan. Time, that passes through you like sand spilling between your fingers on a beach you once thought you knew, but has changed like the unprohibited water that seems to push further up into the shore at each tidal wave. 

“They lifted the ban?”

“A few months ago, yeah.”

You step into the next wave that fizzles into foam, and the water crashes into the toe of your shoes. Crouching, you push mounds of wet sand into a cylinder, flattening the top and pushing divots in equal intervals. Kei joins, moulding shorter ones beside your own and drawing windows into the side. You finish, and he stands, smiling at the creation. You cover the top, afraid he will stomp on it, a trademark of Kei’s whenever you built sandcastles with him in childhood. Instead, he laughs, and walks further into the water. When you get up to join him, the hems of his trousers are soaked, shoes also covered in a sheen of wetness. You hop over the castle, and the next wave that comes sends its foundations crumbling back into the sea. 

“We used to do that. You’d destroy it every time.”

Kei chuckles, and looks back to see the half destroyed castle. Clicking his tongue, he returns to the rubble, and you watch his hands push mounds of sand towards what is left standing. 

“I’d always build a better one for you afterwards though.”

He dusts his hands off when he finishes, and the waves fizzle out just before they hit the two-tiered sandcastle. You sniff, holding your arms close to your chest. When Kei looks up, he feels like the summer of being seven years old again, smiling at you with his missing front tooth when you sniffle and laugh at the improved castle he’s put together for you. Now, it is winter. He only grins with the corners of his lips. You only sniff because it’s cold. 

“Kei.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s really been a while. How have you been?”

He steps over the castle towards you, careful not to break it. Your hair blows in your face from the beach breeze and your eyes squint from the sand that flies into the air, and Kei takes it all in when you’re face to face with him. When he opens his mouth, some selfish part of him thinks about casting his words into shackles of regret, so heavy that they weigh you down and keep you in Japan, in Sendai, on this beach, somewhere close to him.

“Do you want to stay the night? Like you used to?”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Nostalgia: A sentimental longing, or wistful yearning for a return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition.

Kei does not take you to his family house. He leads you up stairs that make no sense, and hallways that stretch on forever, until you finally reach his flat. He wipes his shoes on the doormat, throws his keys into a glass bowl upon entry, and hangs his jacket on a hook mounted to his front door instead of the coathanger that used to stand beside it. You look around, searching for the shells you once collected in a jar for his tenth birthday. When your eyes land on a jar filled with conches and cowries, you let go of a breath you were unaware of holding. They sit on the top of his bookshelf, above textbooks and file organisers. A knot forms in your throat at the realisation that the jar sits alone in its compartment, with nothing beside it. You’ve done the same to the jazz vinyl Kei gifted you at the airport before your departure. You don’t realise that he’s disappeared somewhere as you stare at the shells, until a shirt and a pair of shorts are thrown into your chest. He stands at the entrance to a hallway, donning sweatpants and an old hoodie, one that’s clearly a size too small. The pocket is lousily sewn on, a result of a mishap that occurred when you had borrowed it once. He doesn’t know that you spent the night learning to sew fabric just to fix it.

“Change. It’ll be more comfortable.”

You scurry through the hallway to his bathroom, pulling the shirt and shorts on hastily, before balling up your clothes and returning to the living room. Kei sits at his couch, now bound in leather instead of fabric, and clicks at the television. You join beside him, legs splaying across his own subconsciously. He doesn’t move. He stops at a movie, one you’ve seen hundreds of times before at his old house. It drones on in the background as he watches in silence, his arms now draped over your knees. The first time he watched this movie, it was in his old home, cross-legged on the carpeted ground with you on the couch behind him. Your hands used to press into his shoulders from above, shake them whenever your favourite scenes came on, squeeze them when you laughed until tears rolled from your eyes. Now that his new flat lacks a rug, he’s willing to settle with your legs on his own. Flashing lights illuminate the dark room in sequences that you can still recall perfectly from memory. He watches the movie. You watch him. 

“Have you been doing good, Kei?”

Turning to you, he pushes his glasses up into his hair, leaning further back. You shuffle closer, legs bending as your shoulder digs into the leather couch. A strand of blond falls into his face, and you lift his glasses to tuck it back, before smoothing your hands over his mess of hair, combing and pushing with your fingertips.The words from the television melt into gibberish when he hums in satisfaction, what is unspoken between you two is more glaring than ever.

“I’ve been okay.” He cuts off, then finds himself thinking of what to tell you first, amongst the recollections of life that rush through his head. “Started working at the museum a couple years ago.” He wishes that you still remember the building, where the marble floors squeaked beneath your slippers, and glass panels lined the walls, hiding away treasures and artefacts that have withstood centuries, maybe even eons of erosion and weathering.

You nod, mind filling with the many museum visits you had with him there. He’s always liked the dinosaurs more than the shells. When you breathe out a chuckle, he knows you’re recalling the time he almost pissed himself at a life-sized, moving tyrannosaurus rex model. 

“What about you?”

“Research. I’ve been doing research about…” you sign in the air, searching for the Japanese words that have slipped from your mind. Surrendering, you whip your phone out, searching for a translation. 

“Archaeology?”

“Yeah, that. No more librarian dreams for me. More dinosaurs, though.”

A smile finds its way onto Kei’s face, one that softens his cheeks and flattens his eyes into crescents. He wonders if amongst the silver plaques and digital displays, your work is engraved in there somewhere. If each time he explains something to some bright-eyed child, who scuttles around the museum as you and him once did, he is unknowingly speaking in your language, translated until he can decipher the thoughts that run through your mind in your research, your memories, your dreams too. 

“Maybe it’s in the museum somewhere. I’m willing to bet.”

“I hope it is.”

Your conversation fizzles back into silence, and the characters on the television do too. The two on the screen sit in a field, mere inches apart. The two of you look at each other, your knees now leaned into Kei’s chest and one of his arms draped along the back of the couch. When he pulls his glasses back to his eyes, and studies you all over again, it hits him that you really haven’t changed all that much, even after your six year separation. Six years older, with the exhaustion of a functioning adult, but you still gnaw on your cheeks, and tilt your head as you ask questions. Six years apart, and you are still you, who taught him to build sandcastles, and introduced him to his favourite movie, and fixed his hair whenever it stuck up in stubborn peaks of gold. When you let your eyes close, and drop your head onto his shoulder, you wait for lost time to tick backwards, until you’re on the rooftop with him once again. In this version of time, you blush when you tell him that you’ve chosen to stay in Japan instead. Pushing your head further into the crook of his neck, Kei’s chin reaches over to rest on the top of your crown. The credits of the movie roll in the background, and you mumble into the skin of his pulse. 

“Can you take me there? I’ve missed it.” Your words send vibrations down his spine, sending his head into a frenzy as he pushes his hands against the couch harder. 

“The museum?” It will be closed for the weekend, but Kei nods anyway. He’s sure he can find his way in through the back. Maybe he’ll take you to the fossils again, let you run your fingers along smooth amber and stone engravings. Perhaps he could show you the new exhibitions, ones that you won’t miss this time, as you have for the past six years. For now, he thinks he will let you sleep on his shoulder, listen to your soft snores, tremble at every hot breath that fans onto his neck. 

The credits roll to the end, and come to a stop. Kei removes his arm from the couch to grab the remote from his coffee table. He rewinds the movie to the start.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

思慕 [しぼ, shibo]: yearning; deep longing, especially when accompanied by tenderness or sadness.

On the final night of your stay, you learn that Kei still giggles when he breaks rules, as he drags you through the back entrance of the closed museum. He maneuvers through hallways of antique paintings and repurposed junk, slips into dark stairwells illuminated by the flashlight of his phone, traps your wrist between his fingers and chuckles to himself, shaking his head as he takes you higher, and higher, and higher. You’ve lost count of how many flights of stairs have gone by when he taps his keycard against a sensor by a backdoor, and pushes it open. The museum observatory, once a mess of bamboo scaffolding and green covers, now allows silver moonlight through its glass dome, boasting billions of iridescent stars nestled in a blanket of hazy midnight. A decade of your anticipation has resulted in a circular space, hundreds of plush recliners lining the circumference of the room, and you wonder how many eyes have watched the stars from those seats before you ever had the chance to. When Kei leads you further into the observatory, you step foot onto the north star plastered on the ground in the centre of the room, where nothing but a telescope remains in a ten-foot radius. He takes a spot on the ground, back pressed against the cushioned edge of a seat.

“I figured this is the best spot. Better than any of the seats, actually.” He plants his feet on the ground, bending his knees and spreading them just wide enough for you to sit in between. You cross your legs, wagging them up and down as your hands hold your shins, and he lowers his legs, stretching them out in front of him. Leaning back, your spine hits a spot between his ribs, the same way it did when you were thirteen, and fourteen, and fifteen, staring at stars from the grass of his backyard. You pity the visitors that have yet to discover the simplicity of stargazing from the ground, hands pushed into the ground for stability, dirt and moisture seeping into the fabric of clothing. Pushing further into him, his breathing is heavy against your back, chest rising in rhythmic ups and downs. For what feels like hours, you sit in silence, eyes trained on your fingers that pick and fiddle. At the realisation that you haven’t looked at the stars in years, something bubbles in your stomach, pervasive, relentless. When you finally loll your head backwards to fall on his shoulder, and the tip of Kei’s nose grazes your cheekbone, you wonder how long he has not looked at the stars for as well. 

“Why’d you stop calling?” His sudden question sends a haze rushing into your head.

You swallow thickly. If the passage of time were a sin, you’d burden it with all your explanations. Telling him that now would seem like some lousy excuse.

“It stopped going to your line a year after I left.” You pause, searching for the right words to use amidst the sea of Japanese and English that you must now sort out. “I only stopped trying after another month, the voicemail just said your number was no longer in use.” 

Kei wishes he could dig his fingers into his chest and rip his heart out. If only he hadn’t stupidly broken his phone that night, five years ago during volleyball practice. If only he had checked his pockets before entering the court, just as he has done hundreds of times before. If only he had this, if only he had that, he might just torment himself for the rest of his life. His breath hitches, shoulder freezing rigid. Time does not differentiate between the knowing and oblivious. It slips and leaks beneath the noses of all that it encompasses, and it is but the cautious few that know to grab it, and join in on its journey. He knows now that he is not one of them, not after he’s cursed at the passage of time over and over and over for his own blunder.

“I broke my phone in a game. Got a new one so the number changed as well, fuck me.”

You laugh dryly into the empty observatory. The occasional twinkling of the stars above do nothing to make his explanation any easier. You think you’ll blame it all on doomed fate that you’ve spent five years trying to find somebody that felt the same as Kei did, to no avail. Blame it on cursed luck that you’ve clawed and grabbed at anything familiar enough, archaeology, jazz vinyls, old DVDs of the movie shared between two, all to remind yourself that he too, was once within grasp. You say nothing, because you don’t see a reason to. Instead, you push your head into his neck, drown in the scent of his cologne, ease yourself into his now grown body. You don’t see him wipe a hand across his mouth, then rub his eyes with pinched fingers. 

When Kei decides to speak again, it is what feels like another hour later. He’s readjusted his posture about fifty times by now, arms removed from the ground and draped over your shoulders. The sensation of your hair against his skin is suddenly more prominent than ever when your hands find his own, holding them closer to yourself.

“If I didn’t find you at the grave, would you have looked for me?” His question is heavy, weighing his chest down as the words leave his throat in a hesitant cluster. You turn to look at him, and your eyes linger on his own when you squeeze his hands once, twice, then a third time. 

“I’ve been looking for five years. Nobody else could take me home.” Your heart rushes to your mouth at your confession, and the bob of Kei’s throat does not go unnoticed. One of his hands comes up to hold your shoulder, pushing it towards himself until your body twists, rubbing against his. You let go of him, pressing your fingers into the ground between his legs instead, and he breathes out shakily, his windpipe suddenly cleared of its uncertainty.

“You’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Yes, I am.”

His fingers slide down to grab your wrist, before going numb completely. His unoccupied hand peels itself from the floor and settles on the side of your waist. Your mouth goes dry when Kei breathes, hot and heavy, his eyes travelling to every inch of you. A bout of heat rushes from his chest to his head, and his legs, and his arms too. The air between the two of you is thick, and it sends your head into a feverish blur. The ground collapses beneath your knees as they shift to press into the floor, and you come face to face with Tsukishima Kei, who prefers his hair parted in bangs on the sides of his face, and wears silver frames instead of black ones. Tsukishima Kei, who has been visiting your father’s grave on your behalf for six years, and still plays volleyball even in his adulthood. Tsukishima Kei, whose eyes are finally finished with their ventures across your figure, that is pushed up against him on the ground of an observatory, and is learning whatever he can about you when his fingers tighten around your wrists and he kisses you without a warning. 

Once, at the young, innocent age of seven, Tsukishima Kei kissed you in this museum. You had run a little too fast, stepped on your loose laces and fallen onto the ground face first. You sulked at a bench facing some random painting of melting clocks, red dots scattered across a purple patch right beneath your eye. When he kneeled in front of you to grab your face, and pressed his lips onto the bruise for a fraction of a second, he must have kissed the pain away, mending the leaking capillaries beneath your skin as he separated from your cheeks with a pop. Now, he pulls against your wrists to push himself closer, traps you in the embrace of his legs around the back of your thighs, wheezes and stutters against your lips at the lack of oxygen in his lungs. His head is running in circles instead of straight paths, and everything is spinning. When your hands reach to grab at his shirt, and palm at his chest, he pulls away only to rip his glasses off and toss them to the ground. Beneath the glow of the moon from above, everything but your flushed cheeks and swollen lips is a blur. You take half a breath in, before it is interrupted by Kei’s palms pulling you in by the sides of your neck, and his mouth on yours again. At seven years old, he ripped bruising pain away from your face with a kiss. At twenty-one, he forces his pain, and grief, and regret rushing into your heart by pushing himself against you, fingers tangling themselves into your hair as he kisses you, desperate, almost distressed. Every tug at your lips is a confession left unspoken, every time Kei opens his mouth apologies spill out into you in choked groans and sighs. At the sensation of his hand leaving your neck, your arm searches for him aimlessly, before he’s palming at you through your pants. He swallows your sudden gasp, and your fingers grip his wrist until your knuckles go white. 

“Did you ever like me?” You can do nothing but choke out a question against his lips, one you’ve pondered about, day in and day out, since your departure from Japan.

By the way that Kei nods frantically, you’re certain that this is what six years of separation has amounted to. 

Sparing no time, your fingers tug at the hem of his boxers, pulling them down just enough to release himself from the fabric constraints. He does the same, hands roaming until they find the waistband of your pants to push them down, fingers tugging your underwear to the side with a flick. He grabs you by the waist beneath your shirt, yanks your body towards him until something feels right and he can’t help but let out a trembling sigh into your shoulder. And when you finally begin to sink yourself onto him, agonisingly slow, you wish that you had never left Japan in the first place. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, and you wish that you could spend the rest of your life in this observatory with Kei, your hands wrapped around the back of his sweat-slicked neck. 

When he pulls you down to push further, more pervasively, you fall into him, head hanging over his shoulder and arms squeezing around his neck. His inexperienced hands rock you back and forth against his hips, pulling a flurry of gasps and moans from your throat. He lets himself learn how you taste when his teeth tug at the hem of your shirt, pulling it down to expose your bare shoulder. His lips latch onto your collarbone, biting and sucking a trail of red marks up to the side of your neck. You shudder at his advances, and he studies the way your walls flutter around him, the erratic pulses that draw stars around his head, how your nails dig into his shoulders, and send his mind into a senseless orbit. 

When he pushes and pulls at you a little harder, you whimper his name into his ear, reduced to nothing but a babbling mess that nibbles at his neck and kisses up his jaw feverishly. First friend, first kiss, first love. The notion that this is another first that Tsukishima Kei has brought upon you sends your mind spiralling. He should have been your first prom date, first roommate, first dance too. If only you hadn’t left him first. You push your head off his shoulder, hands moving to hold his face instead. A wave of pleasure washes over you when his palm presses against your stomach, and you hang your head low again, a shaky sigh released from your chest. 

When you look up, there are tears in Kei’s eyes. He rolls his head back onto the plush seat behind him, hands lifting you off himself fully, just to push you back onto him again. You collapse into his body, palms pressing against his heaving chest. 

“I- fuck! I fucking loved you! I still do!” He speaks it into the glass ceiling as one hand reaches for his face. He wipes his palm across his eyes, only for more tears to form. They are uncontrollable, relentless as he turns his head away from you. He isn’t sure how he will live again tomorrow, not when he’s finally come to a reckoning with the pang in his chest at every thought of you. He thinks he could die the second you step onto that flight back to London, ripped away from him once again. The reality that he cannot stay buried inside you for any longer than the next couple of minutes haunts him to no end, the idea of being separated from you a second time unbearable to even imagine. When he turns back to see you, head on his chest and fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, he decides that reality can wait until he’s finished with you. 

“I love you too- shit, Kei! I never stopped!”

You rut against his hips senselessly now, chasing some unfamiliar high as your vision fades to black and you scream his name until your throat goes hoarse. Kei barely gives you time to breathe, before he’s coming undone from right beneath you, shuddering and groaning as you relax against his body and go limp. He holds you against him, one hand pushing your head against his chest and the other wrapped around your back. He tucks your damp hair behind your ears, places kisses along your temple so he can hear the hums of satisfaction that sound from your curled lips. 

“Can you stay forever?” He mumbles into your hair, and you turn to press your ear against his chest. His heart pounds as he pushes his cheek into the crown of your head, and your hands crawl up his chest to wrap around his neck. When he looks up through the glass ceiling, the stars have not moved one bit.

“I’ll find you again, wherever you are.”

Time may slip away from Tsukishima Kei like petals that fall off the buds of flowers, water that seeps beneath the soles of his sneakers, stardust that hovers above the atmosphere. Yet he has learned that it has a way of always coming back to remind him of its presence, and its escape. You are the reminder that it has been sending to him for six years.

author's note:

ERM! never writing nsfw again that's for sure but this piece defs had some stuff that i was very, VERY proud of coming up with!! sorry to my minor moots who probably won't read this in its entirety bc of the big MDNI warning... but I honestly don't know how to feel about this piece as a whole... i was super excited to write it but i think i got a little impatient towards the end esp since im always writing at like 3am LOL but i hope you guys liked it anyways!!! i tried really hard to make the dynamic work and i hope it did!!!!!

also ps they exchange numbers again js a little extra bonus that i didn’t get to put into the actual thing

anyways tags!!

@staraxiaa @chuuya-brainrot @akaakeis @laughingfcx @writingsofanomnivore @t0rchknight @bailey-reeds @wyrcan @hiraethwa @fiannee @catsoupki @anonymity-222 @wishi-selfships @kuroppiii

ok love u guys thank u for being patient

[st-just]

Reading Weavers, Scribes and Kings at the same time as a long-form analysis of ASOIF really reemphasizing and cementing my contempt for fantasy world building that goes 'and then this specific dynasty ruled this specific kingdom in essential socio-economic stasis for [longer than the entire span of human history]'.

Like, cmon. Shave some zeros off the timeline. Please.

[hughmanbean]

In Contempt of Time

Clockwork has told Walker of his woes, and the two have come together to prosecute the Flash Family for the crimes of messing with the timelines repeatedly, undermined and ruining Clockwork's plans.

Barry gets a glowing green letter delivered to his doorstep, declaring that he and all other users of the Speed Force must appear in the High Queen's Court. Anyone who has worked with him or his family are informed that they must also arrive, and may build a case in their defense.

Clockwork told Danny he had an important meeting next week. He rolled his eyes a bit when he was told to wear the High Queen Outfit(TM). Who would've thought that with eternity on their side, fashion and uniform obsessed ghosts would go all out with a much more agreeable ruler?

[theprenderelliepalace]

Not Her

☆•Five x Reader•☆

TAU S4 AU

Summary: Imagine you're the version of Dolores that kept Five sane when he got stuck in the future for 45 years, but you died before Five could save you. So what will he do when your face is the first he sees on the infamous train of time?

Warnings: Grammatical errors, s4 spoilers(!), mentions of character death, no use of y/n, cannon divergence (thank gosh), mentions of self-h*rm, enemies to you know what, angsty central, fighting, swearing etc.

Words: 2.1k (enjoyed writing this a little too much)

•☆•

You could barely remember why you landed up in this neverending subway station anymore. Time after time, arriving at the same moment, it became numbing. The rattling of the train on the tracks an aching lull that pulled you into the darkest corners of your mind. Your dreams were fitful and strange, swirling shapes howled around you, calling you, shaming you.

You woke with a start. The train was at a standstill again, you could make out the debris of another apocalyptic timeline beyond the hazy glass of the cabin. The doors opened, you sighed, your head falling against your knees. You considered the end then. The blissful hum of death beckoned you more than you'd ever known before. The same moment over and over, you couldn't go on like that... It only took a moment, you thought, for it to be done.

Suddenly you heard a noise. A voice. You looked up, startled. It was a man's voice, calling out into the station. Your first instinct is to reach for the knife strapped to your boot. Your hand quivers over the handle, you duck under the benches, inching towards the door. You hide beside the door, waiting for intruder to take his first steps into the cabin. You'll surprise him, it'll be quick and painless.

You itch for the conflict, it's something new, something different from the mundane station to station. It's almost exciting. Being trapped down here for so long, you've forgotten the horror you used to feel for the art of killing. You almost laugh, but steal yourself. Your favorite person in the world used to say that. Like it was a sport. You used to hate him for that, the very notion disgusted you.

Except now, you weren't any different from the Five Hargreeves you'd come to love and hate in the tumbling pattern of a toxic relationship you'd run away from.

The doors slid open. You readied yourself, shifting on your haunches. He stepped fully onto the train, the doors sliding closed behind him, sealing his fate. You artfully stepped out from your hiding place. Your breath hitched, your footsteps dead-silent. You lunged.

Your opponent was too slow. His surprise would be your advantage. You slammed him against the opposite bench. Pressing your knife to his throat. You used your weight to leverage him, ensuring he was ensnared I'm your trap. You made to swipe your wrist, ending his life, but you faltered.

"Fi-Five?" You croak. Your eyes widened, your breath shook. He pushed you off him, sending you hurtling into the doors of the train. You slammed into them with a force that took your breath. You crumpled to the floor. The shock of the blow rendering you dumbstruck.

"Who the hell are you?!" He yelled. His eyes were the eyes you dreamed of so many nights, those loving eyes, those terrifying eyes. They looked at you with so much contempt now. "Talk. Now. Or you die." You hadn't registered him pulling out a small caliber 45 from the holster at his waist. He pointed it straight at your head, unwavering.

"Five..." You sounded desperate, you hated yourself for it, but the need to have him close to you, to be your Five, it was all consuming.

His eyes flickered. His hands shook. "Why do you look like her?" He whispered. You were sure the question wasn't meant for you, but in that moment all yours were answered.

You carefully raised your hands over your head, getting shakily to your feet. "I'm not your version of her." You lowered your head, the false hope that this man had been your Five was shattered, your heart became heavier than before, almost like you lost him all over again. "And you're not him..." You whispered.

"Dolores?" He sounded so confused, so hurt.

You glanced up at him. "I don't go by that anymore. It- it was too painful." You shouldn't be telling this Five anything about yourself, but you can't help it, he's that sick son of a bitch any way you look at him and he's also the man you'd die for twice on Sundays. You can't help the way your heart pulses uncomfortably in your chest as his gaze bores into your soul.

Your new name roles off his tongue like bile. He spits at you like he's angry you made him say it. His gun is quivering in his hands. You can tell his resolve is crumbling. His eyes are wild but still searching yours, willing you to be telling the truth.

You take a daring step towards him, suddenly feeling slightly braver. You shouldn't get involved, you should kill him and forget this ever happened. You should make him hold you again. You're so conflicted it's making your head spin. You reach his outstretched hands, he's watching you so closely it's making you squirm, but he's motionless save for his hands.

You place a gentle palm over the gun, lowering it. He watches you with overflowing sadness. You suddenly think that he must wish you were the right version of you just as badly. He must long for your touch in the same way, dream of your absence the same way you do. He's breathing heavily as your bodies touch, only for a moment but moments feel like lifetimes to you now.

"What is this place?" He chokes, eyes still boring into yours.

"It's a kind of waypoint. The same moment in time across an infinity of timelines." You pause, your hand still gently resting over his. "You need to get off the train Five." You say it like you don't really register the words leaving your mouth and then suddenly it clicks. You grip his hands hard, he pulls back. "You need to get off this train. NOW."

You grab his forearm and begin to pull him towards the doors, they open as you get closer when suddenly he pulls away from you again. You turn to watch him shake his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "What about you?"

"I don't matter! Five, if you don't blink out of here now... you'll... you'll be stuck here forever." He's standing there as stubbornly as stone, brows furrowed. "Please Five. Please do this for me!" You gasp as you realize tears are streaming down your cheeks.

"But you-"

"I'm not her! Don't make that mistake. Please, if you ever cared about your version of me, you'll go back to honor her." You interrupt.

"What's honor without a little daring?" He smiles, like he's letting you in on a joke you don't understand.

The train begins to rattle beneath your feet. The strange echos of the voice over the loud speaker begins to boom overhead. You look at him pleadingly, begging him to listen to you. "Dammit Five!" And before you can tell him off, he's pulling you out of the train. You scream as you tumble to the ground but you can barely blink before a mass of energy sucks you into it. You're pulled and prodded and stretched and suddenly you're in the Umbrella mansion, panting.

"I'm gonna be sick." You keel over, Five catches you, pulling you into him.

"Shh. Shh." You almost laugh, to the untrained eye, Five seems to be helping you through your queasy spell, you however, know that he's telling you to shut your mouth.

"Five?" Someone calls from the upper levels of the house. Now that you're looking at it, it's a complete hazard. Floor boards are sticking out of the floor, dust coats the little art work that's still left, the windows are cracked and glazed over. No one's lived in this house for a very long time.

"We have to hide you." He panicks, shoving you out the front door and into the street. He leads you around the house and into a nearby alley.

You groan, your stomach giving a painful lurch. You stop in your tracks, leaning against the closest thing you can find, which happens to be a dumpster. "Two things. First, never, EVER, blink me again. Ever."

"I-"

"SECONDLY, why the hell do I have to hide if you're the one that brought me back to your timeline?!" You'd be angrier, but your queasy stomach and aching brain aren't making it happen.

He sighs, like you've just given him news that he can't wear his favorite suit. "Look, I saved your ass. A thanks Five would be great."

Arrogant little prick. "No thank you. I was fine where I was." You lie. "And you're changing the subject!" He averts his eyes from yours.

"I couldn't leave you, but we have history and well, my family can be rough around the edges when it comes to history." You feel your anger slowly ebb. You remember your Fives family, suddenly hiding behind a dumpster doesn't seem so bad.

"'Kay fine. Fine. Im here now and for what? Because you couldnt let go! God, all you Fives are the same!" He recoils as though you slapped him, you might as well have but what right does he have to bring you here against your will, to control you and pester you like he always does, to save you from suicide. You sigh, deflating. "I'm sorry. That was tactless. I'm angry."

"Thanks, I figured that out. Look, if you want to get back on that train be my guest, but I think I need your help. So, help me?" His voice cracks and you can't help the tug it has on your heart. "If your Five was anything like me, you know it's not easy for us to ask for anything." He gives you a look. "Come on, don't make me say it again..."

You stand up straight, giggling. "Okay Five. I'll help you. But then you help me. Deal?" You square each other up, measuring, testing, it's almost familiar to you.

"Deal."

•☆•

The next few days were, in your humble opinion, absolutely insane. You tried to do things off the books with Five, you really did, to hunt down this Jennifer girl, to help Five get on top of his reawakened powers and then it all went to shit, in other words his family found out.

Now you're driving in a busted up van full of people who hate you for reasons you dont understand all the way to some mystery town to find some guys missing daughter. It's uncomfortable to say the least.

Now that you've been puked on, you've about had enough. "Hey, uh, Diego, can we stop for a second..."

"Don't talk to my brother." Alison barks. You glance at her.

"Should I write him a letter instead?" You seethe. Klaus laughs from beside you which causes the others the groan bitterly.

Diego pulls the van off to the side of the road, allowing for a mass exodus of the Hargreeves family onto the snowy highway. There's bickering and moaning, but you're not really listening to them because Five is staring at you, burning holes into your head.

You sigh. "Something on my face?"

"Yeah. The bitch that almost got us all killed in the last apocalypse we stopped." Viktor answers, glaring, as if trying to make his words stab into you. If anything, he's just making you tired.

"Why you people can't listen, I don't know." You huffed exasperatedly. "I. Am. A. Different. Person. I don't know you people, I don't have your beef, I'm just helping because Five saved my life. End of discussion."

"Like hell you are! That's exactly what a Dolores would say." Alison shouts. Obviously their version of you pissed her off the most. You groan.

"I mean, Five hasn't exactly told us why he brought you here. And the name change? That's pretty suspicious..." Luther adds.

"Guys please. Hating each other is not going to save our behinds. This little lady here, new persona and all is probably going to keep us alive in the long run. If I know a her at all." Klaus chimes in, almost frantic. He reaches to pat your shoulder with a gloved hand, but stops himself midway, with an embarrassed little smile.

The siblings look about as confused as you but before any of them can chip in again, Five clears his throat matter of factly. "The reason she is here is because I trust her. Her powers are how we found this stupid girl in the first place."

"You heard Five. Stop whinging." Lila smiles, coming up behind you and wrapping and arm around your shoulder. "Water under the bridge sweetheart." She smiles sort of creepily at you, but you suppose she's trying to be genuine.

"Okay people. Pack it up, back in the van, if we want to make it on time we've gotta move it." Diego orders. Everyone files back to their seats, but you stare apprehensively at the puke infested floor.

Ben smiles evily at you as he passes, groaning as he flops into his seat. "Want to sit shotgun?" Five asks, smirking his stupid smirk.

"Desperately. But I don't take handouts." With that you climb over Ben and Klaus and plop down into your seat. Wishing you were anywhere else.

You watch Five shrug and clamber into his spot. Diego starts the engine and veers back onto the highway. You're not even on the road for 10 seconds before Ben shouts beside you. You turn suddenly to watch a car ram into the side your truck.

The screaming is unbearable, all you can think of are the flashes of your terrible life. Death and loss and heartbreak. You can remember calling out to Five as the van rolls, slamming into something hard. Your head throbs, your breath catches in your throat. Someone reaches out and grabs your hand and everything goes black...

•☆•

A/n Sorry not sorry for the cliffhanger!

Here's my masterlist if you like my stuffs

[lex-loudestwoman]

The Bejeweled Elevator is The Eras Tour

Simply put, the Bejeweled Elevator depicts the timeline of the Eras Tour and the remaining re-records! Let's get into it!

(Quick note: more pictures & links to come, this is just taking forever and I needed to get it posted before we're too far into the London shows! I've had this theory brewing since October 2023 and I'll be damned if y'all don't get to read it before it all comes to fruition.)

The Basement

The Basement is the period of time between folklore and evermore's surprise releases and the start of The Eras Tour. It begins with a shot of the golden "invisible" string that leads Taylor through the cardigan and willow music videos. We see Taylor scrubbing away at her step-sister's mess, dutifully fulfilling her role as the tired, tacky, exiled wench. Step-Mommy, Alana, Este, and Danielle seem to have taken Taylor in after a falling out with Prince Jack (oh, what a marvelous gift, for which Taylor should be most grateful). They delight in her position as their servant girl and assert their dominance over her, forbidding her from attending the grand ball. Taylor is being locked in the basement and forced to work for people who already live in excess. She clearly resents her step-family and Prince Jack, whose portrait depicts him with her cats, which represent her catalogue of original recordings.

Taylor has been working away on her own project while her controllers are not around, biding her time until exile ends and she can escape (fresh out the slammer, anyone?). With contempt in her eyes and vengeance in her heart, she meticulously sews beads onto the hooded cloak she wore to remain anonymous during the willow music video. A pocket watch appears out of thin air and tells her that her time in exile has finally ended, and she immediately begins her journey back to the penthouse to reclaim the land that was stolen from her.

The Elevator

Briefly, here is my concrete evidence that the Eras Tour is the Bejeweled Elevator.

The Capitol One Eras Commercial that released on the day the Eras Tour was announced depicts all the eras of Taylor gathered in a golden elevator.

The Eras Tour is full of visual transitions called an "elevator cut" where the screen splits in half vertically and slides open, just like elevator doors. I'd bet anything that our film director mastermind knows what that cut is called and that she has full creative license for everything Eras. None of it is accidental! (Twitter Thread here!) The same elevator cuts are used in several lyric videos, most significantly (imo) is Change.

The Eras Tour "takes us on a journey through 18 years of music," just as the Bejeweled Elevator takes Taylor on a journey through her musical career from basement to penthouse.

The Third Floor: Speak Now (Taylor's Version)

In the elevator, Taylor ascends to Floor 3. This represents the spring/summer 2023 U.S. Leg of the Eras Tour, during which she announced and released Speak Now (Taylor's Version). This time period was when Taylor started doing tons of pap walks again and was seen regularly in the public eye. She regained her sparkle, so to speak, and let herself shine in the spotlight. The media became supersaturated with Taylor Swift content - her scandal with Matty Healy & Ice Spice, her frequent public appearances, and the unbelievable success of the Eras Tour. On the 3rd floor, we see her depict exactly this - she struts a runway of dazzling gems, sheds her cloak, and leaves covered in brilliant jewels. You couldn't overlook Taylor Swift if you tried. This level of blossoming stardom and interest in her day-to-day life is reminiscent of the original Speak Now era.

She leaves this floor fully bedazzled, just as she left the August 9th show in Los Angeles in her sparkling purple shirt dress, glass of white wine in hand, formally entering the 1989 (Taylor's Version) Era.

The Fifth Floor: 1989 (Taylor's Version)

Next, Taylor ascends to Floor 5. This represents the Fall 2023 LatAm leg and Spring 2024 Oceania & Tokyo leg of the Eras Tour, during which she released 1989 (Taylor's Version). On the 5th floor, Taylor uses her sexuality to entertain alongside her dark haired twin, Dita Von Teese. This time period was marked by the frenzied consumption of Taylor's newest public relation(ship) strategy. Just like in the martini glasses on the 5th floor, Taylor learns how to embrace her dark side and uses her sexuality and alcohol to entertain a ravenous crowd. We met Vamplor and WAG Taylor on our TV screens as she cheered, brought record viewership, record jersey sales, and a whole new demographic of fans to the NFL. Her social and dating life was the subject of every. single. media outlet. Just as it was during the original 1989 era - every detail of her life was curated for our consumption.

The Thirteenth Floor: THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT

We arrive at The Penthouse, where the Queen's Ball is being held! Taylor puts on the performance of a lifetime for the Queen, using the lessons she learned on the Third and Fifth Floor to wow the royal judges. She sparkles, dazzles, and shines; she leans into the fun of entertaining and shows everyone how talented of a performer she truly is.

This penthouse performance for the monarchy represents the European Leg of The Eras Tour and the release of THE TORTURED POETS DEPARTMENT. The brand new TTPD set on the Eras Tour directly mimics the choreography in the music video.

Examples: The feathered fans surrounding Taylor. The two piece set in ICDIWABH. Lifted overhead. Stage & curtains background.

This leads me to make a few predictions regarding timeline and events for the rest of the tour.

The Kingdom Key and the Proposal

Needless to say, I believe the European Leg of the Eras Tour has more to surprise us with. Taylor is about to impress the Queen in London with this performance and she wins the ball! As winner, she's awarded the title of Queen, a proposal from the Prince, and most importantly to Taylor, the key to her castle.

Prince Jack is forced to propose to Housewench Taylor. This happens in front of a staged archway with tons of paparazzi snapping photos of their every move. Being awarded the key and the proposal are still part of the performance event of the 13th Floor. As soon as Taylor fulfills the requirements: perform, pose, and smile, she vanishes.

The Ghosting: reputation (Taylor's Version)

There will be no explanation. There will just be reputation.

reputation (Taylor's Version) will be announced on the last night of the London show run, accompanied by a shocking break up announcement that fuels the media's relentless speculation on her personal life.

The Castle: Taylor Swift (Taylor's Version)

Taylor stands on the balcony of her castle, surveying her land. This is the same castle that she moved into during reputation era, as depicted in LWYMMD. She's wearing TS hairclips, and has returned home. This scene represents the US Eras Tour Leg Part II, and the announcement and release of Taylor Swift (Taylor's Version). It's nearly dawn, and there is a Full Blood Moon above the castle. Interestingly enough, the October full moon is often called a Blood Moon, and the full moon this October is the day before Miami N1 (October 18th). I've been theorizing that Miami, Florida!!! is her real home for a long time, and TTPD sure did confirm that.

The Dragons: Karma

The final scene of Bejeweled is a wide shot of Taylor's Castle, where we can see three dragons setting the castle aflame. This is Karma - karma is a fire in your house. I'm not sure exactly what form Karma will manifest itself in, whether that's the missing TS6 album, a record label, exposing the industry for how abusive it is, coming out, or something else entirely. But, in the words of our mastermind, Karma is real.

[wajjs]

just make it HalBarryOllie and they can all be toxic together. Toxic square if you will xD

iT WOULDN'T BE A SQUARE THOUGH!!

This is how I picture the dynamics:

Barry has feelings for Hal.

Ollie also has feelings for Hal.

Hal has feelings for himself and also for Ollie and Barry at the same time.

Ollie and Barry have feelings for each other. Those feelings are Contempt.

So if we want to make it a square we are missing someone:

Let's consider our options:

First of all, I do not think it's Dinah. That would look like this:

Carol isn't an option as well:

The same logic applies to Iris:

Now here are my top picks for which character I consider would be the funniest option to complete the square:

Arthur Curry. Reasons: he's an old timer at the JL alongside all three of them. He likes it when Hal is tied up. It is the least expected option and therefore the one with the most comedic potential. I feel like he would be MISERABLE here. Ollie would go on and on and on about redistributing wealth. Barry would fight him on it but also would ask Arthur so many inappropriate questions per second. Hal would antagonize him just for fun. It all works.

Eobard Thawne. Reasons: This man is THE definition of "hater". He is also obsessed with Barry in an extremely fruity way. He will see that Barry is into Hal and Hal is into Barry, and he's going to want in on it. He's going to mess with timelines just to make it happen. IT WAS ME, BARRY,

John Constantine. Reasons: There is that one comic book panel in which Hal warns Barry not to mess with Constantine because he's going to wake up with no memory of the previous night, with his suit smelling of smoke and a deep feeling of regret. Also I feel like Ollie would go crazy if forced to remain close to Constantine for any reason that does not involve a world crisis. Hal will be miserable. Barry will be miserable. John doesn't have to worry about them dying on him because he knows they will get better.

Diana of Themyscira. Reasons: first of all she needs to be freed from Bat-"I never go down"-man and Superman. She can do MUCH better. In this instance she's doing just about the same, but there is the slight improvement that she gets to boss around THREE men and not two. Also, Hal is a pilot and we know she has a type. Hal matches her type. Unfortunately. Ollie wins in this one because he enjoys bondage so much and Diana just so happens to have a lasso...

[ahundredtimesover]

Belong (01) | MYG

Pairing: Yoongi x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: exes-to-lovers-to-exes-to-lovers; actress!OC x basketball coach!Yoongi; summer romance; “long” distance relationship; parallel timelines; angst, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, family drama, sport injury; dreams & moving away; implied depression; basketball and acting talk; 2014 and 2022 Yoongi; shy and nonchalant cocky whipped Yoongi; explicit sexual content (specific warnings stated per chapter (18+)

Chapter Word count: 14.2k

Series Masterlist

Status: Complete

Series summary: Being an actor has always been your dream. Pursuing it meant many things - leaving the town where you grew up, distancing yourself from your family that had fallen apart, and saying goodbye to the man who made you feel what home was like. When you decide to finally return after being away for so long, you meet Min Yoongi again, and you’re reminded of the summer romance from 8 years ago with the college basketball superstar whose broken dream pushed you away. As you find yourself spending time with him, you’re left to wonder if love changes, if it gives second chances, or if it’s just another illusion that will hurt the both of you the second time around.

Listen to: Boston by Augustana; Shelter by Luca Fogale || Playlist 🎶

A/N: Posting this today to celebrate People pt.2 and D-Day! Here’s a little piece I’ve had for a while. It felt fitting to write something about dreams and finding your purpose through Yoongi and at a time when I’m going through something similar. There’s nothing like his wisdom and his warmth so I hope this could mean something to you somehow. 💕 Please enjoy! And 🫡 to NBA Ambassador Suga! Now that’s his 🏀 dream in another form.

Present Day

There’s always something magical whenever you watch yourself on screen. 

It’s not due to some narcissistic reason or an insatiable desire for the spotlight; it’s not even because you think you’re really talented. Sure, you like the attention and just like anyone who’s spent years of their lives perfecting their craft, you want to be pretty great at it, but all those thoughts become suspended whenever it’s your scene. 

During these instances, it’s only about your character and her emotions, and that’s what you think is remarkable about it - watching yourself is just like being there, in that moment, on that set, feeling it all. 

Most actors would say they love acting because it gives them a variety of roles and personalities to play. You like that bit, too, but it’s the character’s emotions that you commit yourself to the most; it’s being able to immerse yourself in the feelings of joy and anger, of contempt and fear, of envy and admiration, of guilt and love. You like the finiteness of it, that with acting comes the feeling, and you know at some point, it’s going to end. 

Once the scene is over, so is the emotion; you’re able to let go of it right away with one breath. You’re good at that, you think - holding onto something for as long as it’s yours, and then letting it go when it no longer is. 

The collective gasp of the people around you breaks your bubble only a little; you release a breath yourself as the last scene unfolds. And with the final shot and the succeeding transition to the end credits, you let go of the sadness.

“I can’t believe that only took one shot,” your best friend, Taehyung, says in awe. “I would’ve been crying already knowing how it ends.”

“Jin and I challenged each other,” you proudly say. “We said we’d do our absolute best for that first try and the director thought it was that good. Seriously, not crying until that last second was so hard; I didn’t think I could do it.”

The Kim Seokjin, your co-actor and good friend, looks at you from the other side of the couch with that soft and proud look that you only ever get from him once a project is over. You return the sentiment, knowing that you wouldn’t have survived your first lead role in a drama series if he wasn’t acting alongside you. 

He’d been your senior at university where you both took your major in acting. He was already modeling then and snagged a major role in a movie right after graduation; he became a household name after that. 

You watched from the sidelines as he achieved his dreams while you took the occasional 30-second roles given to the students, but he didn’t forget you. He called regularly to know how you were doing, gave tips when you asked, and informed you of upcoming auditions. 

It was the type of friendship that challenged you, given that you both wanted to one day star in a series or movie together, a culmination of all the long hours of rehearsals and line-reading and classes that you both did. He had already made a name for himself; you wanted to be good enough to have yours be opposite his. 

It would take a few years, but after a supporting role in a romcom movie that saw people wanting more of you, you and Jin finally got cast in a series about a mortal woman falling in love with a celestial being, which, at the beginning, reflected your respective statuses in the industry. You expected the show to do well - everything that Kim Seokjin touches turns to gold, as the saying goes - but you didn’t expect for the public to love you both as a pair as much as they do, given that they want you to star in another show right away. 

“I cried as I turned around,” Jin says of the scene where he had to go back to his world and leave you behind. “That was heavy and even I’m impressed we did it in one shot.”

“Well, the sadness and grief would have dwindled by the third or fourth time,” you chuckle. “I’m not good enough yet to maintain all the emotions after so many takes.”

“Not that you aren’t good enough,” Jin counters. “You just haven’t been in the industry that long yet. That kind of experience makes a difference. I’d say I wouldn’t have been able to sustain the same emotion for long, too. It was a difficult one. I mean, what goodbye scene isn’t?”

It’s a rhetorical question, of course, but much of why it was difficult for you to keep the emotions in was because it was your first goodbye scene. You have a feeling that the succeeding ones wouldn’t be any easier, though. You’d like to think you’re okay with goodbyes and that says a lot, but then again, you don’t know anyone who’s actually good at it.

Or maybe you do. But you’d rather not think about it.

It’s silent for a few more seconds. You suppose that the rest of your co-actors who are here with you are still processing the end of a series that’s been their source of comfort for the past few months, too. It had been your weekly routine to watch the episode together in Jin’s house, not wanting to let go of each other just yet after filming wrapped up a few weeks ago. 

“Well, that was amazing, wasn’t it?” He finally speaks up. “It was a good run and thank god that ___ insisted on these watch parties. Or else I’d be crying by myself in my room after the finale,” he laughs. “This better not be the last time we see each other.”

“Because it isn’t,” you reply. “We still have that cast and crew dinner and a couple more filming stuff for promo. That’s easily another 3 more weeks of being together. Which is really 3 weeks too short.”

“So… does anyone want to go on a trip after that?” Hyun-seung, one of the actors, excitedly suggests. “It’d be a good way to unwind and use up what we’ll earn.”

You laugh along with everyone but you’re the only one who passes up on it. 

“I can’t,” you sigh. “I have a trip to Daegu at the end of the month and I can’t move it.”

Disappointed sighs echo throughout the living room, and you insist that they should continue with the trip without you. Most of them don’t want to, but you eye Jin so that he would make the call to push through with it even if you won’t be around, so he does. It’s rare to find such good company with other actors, and you truly want them to maintain the friendships they built here way beyond the series. 

Your friends make general plans as you listen in, wishing you could be there instead of home, which is where you’ll be for the next 2 months as you promised your family. Or more like, as they guiltripped you into doing. 

You haven’t been home in years and for good reason. After your parents separated and you were the lone child who didn’t harbor anger towards your mother who wanted to pursue her dreams elsewhere, you promised yourself you’d leave that place, too. 

Visits during summer had been fine. But after the most painful goodbye you ever made, you’d stopped going back altogether, reasoning that your up and coming career required all your time. You doubt that your family knew the truth, and despite their remarks of you following in the footsteps of your mother, those weren’t enough for you to open up about something so heartbreaking, knowing it hit too close to home. Their bitterness wasn’t a reason for you to keep going back either. 

“Daegu, really?” Jin asks after everyone else has left, save for Taehyung and Jimin, your personal assistant whose glassy eyes say he’s not yet over the season finale. “You haven’t been home in 6 years.”

“Four, actually,” you correct him. “I had a filming there sometime ago.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t actually go home,” he clarifies. “You went to the shoot then back to your hotel. I remember that; I kept asking Tae how you were doing.”

“I was fine,” you shrug. “How was I supposed to be? I was good, just couldn’t wait to get back here. I had a boyfriend, remember?”

“Andrew was a fling, not a boyfriend,” Jin rolls his eyes, and you confirm that the model is his least favorite of your exes. “And if I remember correctly, you broke it off days later.”

“Well, it stops being good when it stops being fun,” Taehyung says, mocking your usual statement whenever your friends ask why you broke things off with your partners. “She shut down when she came back. I guess going home does that to her.”

“You know how places just naturally comfort you? Daegu isn’t that place,” you try to explain. “I had to get it off my system for the one week I was there and Andrew acted out. I just didn’t want the drama.”

Everyone nods, knowing it’s how you usually are. You always viewed relationships as a complement to your job. Being an actor is tough work with its own complications and you definitely don’t want it from your partner. It was always easy for you to fall into that honeymoon hole with someone, but you always walked away from it just as quick once the rainbows and butterflies had subsided. Whether it’s jealousy over your leading men or not having enough time, or just wanting to be by yourself to regroup, your exes always found a reason to argue. And you were always good at walking away when you needed to.

It was like that with every person. Except one. Your friends don’t know if he’s the reason why, or if he’s the exception.

“So what made you decide to go home? And for how long?” Jin queries, feeling a little worried because of what he knows is out there for you. He’s always been a little protective like that.

“About 2 months?” You respond, to the surprise of the older man. “My dad wants me to celebrate his wedding anniversary with them. And spend time with my sisters’ kids and my grandparents and shit.”

“And spend time with my parents,” Taehyung adds, knowing it’s probably the only thing you’re excited about, given how much they adore you and vice versa. “They can’t wait to see you.”

“Same here,” you finally smile. “We’re definitely seeing them first.”

“Anyone else you’re going to see there?” Jin asks some more.

“You can say his name, you know?” You nudge your friend’s knee. “I know he’s who you mean.”

“Well then. Are you going to see Yoongi?”

“I don’t plan on seeing him but I probably will. It’s a big city but it’s a small town. Plus, I’m with Daegu’s Prince right here,” you say, pointing to your best friend who’s made a name for himself as a ballad singer. “Tae will be dragging me around so I won’t be surprised if I encounter Yoongi somehow, somewhere.”

“And what happens when you see him?” Jimin now asks, wanting to know if he’d need to drive to you in case you decide to come home early. 

“Then I see him. We’re… fine,” you state, earning you an eye roll from each man, so you clarify. “I mean, I’m perfectly fine living my dream in Seoul. And he’s a college basketball coach in Daegu, which is the closest to his dream he could get, and I heard his team’s doing really well. It’s been 6 years. He let me go. And I’ve moved on. Who knows how it’s gonna be like? But I’m civil with each one of my exes and it won’t be any different with him.”

“He’s different, though,” Jimin points out. “You actually loved him; you can’t say the same for all your exes. And you can’t argue that,” he adds, seeing your shaking head and disagreeing face. “Drunk and hungover you told me all that more than once and I trust that version of you over the sober one when it comes to your love life.”

“Okay, Mr. Know-It-All,” you frown at him. “I wasn’t going to deny that but it was the naive, impulsive, hopeless romantic version of me who loved him. That’s not me anymore. I’ve grown up. I know what I want from my partner, and Yoongi is just the small town boy who’ll always think that his broken dreams will keep him from loving me the way I deserve. And maybe he’s right.”

It’s quiet for a while, as your friends take in your words since you rarely ever talk about the man unless you’re in an inebriated state or recovering from it. But it’s the first time that the possibility of seeing him looms over you, knowing that within those 2 months, you’re bound to run into him somehow. 

Now it’s too quiet, and you realize that none of you know what to say since you’re all sober. Truth be told, you don’t remember anything that Jimin’s ever told you during those times that you opened up, and Jin never really said much, knowing how hard that breakup hit you. And Taehyung, well… the man was there before, during, and after it all, yet he never really said much, always choosing to let the silence engulf both of you.

“Look, I’m touched you all seem to be worried,” you finally speak up. “But I’m going to be fine. I found a house I’m renting that’s nice and private. I’m actually excited to eat at my favorite restaurants and visit places I’ve missed. I can’t do anything about my family but at least Tae will be with me the whole time and save me from their madness if he needs to. And Yoongi, well… he’s a closed chapter in my book. There’s no reason to revisit that. Hi, goodbye - that’ll be it, just like before.”

You sigh to yourself, hoping that your friends would take your word for it, though you don’t really blame them if they don’t. They’ve seen you barely bat an eye after calling it quits with your exes but they’ve heard of how broken you were because of that breakup; seeing Yoongi again might just bring up old memories that you might not be ready for. And they won’t all be there to lift you up like they’d want to. 

“Okay then, if you say so,” Jin finally smiles. “But if something comes up… you know I can always drive there and bring you back here.”

“And add to the already existing rumors about us being a thing?” You laugh, referring to all the social media fodder about your chemistry that’s too good, it might be real. 

“So? Then we let it,” he shrugs.

“Does the Kim Seokjin not care about dating rumors?” You gasp. “You always complained about it. Don’t tell me you like me.”

Jin sits next to you and cups your face in his hands. “I… love you. The way a dear friend who dreamed with you and who gets to live that out with you does. We all love you. We’d do anything for you. You know that, right?”

“I do,” you say, humming once he plants a soft kiss on your forehead, just like all the times he’d done before - when you graduated university, when you didn’t get callbacks, and when you landed your first major role. “Thank you.”

You decide to head out after a long evening. Jimin lists your activities for the next day before he’s dropped off at his apartment. Taehyung lets you listen to his new single for his upcoming album, and you get emotional over his soulful sound and the fact that he gets to live out his dream with you, too.

He walks you to your front door and hugs you tightly, just like all the times he’d done before - when you cried about your family, when Yoongi broke up with you, and when you found out he was dating someone new. 

“I love you, okay?” Your best friend whispers. 

He says it in that soft, comforting voice of his. The one that always told you that things were gonna be fine, as if love solves all things, and at one point, you believed it did. 

Your hometown of Daegu looks very different from the last time you were really here. It changed a lot. And it changed pretty quickly. 

But some things about it stay the same - family-run restaurants, streets lined with little shops passed down from generations, the parks and the temples, the playground in your old neighborhood with the basketball court that you know all too well.

They make the place home, Mrs. Kim says. That doesn’t change no matter how far or how long you’ve been away. 

You want to disagree. This place was never home. It felt like bits of it during the times you used to watch ballet performances at the Opera House with your mom or when your dad used to grill makchang on Friday nights. 

But when she decided to leave and then he remarried, you had just memories of home left. Your sisters’ resentment over your happiness for your mother as she achieved her dreams took all that was remaining, and coming here reminds you more than what you lost; it reminds you of what you can never have - that space to dream, the place of safety, the love that would endure time and distance. 

You enjoy the best short ribs dish over Mr. Kim’s recordings of his saxophone performances. Mrs. Kim dotes on you like her own daughter, and Taehyung announces all the things you’ll be doing now that you’re both back home, taking your respective breaks that you deserve, and spending the money that you worked hard for. 

You eventually leave for some rest. The house you’re staying at is far from the buzz of the city. It’s private and secure, a little too spacious for one, and boasts of the views of the mountains. Jimin had found it, knowing you’d need the peace and quiet amidst all that would be taking place during your short time here. 

Taehyung will be staying over at his parents’ place, but they insist that it’s open for you to visit anytime you want. You think you need the time for yourself, though. Your job often requires you to be around people, and you’re thankful for the choice you have now to be away from them. For some time, at least.

[From: Manager Jung] Are you settled? I’ve got a script for you to go through. Sending it now 

Your agent-slash-manager’s message disrupts your moment of tranquility as you sit out at the garden, watching the sun set. You’d arrived from Seoul in time for lunch and spent the rest of the afternoon at Taehyung’s parents’ house before heading to yours. 

[To: Manager Jung] Yeah, all good. But give me a week until I read the script. Don’t want to think much about work yet 

[From: Manager Jung] Fine. Just don’t take too long 

You sigh, knowing that though you promised Jin and Jimin that you won’t be thinking about work while you’re here - you need a break from it all, they told you - your manager won’t really let you. And much as you want to complain about him pushing you real hard, you’re thankful that Jung Hoseok always does. 

He was the one who saw your talent and insisted you’ve got a bright future after one casting call that you were almost late for. He was strategic in which roles to pitch you for as a rookie actor, and which ones would get you ahead of the game, no matter how challenging it was. During the times you wondered if you were meant for this industry, he always assured you that you were. There was always going to be a bigger break after the last, he believed, and he promised you he’d go searching for that role until you got the biggest break of your career. 

And every time you think he’ll cross the line of pressuring you too much, he says something sweet, brotherly, friendly. 

[From: Manager Jung] But take care of yourself there, ok? Don’t let them talk down on you. Don’t let them crush your dreams 

You’d cry if his words came with a hug.

[From: Manager Jung] And guard your heart. Don’t let him hurt you again 

You pretend he means your father; he let your sisters’ resentment of you go on after all, and his inaction made you feel unloved in your own home. 

You don’t want to think that Hoseok means someone else because it would mean that for all the times you questioned if everything you gave up to chase your dream was worth it, then he knew it was because of the man who broke your heart 6 years ago. You don’t want to think that all these years, Hoseok knew that your buzz-worthy dating life, whose aftermath he always had to manage, was just your futile attempt at getting over the first and only man you ever loved. 

Being in any sports facility unsettles you. You always claim that the buzz of sporting events just isn’t your cup of tea - you prefer the noise of a film or television set, or of a theater right before the movie starts. It wasn’t always like that, of course. You used to enjoy the screams and heckles of sports fans; you used to be one of them. 

But you found out the hard way that losing someone means you lose the parts of you that you’d adopted because of them, that you fall out of love with the things you used to love because of them.

Basketball is one of those things. It’s why Taehyung used to not invite you whenever there were Thunders games at Jamsil despite the free tickets always available for you; he knew you’d say no and he hates rejection. 

But Mr. Song is a man you can’t say no to. Not only is he the city’s mayor, he’s also a good friend of your father’s, which is how the chief official got wind of your return. 

Your trip isn’t meant to be publicized. Actors take breaks and visit their hometowns regularly without attracting the media, and oftentimes, that’s thanks to the local government, who employs their political will and own security to ensure that celebrities aren’t disturbed while they’re on vacation or just visiting family. It’s good for them, of course, but it also sometimes comes with small favors, like a private dinner with some of their close friends and some photos or autographs. You don’t really mind, especially since the same is extended to Taehyung, hence why the lunch earlier at the mayor’s residence wasn’t all that bad. It was only slightly awkward with your father because you chose to meet up with Taehyung’s family first before yours, but your dad didn’t dwell on it. 

Other than privacy, one other thing you get are free courtside Korean Basketball League tickets. The Pegasus just recently moved to Daegu from Incheon and there’d been a lot of promotion to get the city to give their full support to their new hometown team. Mr. Song thinks that photos of you and Taehyung attending the game will be the publicity that the team needs, and while your best friend genuinely agrees to the arrangement, you only do so half-heartedly. You’ll at least see your friends who are playing for the other team, but even the thought of Jungkook and Namjoon being back home and the party they’ll throw after is making you even more unsettled. 

“Hmm, number 16 was pretty cute,” you whisper to Taehyung as you head out of the locker room after some photos with the home team. “I wonder if he’ll be at the party tonight.”

“No, he won’t,” your best friend responds. 

“Why not? Because he’s from the other team? I’m sure that Jungkook won’t mind, right? I mean, yeah it’s his house but—”

“Tonight is for college friends only.”

“We didn’t even go to their university,” you point out, given that you and Taehyung studied in Seoul and had met there, instantly clicking after finding out you both hailed from the same city. “Why are we going?”

“We are honorary members,” he replies. “I went to high school with them and you…” he trails, trying to figure out how to phrase how you became an honorary member of their group of friends without bringing him up. 

“Are the ex of one of their friends,” you finish for him. “You can say it, you know?”

“I don’t know, can I?” He arches a brow.

“Yes. I don’t deny the fact that Yoongi and I dated.”

“You just deny how much it affected you.”

“You mistake my amazing ability of moving on for denial,” you groan. “But oh shit. Wait. Does this mean that he’ll be there at the party?”

Taehyung huffs as he settles in his seat and looks at your worried eyes. “For someone who doesn’t seem to be in denial, you sure look a bit anxious that he might be there tonight. Didn’t you say you can be civil with your exes?”

“Yeah, I can,” you reply defensively. “I don’t know about him. But then again, he moved on first, so I doubt seeing me would affect him much.”

Your best friend lets out a breath, not wanting to argue. He’s learned long ago that when it comes to Yoongi, you’re dead set on many things - like the narrative that he moved on first, that he was so much happier without you, that dreams were always more important for him, whether it was yours or his. Taehyung tried to help you process that whole experience, especially the aftermath, as you went on dating one man after another after you found out about Yoongi dating some local musician. 

But you always had a default answer, that you’ve always been that way - quick to fall in love and quick to fall out of it, and Yoongi was no exception. You met, fell in love, and while you technically didn’t fall out of love, the breakup left you no choice but to do just that; he was the one who insisted that you leave, after all, and you’d been the one too heartbroken that he didn’t love you enough to make you stay.

“Well then let’s just see what happens,” Taehyung shrugs. “We’ve got a game to watch, a party to go to, and friends to catch up with.”

“And a nice, peaceful home to retire to after tonight. I’ll need all the good energy before I see the rest of my family tomorrow,” you sigh.

Right, there’s that, Taehyung frowns. Your family’s too complicated that you insist you don’t want him to get sucked into the drama, hence why you don’t want him to go with you. But between that and the possibility of seeing your ex, he could only hope that during this trip, you won’t get your heart broken too early, too quickly, or too hard.

“How is it that the Pegasus have been playing here for months but it’s the first time we’re watching their game live?” Geumjae asks incredulously as he sips his beer. 

“Because it’s the first home game of the season against the Thunders when I’m home and when Jungkook and Namjoon don’t have girlfriends to give their tickets to,” Yoongi explains to his older brother. “And well, I never asked before.”

“Well, good on us that you’re here and your friends currently don’t have girlfriends,” Geumjae laughs. “Also, you could totally ask. They’re your friends; I don’t think it would be that hard for them to get extra seats for us.”

“I’m not their only friend here. I’m sure a bunch of the guys from college would ask,” Yoongi shrugs. 

“You’re not just their friend, Yoon,” his brother groans. “You played with them, you captained them, and led them to college championships.”

“Yeah, yet I’m the one hustling it out as a college coach while they’re playing pro,” the younger man huffs. 

He doesn’t mean to be bitter. He loves those guys, hustled it out with them until the late evenings just to get the proper training and workout in almost a decade ago. He couldn't be any prouder when Jungkook and Namjoon got drafted to professional teams and then reunited as teammates with the Seoul Samsung Thunders just 2 years ago. Yoongi had been the encouraging senior who messaged them right away, happy for his peers for being together again just like old times. He won’t lie and say it didn’t sting a bit to be left out from the life they all dreamed of having, with him being the only one who didn’t get to achieve it alongside them. 

“Well, if it matters at all, you’re doing amazing,” Geumjae tries to cheer his brother up. “I read online that many are calling your team to win it all this year. Imagine being the only person in your school’s history to be a champion player and coach? Not just anyone can say that.”

Yoongi hums, trying to let the thought comfort him. It doesn’t do much; coaching a college basketball team is leagues away from playing professionally. The energy is different, so is the hustle. Shooting hoops with the kids during training isn’t the same. The lights and the cheers as he sits on the bench calling plays isn’t the same either. He can at least say that with coaching, he’s able to shape and mentor the young ones, direct them to better paths, encourage them to reach their dreams, and to not settle for a life they’re not happy with or proud of. He’s got a bunch of players who got drafted last year and dedicated their first professional game to him, and that’s an indescribable feeling he’ll always hold onto. It reminds him that even if it wasn’t him, it was at least someone he cared about. 

He watches as the players do their warmups on court before the start of the game. This isn’t the first time he’s watched live, but it’s the first time with Jungkook and Namjoon as teammates, so seeing them goof around and do the handshake that they used to do warms his heart a little. Maybe it’s this bit of joy that he needs to remind him that it’s okay, that even if life turned out differently for him, at least basketball is still part of his life. There’s more he wants, of course, but this is way better than nothing. He reminds himself at one point, he didn’t think he could ever set foot on a basketball court again.

The game finally starts and though he’s usually quiet whenever he watches games, he can’t help the small small cheer he makes whenever Jungkook or Namjoon scores or makes crucial plays. He still knows their moves, can still read Jungkook’s pump-fake, and can still tell by Namjoon’s stance if he’s gonna make that rare three. Though he was a shooting guard during his glory days, Yoongi still prides himself in his playmaking skills and knowing his teammates well, something that scouts used to rave about. 

Yoongi sips his beer, no doubt enjoying the exciting match. He obviously wants the Thunders to win, but the Pegasus aren’t backing down, not letting themselves trail by more than 8 points. He’s in a bit of a trance, as he lets himself drown in the cheers of the crowd, imagining that it’s him leaving it all out on the court. 

But as he looks up on the big screen during timeout, he feels like the air is being sucked out of him. His ears don’t betray them either, as the announcer calls on your name and Taehyung’s - “celebrity sightings,” he says, while you and your best friend wave to the camera and smile like the superstars that you both are. The cheers get louder and Geumjae joins them until he realizes.

“Shit, that’s your ex-girlfriend,” he whisper-shouts. He laughs at the scene of his brother practically choking on his drink. “Wow, she still has that effect on you, huh?”

“No, she doesn’t,” Yoongi says nonchalantly, desperately forcing his heart to slow its beating. 

“Did you know she’s gonna be here?”

“I don’t keep tabs on her whereabouts, Geumjae,” he replies, suddenly sounding hard, defensive.

“Do you think she’s gonna be at the party?”

Fuck, the party, Yoongi slightly panics. Jungkook talked about the sort of reunion he’s throwing at his house after the game. Their old teammates will be there, as well as some other friends from college who are still in the city. You and Taehyung were honorary members of that group and Yoongi knows that you’re both invited, too.

“I guess,” he merely shrugs, looking like it doesn’t bother him much. 

It shouldn’t. It’s been 6 years, and while he’d been the one to break it off, you’re the one who’s dated a lot since then, something he can’t fault you for. You’d obviously catch a lot of attention - you did catch his - not just for your charm and unbelievable beauty but for your talent as well. He’s not surprised that you’re rumored to be dating Kim Seokjin, said to be this decade’s most desired leading man and who also happens to be your good friend, the one who’d helped you out a lot during your years in university. Yoongi used to be a little jealous then, something he never told you, and well, he guesses it’s meant to be with you and Seokjin now, a man he could probably never live up to. 

“Are you gonna be okay?” Geumjae breaks through his thoughts.

“Yeah. Why won’t I be?” Yoongi huffs, sinking back to his seat to watch the game that suddenly isn’t so interesting anymore. 

His question is left unanswered and his brother resumes his cheers, no doubt invested in this match that’s now tied. But Yoongi drifts in and out, his eyes following the players up and down the court then mindlessly landing on you. You’re seated in a relaxed manner, the opposite to how you used to watch his games. He sees you silently cheer for the Thunders, too, and you giggle at Taehyung when you scream louder than you intended, your hand covering your mouth as you lean on your friend and he laughs along. 

He could hear the sound of your laughter from across the gymnasium, as if the way the dulcet tone of your voice used to send shivers down his spine whenever you giggled in his ears was just yesterday. He shakes off the goosebumps he feels and tries to sit comfortably on the chair.

“Are you nervous?” Geumjae asks. “You’re awfully quiet.”

“Since when was I ever loud during a basketball game?” He shoots his brother an incredulous look. 

“You may not make a sound but your body does,” the older man points out. “I could feel you buzzing earlier and cheering in that Yoongi way of yours but now,” he eyes him up and down, “your legs are just bouncing. And you're biting your nails again.”

Yoongi catches himself. He forces his leg to be still and tucks his hand under it. It’s a tell he has, and he has no doubt that his brother has caught on. Still, he lies. “The game’s close. I want the Thunders to win.”

“Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Yes, now can we just focus on the game?” Yoongi chides, not wanting to confirm whatever his brother’s suspicions are. 

“Fine, but for the record, I know exactly why you’re nervous.”

“I don’t really care.”

Geumjae sighs as he watches his brother’s gaze go to you once more, unknowingly, perhaps, as Yoongi seems to shake himself off after every time he realizes that his eyes were locked on your direction. But he can’t blame the younger man. You entered his life and he fell, extremely hard, and letting you go was the most difficult thing he ever had to do. Yoongi doesn’t need to tell him though, but there’s enough of his younger brother’s broken pieces lying around for Geumjae to know that it was also something he regretted doing, and he wishes his brother was at least brave enough to admit all that.

The Thunders win by 5 points. It was nail-biting until the very end. It was Namjoon’s crucial offensive rebound and Jungkook’s 3-point shot that sealed the game for them, and Yoongi was present enough to witness those last few plays. He decides to enjoy this moment with his friends, knowing they’d be asking him about it later. If he’ll still go to the party. Somehow, seeing you again made him a little dizzy. It was still on the screen, but now he’s not sure he’ll know what to do when he sees you in person. 

He and his brother let the crowds go before heading out separately. Geumjae’s car is parked elsewhere, and Yoongi decides to head to the washroom and pace his walk to the parking lot. Hands on his pockets and eyes glued to the floor, he hears a gasp, and he releases one himself when he sees you, hiding behind one of the vending machines as a group of fans at the end of the hallways starts walking towards your direction, wondering aloud where you went. 

He sees the panicked look in your eyes and decides to stop the crowd before they come any closer. 

“She headed that way,” he announces, pointing to the right. “There’s an exit there. She probably left already.”

You hear the disappointed sighs, and much as you don’t want to let your fans down - you’re not one to deny them autographs - there have been too many of them this afternoon and you weren’t mentally prepared to accommodate each one of them. The footsteps disappear not long after and you let out a sigh of relief. That was close, but you didn’t expect Yoongi, of all people, to be the one to stir them away.

You turn to him, about to say your thanks, but somehow the words get stuck in your throat. You recall being a giddy mess the very first time you saw him, with nibbled lips and palpitating heart as you watched him shoot baskets and dribble the ball like no one’s business, and you’d been a goner since then. But he was a lot thinner during that time. His hair was cut short and his eyes had this sharp, confident gaze that usually intimidated people. You eventually saw how they softened only for you, though, but you’ll always remember that summer and how he had you wanting him at first glance. 

This man before you isn’t all that different. He still has the same sharp eyes, with his look penetrating right through your soul like he knows you and well, he does, which is also why he was quick to misdirect the crowd after he perhaps saw the look of worry on your face. His tiny nose is the same, so is his pale skin. But his hair is now long, pushed back in the middle as it softly reaches close to his shoulders. He’s a lot leaner; you can easily tell from what’s hiding behind his thin white shirt underneath his blue jacket. You recall him dressing mostly in monotone colors, so seeing him in something a little more striking is new. He’s gorgeous just like before, and you don’t really know why you expected that he wouldn’t render you speechless this time around.

“___,” he calls out. “Were they bothering you?”

“No, uh…” you stutter, hating yourself for suddenly being nervous. “There were just too many of them and they were getting quite close, I kind of panicked. Stupid, really. I should be used to it by now. More of them came and I just…”

“If they were invading your personal space then that’s not right,” he says, his tone so serious you mistake it for worry. “Did they touch you or anything?”

“Oh no! Nothing like that. I just got a bit overwhelmed.”

“Where’s Taehyung?” He asks, as you watch him walk to the vending machine where you’re hiding, tap his card, and then get the bottled water that falls out. He opens it and hands it to you as if he’d done this so many times before, and well, he actually has.

“He met up with a couple of friends,” you explain. “The crowd got to me right after and I kinda lost him, but I told him I’ll meet him outside, somewhere near where the players come out.”

“Hmm, okay,” Yoongi hums, looking away. 

He should’ve expected you to look way more beautiful up close but he tends to underestimate his ability to be entranced by you. He’s surprised he even got any word out, but the worry crept in the moment he saw you look a little winded and he just wanted to make sure you were alright. You’re a celebrity, after all, and the city’s “Princess,” as they claim. 

You look a little nervous though, and a part of him just wants to scold Taehyung for leaving you behind, seeing as neither of you looked like you had security with you earlier. But that shouldn’t be his responsibility anymore, he reminds himself. 

“Thanks for the water, by the way,” you speak up. “How much was it?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks again,” you smile shyly. “So, uhm, do you know where the other exit is? I’m kind of lost.”

“Oh, uh… the one close to where the players go out is there,” he cocks his head to the left, towards a hallway behind swinging doors. “I can uh, I can show you where.”

“Ah, that would be great. Did you park close there, too?”

No.

“Yeah,” he lies. “Let’s go before more people see you.”

He opens the door and walks after you. It doesn’t help that the hallway suddenly feels much smaller and closed off because now, Yoongi has to listen to your footsteps and nothing else, since neither one of you chooses to talk. 

What does he say to the woman he broke up with 6 years ago? Maybe he can say something about your recently concluded series. He thought it was really good. Is it weird to ask what your next project is? Perhaps. You probably can’t even tell him. How was it like being the leading lady this time? Fuck, he’s not a talk show host or anything like that. 

He sees the end of the hallway before his mind can come up with another stupid question, and he rushes to the door before you do, catching you by surprise. 

“Just wanted to make sure there’s no one to bother you,” he explains, as you exit the building with questioning eyes. 

“Oh, thanks,” you smile shyly again. 

He’s not used to it. He remembers the way your eyes used to gaze at him constantly, how your smile and laughter were all cheeky and flirty, how the tone of your voice was always so confident, so charming. He thinks that maybe like him, you’re just as surprised and unsure about seeing each other after so long. He doesn’t know what to make of things beyond that.

“Do you have someone to pick you up?” he asks, needing to prepare himself if, as a last resort, he’d need to drive you somewhere.

“Yeah, Tae and I were supposed to ride together but,” you pause, checking your phone for your best friend’s text message, “he rode off with his friends and said he’d meet me at Jungkook’s instead so I’m just waiting for the guys. There’s the—”

Party, Yoongi says in his head.

“___!” Jungkook’s loud voice cuts you off. He jogs up to you and puts an arm around your shoulders, unaware of the man in front of you who’s being blocked by a wall. “You ready to go? Tae said he went ahead.”

Yoongi makes his presence known with a low grunt, his eyes pacing from his friend to you. You both look a lot closer than he remembers, and Yoongi’s mind goes to that first time you all met, how Jungkook had announced during their team celebration that the “girl with the yellow scarf on her hair is so pretty” and that he’d wanted to ask you out. Of course, things turned out differently - you weren’t interested in the younger man. But that was years ago. Jungkook has had an impressive professional career and he lives in Seoul. Maybe things have changed for you.

You follow Yoongi’s eyes. Despite many people claiming that he’s difficult to read because of the default unconcerned, almost detached look he has for every situation, you think he’s actually pretty transparent. 

Or maybe that’s just you. You’ve spent enough time with him to know his sound of annoyance and the meaning of his body language. You’ve memorized that pretty face of his at one point that you can tell the slightest parting of his lips and the tiniest drop of his eyes, which could mean that he’s confused, sad, or disappointed. Maybe all.

“Oh, we’re not…” you exclaim, surprising yourself, to the amusement of Namjoon, who suddenly appears next to you. “I mean, Jungkook and I aren’t… a thing.”

You promptly remove the man’s arm from your shoulder and try to decipher Yoongi’s look now. Is it relief? Does he believe you? Does he think it’s silly that you had to clarify that, which you’re wondering why you did?

“Okay,” Yoongi says. 

Perhaps you’re wrong. You can’t tell right now what he’s feeling.

“We just… got to hanging out when I got drafted by the Thunders,” Jungkook now clarifies, which he quickly realizes is maybe making this awkward situation a lot worse. 

You’re Yoongi’s ex-girlfriend after all, and Jungkook had been the one to reach out to you when he moved to Seoul, but not once did he try to pursue you all these years. He respects his captain too much and cares for what you both had, which is why he maintained his friendship with you even after the breakup.  

“That’s nice to know,” Yoongi replies, his tone nonchalant like always.

He’s glad he can keep his cool that well, even if his heart was just about to explode at the thought of you possibly dating his friend. He doesn’t know why he cares, though, as he never really thought much about the so-called code that stated that exes were off-limits to friends. 

He’s just about to turn around when Namjoon calls out. “Min, you’re still going to the party, right?”

Yoongi looks at you, who promptly looks away. Up until 10 minutes ago, he was about 80% sure he would. He didn’t think that being in close proximity to you would make him remember all sorts of things, and that itself is enough for him to run for the hills and avoid you. He won’t claim he did his best to forget about you - he at least tried, and that still counts - but he didn’t expect he’d ever get a chance to be near you, much less talk to you and be in the same place as you. Again. 

But he looks at his friends’ eyes, both pairs unsure yet practically begging him to still go. He remembers these looks, and he swears it’s because he doesn’t want to let both of them down that he battles with the inner part of himself and decides to still go. It definitely doesn’t have anything to do with somehow finding out for how long you’re staying, and why you’re here in the first place. 

“Yeah. I’ll see you guys there,” he replies, turning around now and heading towards his car on the opposite side of the parking lot. 

You watch Yoongi walk away, unsure of why your heart is beating as fast as it is. It had been like that since you saw him after hiding from the fans, and even more so when you walked silently in the hallway to head outside. 

You knew you were gonna see him, maybe even at the party, but not in the way you did. And all your confidence at not being bothered or affected with seeing him again melts away. 

You weren’t prepared for how good he’d look, for how concerned he’d be over your safety, and for that hint of disappointment on his face at the thought of you being with Jungkook. Neither were you prepared for that incredibly tiny part of you that wants to know how he’s doing and if he’d managed to piece together the broken parts of himself and his dream that he so adamantly chose over you.

You survive the car ride by glaring at Namjoon every time he starts teasing you about panicking over Yoongi thinking that you were dating Jungkook, while the latter curses as he drives, claiming he survived one of the scariest moments of his life. 

You arrive in Jungkook’s house in half an hour, a nice place he bought for himself because he said that Daegu will always be home for him. The sliding doors to the patio give it a spacious feel, and you see that a couple of his friends had already prepped the space, complete with beer kegs and beer pong tables, the way you remember they always used to party.      

The 3 of you spot Taehyung who greets you, and the 2 men next to you proceed to narrate what happened, to your best friend’s shock and amusement. You also fill all of them in with the first part of the story about Yoongi finding you as you hid away from the crowd.

“How… symbolic,” Namjoon hums. “You meet at a basketball court in Daegu after a game while you were hiding from fans because you’re such a bigtime actress now. I mean, it’s quite ironic. The universe is out to tease you or something.”

You agree, it is. It’s times like this when you wish you didn’t believe in fate and destiny because doing so would just give you false hope that you and Yoongi may be meant for more than just those 2 years together. And you absolutely hate it because you can’t fall into that trap of thinking that you’re meant for a happy ending that includes him. That ship sailed a long time ago - 6 years and about 5 partners later.

But as Yoongi enters the house, his bowed head turning up to search the area before daintily tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, you start to think that maybe that ship decided to turn back around and sail towards you once again. He briefly meets your eyes before someone calls out to him, and you’re left to admire him from afar, cute button nose and impeccable side profile and all. 

Taehyung pulls you by the arm and whispers in your ear. “Okay, so what’s our plan?”

“What do you mean, our plan?” You ask, realizing you’ve lost Yoongi as you glance in the direction of where he was, no longer finding him there. “Plan for what?”

“Yoongi, obviously,” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “Do we avoid him, be civil, pretend you don’t think about him anymore, or act like the past 8 years didn’t happen and we don’t actually know him?”

“None of the above,” you groan. “What kinds of options are those?”

“Decent ones?”

“Nope. You’ve already had a lot to drink and I don’t trust you when you’re drunk.”

“Except you should. This is when I don’t hold back when it comes to you,” Taehyung answers.

“And you hold back otherwise?” You frown. 

“Just when it’s about him. It was tough for a long time. I know sometimes it still is.”

You don’t have the heart to disagree. This man has been your best friend for a decade and he knows how you are, knows which pains of yours you’re willing to talk about and which ones you’d rather hide away. Your acting skills may be good but you know that Taehyung can see behind all the smiles and the detachment and the effort to look okay, and whatever it is he’s thinking, there’s a good chance he might be right. You’ve just never been brave enough to admit them. 

The look of understanding you both share gets disrupted when cheers erupt in the middle of the living room, seeing that Seungkwan had just beaten Jungkook in beer pong. The pro player demands a rematch and the entire house cheers in agreement. Jungkook takes the next game but Seungkwan won’t back down. 

“Let’s do it in pairs,” he challenges. “I take Joon.”

“Fine,” Jungkook says, his game face on, knowing there’s one other person he knows could win this with him. “I take the Captain.”

Cheers erupt once more as people push Yoongi to the center where the rest of the guys are. He shakes his head, seemingly uninterested in partaking in tonight’s festivities but goes anyway after much coaxing from everyone. He then does his handshake with Jungkook to the younger man’s insistence, and you watch Yoongi’s soft, shy smile appear. 

And just like the very first time you saw that, you feel your heart thrum in excitement. There was always something special about it, and back then it was because he rarely did it, but he did it a lot when he was with you. It’s nice to see it during a moment like this - surrounded by his old friends while having fun with them. You’re glad he shows more of it now, and you wonder how many people fell harder for him because of it. 

You watch from the sideline as the Jungkook-Yoongi pair score 4 straight. Seungkwan complains that Namjoon isn’t making any shots, prompting the older man to claim that he’s way better at dunking than shooting tiny balls like they’re jumpers. They eventually lose after all the theatrics but it’s enough to get the guests going, as you find yourself teasing both men as well. 

You remember their house parties being this rowdy and this loud, given all the energy and testosterone that these athletes had so much of. That obviously hasn’t changed, and despite all of them having grown up, looking all mature and much more respectable, the naughtiness remains, especially once they’ve had too much to drink. 

It’s why you find yourself surrounded by a bunch of the guys, asking for a photo with you to show off to their friends and families. 

“I’m showing this to the guys at the office,” Seungkwan announces as he gets your approval over the selfie picture he took of you both. “They’re not gonna believe I went to college with an actress.”

“Uh, I didn’t go to college with you,” you laugh along with the others. “I studied in Seoul.”

“Then how the fuck do we know you?” He exclaims, no doubt drunk out of his mind at this point. You remember him having a short-term memory every time.

“He’s the Captain’s ex, dumbo!” Soon-young reminds him, another one of the younger guys who hasn’t drank as much but was never good at knowing what not to say. “Remember the summer before his final year? She was with us all the time.”

“Oh right. They were inseparable and looked so in love,” Seungkwan giggles, and at this point, the rest of the people just go with what he’s saying. 

Not you though, neither does Yoongi, and neither does Namjoon, who slaps the back of Seungkwan’s head to loud-whisper that the ex-couple in question is right there.

“Shit, did they hear me?” Seungkwan wonders out loud and looks around before sipping his beer. “I meant it though.”

He laughs drunkenly, so do many others. There’s really only a handful of you who aren’t intoxicated, but right now you wish you were. 

“Wait, they’re both here?” Seungkwan recovers, eyes now glassy. 

He gasps when his gaze turns to you and then Yoongi, and he puts his arm over your shoulder and slightly drags you to the right so he could put his arm over Yoongi, too.

“I found them!” Seungkwan squeals, pushing both of you to face him. “Shit, you still look good together.”

“Alright, dude, that’s enough,” Namjoon finally steps in, pulling the inebriated man away. “Sorry,” he turns to you. “Don’t mind anything he said.”

Too late, you want to say, but you release an awkward laugh instead. 

“They haven’t changed since college, huh,” Yoongi says, surprising you. “They still put us on the spot then leave us to deal with the aftermath,” he continues, watching as the group disperses to go drink and chat again. 

You turn towards him and sigh in relief over the small smile he has on. You swear the tension was so thick earlier that you could cut it with a knife, but Yoongi doesn’t seem bothered. He looks calm like he always does, and just like those first few times, you take your cue from him. You try to release the tension from your body and smile. 

“They should be banned from drinking when there are ex-lovers in the building,” you chuckle. “But I’m pretty sure he’ll be apologizing to you like crazy once he’s sober. Wish I could see that.”

“I can’t wait for that, too,” Yoongi hums. 

A wave of silence envelopes you both. The sounds of your friends seem like white noise now, and with the background music on and the man next to you just sipping his drink, it’s oddly comforting. 

You learned long ago that he has this amazing ability to do that - make people around them feel calm. There’s something so reassuring about him that remarks about your past don’t faze him, and now that’s rubbing off on you, as you feel the awkwardness slowly melt away.

You and Yoongi stand by the couch while the world around you continues. You’d stay in this bubble with him if it wasn’t so familiar, only because the familiarity scares you a little. You don’t want to know if anything else feels the same.

“I’m gonna look for Tae,” you say, breaking the silence. 

You only need to look to your left at the sound of someone hooting to find your best friend downing another cup of some concoction, and by the sound of his laugh, you know this is the one that will do it for him. This is his point of no return. Anything he does after is not meant for many people to see; he has an image to protect, after all.

“Alright, that’s my cue,” you say, walking towards him. 

You cup Taehyung’s face in your hands and tell him that the party’s over and you’ll take him home. He argues, but you remind him that he’s a celebrity and that he can’t have drunk pictures of him circulating online. His inebriated mind sort of gets it, and you take him in your arms and start looking around, trying to see which of the guys are the most stable one to drive.

“How are you going home?”

“Uh…” you turn to face Yoongi. “One of… them? Jungkook, Wooz, Soon-young all offered.”

“And they’ve all had a lot to drink,” he replies.

“Who here hasn’t?” You chuckle, eyes still searching the room. You don’t want to ask your safest option, which is the man in front of you. You’re not quite sure how your heart can handle that. 

“Me,” he says so casually. “I just had one bottle.” 

You know what he means, even more when he goes to Taehyung’s side to help you assist your drunk best friend. Yoongi doesn’t say anything else though; he just stands there while waiting for your reply. This is about safety, you remind yourself, and it has nothing to do with suddenly wanting to be in his presence just a little longer.

“Okay,” you reply, knowing he knows what you mean, too.

“Okay.”

All three of you say goodbye to your friends, all of whom give you smug looks, passing up on the teasing now given Yoongi’s displeased face after someone remarks that “mom and dad are taking care of their kid again.” This isn’t a new scene for them, either. Taehyung just tends to have a lot of genuine fun when he’s with his friends; it’s something you relate with after being in the industry you’re in.

You and Yoongi help Taehyung in the backseat where you sit, with your best friend’s head securely on your lap because he’s now complaining of a migraine. Your designated driver starts the car shortly after he checks on both of you. 

“Neither of you took your cars?” He asks.

“Tae did but passed up on driving tonight,” you say. “I would’ve driven, had I known he won’t be able to control himself. I’m still waiting for my requested rental car.”

Yoongi merely hums and focuses on the road while you… well, while you sort of focus on him. Your position behind the passenger seat allows you a view from the side - from how his fingers drum the steering wheel to how he nibbles his lips. His eyes are focused on the road but you can tell he’s focused on both of you, too, with the way he turns to the back whenever Taehyung makes some garbled sound or just to ask you if you’re okay. 

You watched him do this so many times before with you next to him, holding his hand and kissing his cheek at every stoplight. For someone who loves music, he never put the radio on when he drove you. He said it allowed him to focus on you, and that memory isn’t one that you really want to think of right now, especially since it’s silent in the car. You don’t know which ones you’d rather remember, though - the good ones or the bad. You suppose either would hurt regardless, and this wasn’t something that you prepared for. 

You make it to your best friend’s house as you and Yoongi assist him to the gate to Mrs. Kim’s shock. She scolds a barely-awake Taehyung and apologizes profusely to Yoongi, who says she’s happy to see him in their home once again. As Mr. Kim takes his son up to his room, Yoongi turns to you and asks if you need a ride home.

“I’m sleeping over,” you say in a panic. “Someone’s got to take care of his drunk ass.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, briefly meeting your eyes before nodding towards his car. “I’ll go ahead. It was nice seeing you again, ___.”

They’re simple words that any old friend would tell another after seeing them in years, but somehow they hit you differently. This entire evening hasn’t been a dream or some made up scenario in your head where you meet the man you loved after so long. 

He’s here. With you. Looking at you in a way you’re very unfamiliar with - with a calmness in his eyes and a hint of care and acceptance, as if he’s glad you’re here but that he’s well aware of the years between you, of the years that passed by, of the years that changed you both. 

You don’t respond fast enough because before you know it, he’s turning around, ready to head out the door.

“It was nice seeing you, too, Yoongi,” you say softly. 

But he hears it, stops walking for a while, and then opens the door and walks out. 

You wonder if he’d said something the day you left, would you have stopped and turned around? Or would you have kept walking?  

But thinking about that won’t do you any good, so you turn away as well and head upstairs.

Outside, Yoongi steps on the gas, turns to the next corner, and then stops the car. He clasps his hands together so they’d stop shaking, and he lets himself breathe for the first time tonight. He’s kept his cool long enough, but after everything - the party, the teasing, the car ride - he doesn’t think he can hold the emotions in any longer, and he doesn’t even know what they are. 

Longing? Sadness? Regret? Is it the unspeakable feeling of fear at the thought of you dating one of his friends who might actually be good for you? Is it relief at the idea that letting you go was the best thing that he could’ve ever done for you? Is it confusion over wanting so badly to take you in his arms but not wanting to feel your touch, knowing it would remind him of everything he’s tried to forget? 

Yoongi lays his head on the headrest and takes a breath. You’re so beautiful, as if some light shines on you wherever you go. It’s probably the glow you emit; he’s told you that before but you always said he was just teasing. He sees it even more now. 

But it’s also the crinkle of your eyes when you smile that sweet smile of yours that makes things feel familiar, and because of that, uneasy. It’s that honey sound of your voice; he heard it as you laughed during the party and joked around with everyone. It’s that captivating look you have, the one that says you know something but you want to know more; he felt that look when he entered the house and as he drove you earlier. 

He wonders if you saw past him, past his nonchalance and calm demeanor. You were always so good at that - knowing there was more behind his passiveness, knowing how to get a reaction from him, knowing which buttons to push so he’d open up and let you in. 

He doesn’t know if he should be afraid that you still know how to do it, or if he should revel in it because he’s missed you, more than he could ever say and more than he’d ever care to admit. 

But beyond all that, he’s sure that one of his emotions is happiness. Every time you talked about work and being able to watch yourself on screen - he swears he didn’t eavesdrop but that he just happened to be there - there was that excitement that felt like the continuation from when you used to talk about your big dreams with him. 

You got what you wanted and you worked hard to get to where you are and he knows you’re proud of yourself and that’s all he’s ever wanted. Seeing that smile - he knows. Letting you go was the best thing he’s ever done for you.

“What are you doing here?”

Taehyung’s hoarse voice forces your eyes off the ceiling onto your side where he’s currently hugging his pillow, messy hair and pouty lips on display. 

“Trying to get some rest after I saved your drunk ass last night,” you bitterly respond. “I got to you before any compromising photos or videos were taken. You’re welcome.”

“Hmm, thanks,” he groans. “But uh, why are you here? Didn’t you say you wanted proper rest in your house before seeing your family today?”

“Right, uh… you see. Yoongi drove us here, and then he asked if I wanted a ride home but I kinda panicked and said I’m sleeping over so… Here I am!” You laugh, unconvincingly. “My rental car’s on the way here. I’ll drive to my house and then go to my dad’s.”

“Ugh, you’re so dumb,” he says, sinking into his comforter. You gasp in response. “That was your chance to be alone with him but you didn’t take the offer. We both know you wanted to.”

“Tae, being drunk and not holding anything back doesn’t mean you can just assume things like that,” you respond, sitting up and frowning at him. “I didn’t want to be alone with him, that’s why I’m here!”

“Why didn’t you want to be alone with him?” He answers back.

“Uhm, why would I want to?” You ask incredulously. “Since when was getting in a car alone with an ex ever a good idea?”

“Why? You’re afraid you’d kiss him if you did?”

You scowl at your best friend. “I should’ve left you there drunk with possible penis drawings on your face.”

“Just being honest. It’s not like you’ve never done that with him before,” he shrugs. 

“I hate you.”

“I know. But you’ll love me later on. At least I’m still half asleep.”

You push him awake, the stress heightening now as the previous night plays in your head. 

“Tae! What happened to my hi, goodbye plan?!” You groan. “I was literally just supposed to say hi and then be civil, like, acknowledge his presence but not be affected by it. But then we had some small talk and he drove us home.”

“We all know it was a denial plan,” he huffs. “It was bound to fail.”

“Gee, thanks. You’re being incredibly helpful right now,” you frown again. 

“Fine,” he grumbles, sitting now. “You had small talk, he drove you here. How are those affecting you and why are you making it a big deal?”

“I’m not making it a big deal,” you point out. 

“You kinda are.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are because that’s how things started before. And you’re afraid that one small misstep will cause you to fall for him all over again, fast and hard, because that’s how you are when it comes to him.”

“You’re hungover and tired so your judgment is impaired,” you say, crossing your arms. “You remember what happened after all that. I’ll be perpetually grateful that you never pushed me to talk about it unless I was drunk and couldn’t remember things but I was heartbroken, Tae. And then I was numb. It took a while before I started to feel again.”

“I know,” he says, taking you in his arms now as he holds you like a baby - a rare occurrence, as this often happens the other way around. “And I can never fault you for it because even if it was like that summer fling that only happened in the movies, I know you loved him, genuinely and intensely, and a love like that stays with you. But he’s got a good life here, ___, and you’ve got an amazing one in Seoul. You just have to remember why it didn’t work out in the first place and make sure you don’t fall into that trap again. Just… acknowledge that. For your sake. And then do what you need to do so you don’t make the same mistakes again.”

Enveloped in his warmth, you take in your best friend’s words. He may still be hungover and may also be confused but his comfort never seizes, and it’s one of the reasons why you love him dearly. 

“So yeah, good on you I guess for not taking that ride with him. Maybe staying away and keeping your distance might be good,” he adds.

Your silence somehow alarms him, so he nudges you. “It’s a good idea, right?”

“I don’t know. Suddenly I feel like staying away and keeping my distance will let him know that it still affects me. He’ll always know me like that,” you sigh, hugging him tightly for more comfort. “And there’s this part of me that wants to show him that I’m fine, you know?  That even with everything that happened between us, I walked away from it knowing what I deserve, and that’s someone who’ll fight through life with me. He didn’t and that’s on him but he had his reasons, and looking back, maybe he was right. Maybe he had to let me go, and maybe - because I loved him genuinely and intensely - I want to show him that it wasn’t all in vain. And that I’m happy. Even without him.”

“You don’t need to prove anything to him, you know?”

Maybe I want to prove it to myself, you don’t say. There’s a stubbornness in you that doesn’t go away. 

“This isn’t about him, is it?” Taehyung levels his head with you. 

For someone hungover, he still knows you pretty well. 

You just sigh and fall back in his arms. He doesn’t push you. He just hugs you again until you both fall back in bed and he can comfortably curl his body all over you because it’s Taehyung and he likes to do this. 

“Just be careful, alright?” He pleads. 

“You know I also kinda don’t have a choice,” you reply. “It’s a small town and we’re bound to see each other. Jungkook and Namjoon have a game here again in a few weeks and that means another get together.”

“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”

You hum. “Promise me you’ll be by my side whatever happens?”

“Always, you stubborn woman. I’m the one person who’ll never leave you even if you push me away.”

The lunch with your family is how you expect it to go - with your older sisters making some backhanded comments about your fame and how you’ve been “too busy” to even visit, and your father trying to dissolve the tension. He’s at least genuinely curious about how you’ve been, asking if you’re eating well and getting enough rest. Your stepmom raves about your drama series and shares that she cried during the finale.

“Why did he have to go back to his planet?” Garam’s 7-year old asks after your stepmom narrates what happened. 

“His time on earth was up,” you explain. “He finished his mission and he had to leave.”

“But why didn’t he stay if he was happy?” 

“Because he had a responsibility in his home,” you smile. “He wasn’t made for this world.”

“He didn’t have a choice, sweetie,” Garam adds after her daughter comments that it was sad. “That’s understandable. Some people leave because they’re no longer happy with those around them. Or because their dreams are more important than those they supposedly love. Isn’t that sadder?”

“It is. Don’t leave me, Mama,” the little one pouts.

“Oh sweetie, I never will. I don’t leave people that I love,” Garam responds, glancing at you to make a statement. 

You zone out after that, not wanting to engage with your sisters anymore. You play with their kids, though, who get excited when they see you on TV. You don’t want to treat them like you hold a grudge against them even if you do so with their mothers. Your sisters continue to do that with you - resent you when it’s your mom they’re really angry at for leaving your already unhappy family after she got her dream job in Paris. You were never angry though but you did sort of follow in her footsteps, and your sisters hated you even more because of that. 

“Are you staying for dinner?” Your father asks, the hope in his eyes hurting you. 

Things weren’t going well with your parents for a while, giving your mom more reason to leave, but you always wished that he had done more for you to feel loved in the home that started to become toxic after it fell apart, but you suppose he was just trying to heal his own broken heart after his wife left. It felt like your sisters weren’t going to forgive you when you decided to leave yourself, and he just let you walk away without making sure you knew he still loved you despite your decision. 

He’s moved on now, though, and happy with someone who prioritizes him and his needs. But too much time and distance can pull people apart - you can see them without the desire of being with them. That’s the reality with you and him now and there’s not much you can do about it. 

“No, I’ve got other plans,” you respond, glancing at your sisters who return your look with bitterness. “I’ll see you at grandpa’s tomorrow.”

You drive around for half an hour with no destination in mind. It’s nice to see how much this place has changed and discover which parts of it still feel the same. 

You pass by an antique shop - the antique shop,  a generations-old family-run store that used to be the hub of imported furniture that the townspeople once flocked to. It’s now a speciality store that still sells one-of-a-kind items but it also refurbishes old pieces. You see a poster on the window that’s promoting woodworking workshops. You won’t be surprised to find out whose idea that was.

A man briefly exits, and you stop near the front, wanting to just take it in. He’s got more gray hair now and walks a little slower but he looks just like you remembered - soft crinkled eyes, comforting smile, a look that you know all too well. You decide to enter, as you’re desperate for something - anything - that feels more like home than the one you just came from. 

“May I help you?” The man asks.

“A greeting and a hug would do,” you look up at him and smile.

“___?!” He gasps, walking outside the counter to get closer to you. “Is that really you, my dear?”

“Yes it is, Mr. Min,” you smile, returning the hug that you requested. “Just passing by my favorite antique shop in town. How are you doing?”

“Great! Business is stable and I’ve still got a lot of fight in me to continue,” he chuckles. “How about you? The big city treating you good?”

“It is,” you reply. “I think I’m doing quite okay there.”

“Ah, well it should be treating you amazingly. That’s what you deserve.”

You continue the conversation, with you asking about his latest projects and him, talking about his furniture and wood like his children, pride laced in his voice every time. He asks you about your latest series and if you’ve met his favorite actors and you indulge him. His laughter is music to your ears. You remember spending time here where he worked on his pieces while you talked about your favorite movies.

“Does my son know you’re here?” He asks after a beat of silence. 

“He does. I saw him last night. He looks well.”

“He does, doesn’t he? It took a while but he’s doing much better than before - smiling, joking around, helping me at the shop, talking about basketball again. It’s nice to see.”

The words hit you in ways you didn’t expect. Breaking up with Yoongi was tough to get over. Those last few months had been incredibly hard and so many times you thought that maybe if you’d been more patient, maybe things would’ve turned out differently. 

But you remember how during those last days with him, he’d lost the glimmer in his eyes and the softness of his smile. Not even you could bring those back. His passion for things just dwindled; he stopped wanting more, stopped wanting you, stopped thinking that things could still work out for him after what he suffered through. 

You’d kept in touch with Namjoon and Jungkook at their insistence, and they’d been the one to update you on how Yoongi was doing. Not a lot of details but just general things like the jobs he took and that he was keeping himself busy and that he was trying to get back on the court. It wasn’t with unpleasant stories, though - you learned about his new girlfriend from them, and that he didn’t play basketball for awhile, and that during the toughest days, he considered giving it up altogether. 

You knew he’d done well. You learned that from the guys, too. But hearing it from his father is different; you can’t imagine how it must’ve been like for Mr. Min to see his son start to change from what he used to be. But you know that as the good father that he is, he made sure that Yoongi knew he wasn’t alone. 

“And that’s good to hear,” you say. “Yoongi deserves all the happiness this world can give. I’m glad that he’s found his joy in basketball again it seems. And that he found it here.”

“He has, but I guess something will always be missing. He’s a lot better but he’s not the same. A parent would know, you know? The flame doesn’t shine as bright,” Mr. Min answers, the tinge of sadness in his eyes hurting you a little. 

But you just nod. His words seem to mean more but you don’t want to know what it is. 

“Dad, what did you want me to look at?”

Yoongi’s voice echoes in the shop and you can’t help but turn to him who’s just entered and looks as shocked as his father was earlier. 

You have a soft smile on, and Mr. Min knows not to intervene. 

“Oh, nothing,” he says, thinking that the new wood he acquired could wait. “Just watch over the counter for me while I check something inside, alright Son?”

He doesn’t let the younger man answer and just heads to the back, leaving you and Yoongi alone. He walks closer but keeps his distance. It’s enough for you to appreciate the softness of his face, though. His presence had always been reassuring; you see him twice and you’ve felt more comfort with him than you have in months. You don’t know how he does it, but that shouldn’t surprise you anymore. This isn’t the first time anyway. 

“Is Taehyung alright?” He breaks the silence. 

“Recovering, but more from his parents giving him shit for drinking too much,” you chuckle. “He got an earful and Mrs. Kim said she won’t let him in the house next time he gets that drunk. He’s doing chores as punishment.”

“Ah, well it’s been a while. It was nice to spend time with everyone again.”

“It was,” you smile now. 

“And you? Are you okay?” He asks, sincerity laced in his low voice.

“Yeah, of course.”

It’s the hesitant nod and the way your eyes look at anything but him, and he knows that whatever happened after last night is something you want to forget or seek comfort for. So he asks.

“So what made you come here? To the shop, I mean.”

“I was driving around. It didn’t register to me right away that I was in the area,” you respond. “And this place was always so calming for me, you know? The smell of wood, your dad’s stories…” 

You. 

“So I thought I’d come in”, you continue. “He hasn’t changed. It’s nice to see him.”

Yoongi always wondered what parts of you remained the same and which parts didn’t. 

Perhaps the playfulness tempered a bit. You seem a little more anxious than he remembers, too. There’s this sophistication about you that was always too good for this small town, and he sees that even more now. Your smile is still soft but it isn’t as bright. He won’t deny that it still makes his heart race, though. 

You have a habit of going somewhere familiar to seek comfort. You always looked for it in places, he noticed - in that dingy convenience store near your school, in your town’s secondhand bookstore even if you don’t like reading, in the Opera House where you and your mom used to go to. Yoongi learns now that that hasn’t changed at all. You’re in his dad’s store, a place you always wanted to go to after spending time with your family, and he supposes that’s where you came from.

He doesn’t know if he’s still someone you find comfort in and he doesn’t know if you even want to spend time with him after all these years, but he doesn’t have the heart to just let you walk out of here not knowing if you’re truly okay. 

He hated leaving you alone then when things weren’t good. You didn’t always want to talk but you said once that just hearing him breathing on the other end of the phone or just having his hand over yours made you feel better. He may not be the right person now but he’s still someone, and that’s always better than no one.

You eye the door, ready to leave, but his call of your name prompts you to look back at him.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” He asks.

“No, not really,” you reply. 

“Would you like to grab some coffee?”

The words are familiar. You hate that you remember everything about it.

“Just coffee?” You ask, almost teasingly.

He chuckles softly and meets your eyes, and somehow a part of you thinks that you shouldn’t do this. But you’re glad he asked in the first place.

“Yes, ___. Just coffee.”

Series Masterlist

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[thatlittledandere]

FUCKED UP to be Davesprite tbh like he is Dave. By all accounts he is Dave Strider just orange and winged and no legs but mentally, and all that, he is Dave. He has all of Dave's memories - they're his, he lived them - he thinks like Dave, feels like Dave, reacts like Dave-- he has all of Dave's experiences. That's Dave Strider right there. He didn't stop being Dave when he was prototyped; what changed is how he's seen and treated by others.

And his best friends see him as a stranger. A stranger wearing their friend's skin. They insist on adding the -sprite to his name, which tbf is consistent with how all sprites are called in Homestuck and it might be weird to make an exception here, but from his perspective... Sure there's another, not-sprite Dave out there, and he is technically the iteration these John and Jade know, but up to a certain point they are identical and that Dave isn't in contact with them on the ship? Davesprite is the only Dave present. They could just call him Dave. But they don't, reminding him every time they say his name that he isn't their Dave, he isn't the friend they look forward to seeing.

And Davesprite comes from a timeline where they died!! It's been a long time since I read that part and my memory is a bit fuzzy on the details but John definitely died on that timeline, and Jade was as good as dead. It was just Rose and Dave on Derse, and Dave went back in time to save his friends, even if it meant losing his life. And he succeeded! At both things!! John and Jade made it to the game, they're alive, Dave gets to meet them and spend time with them... And they don't see him as their friend at all. He's not the guy they've known for years. From Dave's perspective, those are two of his best friends and some of the only people in his life he likes and cares about, and they don't see it the same way. He practically lost all his friends at once.

Jade was better about it but JOHN. Oh, John just breaks my heart. Like, again, from Dave(sprite)'s perspective, that's his best bro. That's his best friend. That's his number one guy, who he loves, who he already lost once. Davesprite practically exists because he went to save him. And there he is, he's alive, his best bro... Who looks at him with disgust and contempt in his eyes. Who doesn't think he's real.

How the hell do you live with that? The psychological toll that takes?

Well. We know how. That shit is traumatizing and it shows. That Dave, who faced things the one from this timeline didn't, developed complexes and problems of his own, his "unique issues". And like a self-fulfilling prophecy, it set him apart from the "real Dave" in a way that further sets them apart and makes him easier to dehumanize.

I cried over this at work the other day.

[novaursa]

The Flames We Loved (to live forever)

This is one of my darker works. If it's not your cup of tea, skip it. This is the last part in this series. I may expand it more with time and add additional parts.

- Summary: Aerys foresaw your future in the flames, long before you were both set alight.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Paring: daughter!reader/father!Aerys II Targaryen

- Note: Keep in mind how some events differ from the books, and the whole timeline of the canon events is a mess.

- Previous part: to cry wolf

- Next part: prelude/ending

The anxiety in the throne room is thick enough to choke on, as Tywin Lannister stands before the Iron Throne, his expression controlled but his eyes smoldering with frustration. Aerys reclines on the jagged metal seat, his gaze fixed on his Hand with a glint of suspicion and anger. The small council remains silent, its members exchanging wary glances, caught between loyalty to the king and the undeniable logic of Lord Tywin’s words.

“My king,” Tywin begins, his voice steady, every syllable measured, though there is a hardened edge to it that even Aerys cannot ignore. “The reports from the Stormlands and the North are undeniable. Forces gather, led by those who would see the throne taken from you. The northern army moves south, and the Baratheons rally in open rebellion. Our enemies are closing in. We must act—swiftly and strategically.”

Aerys’s lips twist into a sneer, his gaze narrowing with an intensity that makes his courtiers shift uncomfortably. He has heard these words before, cautions, warnings, all ringing in his ears like the clamor of crows. “And what action do you propose, Tywin?” he demands, his voice laced with disdain, as though the mere idea of retreat or caution is a personal affront. “That I should cower? That I should fear these traitors who think they can stand against me?”

Tywin stands resolute, his gaze unflinching. “Your Grace, this is not a matter of cowardice but of prudence. Queen Rhaella, Princess Y/N, and the children should be taken to Dragonstone. It is the safest haven we have, fortified and removed from the reach of those who would seek to harm the blood of the dragon. Your daughter is with child again—”

Aerys’s face darkens instantly, a flash of rage snapping through his expression like lightning. “You would send her away from me yet again?” he hisses, his fingers gripping the armrests of the Iron Throne until his knuckles turn white. “For what? To abandon me under the guise of ‘safety’? Do you presume to know what is best for my family, Tywin?”

Tywin’s jaw clenches, though he remains composed. “Your Grace, there is wisdom in ensuring the survival of your bloodline, should the worst come to pass. If the princess and the children are taken to Dragonstone, they will be beyond reach—secure until your enemies are defeated. You can fight with the assurance that your family is safe.”

Aerys laughs, the sound high and mocking, a bitterness etched into every note. “Safety?” he sneers. “Safety is a lie meant for the weak, for those who cling to their lives with trembling hands. I am the blood of the dragon, and my children will not be sent away like cowards to hide from shadows. Y/N will remain here, by my side, where she belongs. This… ‘precaution’ you speak of is an insult.”

The other members of the council shift uncomfortably, their eyes darting between the king and his Hand. Tywin’s mask of composure does not falter, though there is a coldness in his gaze, a flicker of something that almost resembles contempt. “Your Grace, you know I would not counsel retreat without necessity,” he says, his voice hardening. “But as your Hand, it is my duty to ensure the preservation of House Targaryen. The realm’s loyalty is already strained; the loss of your heirs would only embolden your enemies.”

Aerys’s eyes blaze, his anger slowly awakening, each word that Tywin speaks grating against him, stoking the fire of his fury. “And I suppose you imagine yourself wise enough to dictate where my family belongs?” he snaps, leaning forward, his voice low and venomous. “Or is this merely another attempt to weaken me, to see my daughter and heirs taken from my side?”

“Your Grace,” Tywin begins, his tone even but strained, “I would never presume—”

“Silence!” Aerys’s voice cracks like a whip, filling the throne room with its echo. He rises from the Iron Throne, the madness gleaming in his eyes, his fingers trembling with rage. “You dare presume to tell me how to protect my family, to dictate their place in my kingdom? You, Tywin Lannister, who sits here with his own ambitions cloaked in honeyed words?”

Tywin’s face remains impassive, though a hint of anger flashes in his green eyes, barely concealed beneath the mask of decorum he wears so well. He bows his head, acknowledging the king’s fury, though his voice retains its firm resolve. “My loyalty has always been to the crown, Your Grace. To you, and to the safety of your bloodline.”

Aerys’s sneer deepens, and he gestures with a sweeping hand. “Loyalty? I see now the truth of your ‘loyalty,’ Tywin. Your true loyalty lies only in preserving your own influence, in keeping me under your thumb while feigning submission. But no longer.”

The silence that follows is oppressive, a tension that thickens the air as Aerys straightens, his gaze gleaming with morbid satisfaction. “Hear me now,” he declares, his voice echoing through the hall as he points a trembling finger at Tywin. “From this day forward, you are no longer my Hand. Your service to me is finished. Return to Casterly Rock, where you may brood over your own ambitions, far from the true seat of power.”

A murmur ripples through the court, the lords and ladies exchanging shocked glances, though none dare speak. Tywin’s face remains an unreadable mask, his eyes cold, but a flicker of something—perhaps satisfaction, perhaps resignation—flashes in his gaze as he inclines his head. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he says quietly, his voice unyielding, each word clipped and final.

Aerys’s eyes narrow, his mouth shifting with something between rage and triumph, though his attention turns away from Tywin and toward you, standing beside him, silent and stiff. “You see, my daughter,” he says, his voice softer, almost tender, as he reaches out to brush a strand of your hair from your face. “You do not need the Lannister’s meddling hand to protect you. I will keep you safe, as I have always done. Your place is here, beside me, not hidden away on some distant island.”

You nod, your heart pounding, though you sense the storm brewing in his words, a promise that binds you to his side, even as the world outside these walls grows more perilous. “I trust you, Father,” you say softly, casting a cautious glance at Tywin, whose eyes remain fixed on Aerys, the faintest hint of contempt flickering in his expression.

Tywin meets your gaze for a brief moment, an unspoken warning in his eyes, but he bows low, his voice controlled, distant. “Then I shall take my leave, Your Grace,” he says, his tone devoid of warmth. “May your strength carry the realm through the trials ahead.”

Aerys waves a dismissive hand, his focus already shifting as he returns to his throne, a dark satisfaction in his smile. Tywin turns and strides from the hall, his back straight, his footsteps measured, the very image of composure. But you sense the fury begging to stir, the power that has just slipped through his grasp, and the lingering question of what consequences this moment will bring.

As the throne room settles into silence, Aerys’s gaze softens as it turns to you, his anger receding, replaced by a rare, almost tender expression. “Now,” he murmurs, reaching for your hand, his touch surprisingly gentle as he guides you closer. “The realm may shake, but you… you will remain safe, as long as you are with me.”

The words feel like chains, binding you to his side even as the world beyond the Red Keep falls into chaos. And as you look into his eyes, you understand that there will be no escape, no sanctuary—not while he clings to you, his daughter, his anchor in a world consumed by fire and blood.

In Rhaella’s chambers, a quiet stillness fills the air, heavy and almost suffocating. You sit near the window, gazing out at the darkening sky beyond the Red Keep’s walls, the distant sounds of the city below a constant reminder of the world outside. Rhaella stands nearby, her expression filled with concern, though she keeps her hands busy, tidying the folds of her dress, smoothing the blankets—a nervous habit she has had since you were a child.

You glance at her, taking a deep breath as you struggle with the thoughts churning within you, thoughts you have kept buried, thoughts you are no longer certain you can bear alone. The weight of your father’s expectations, the twisted bond he holds you in, presses down on you, and the words spill from you before you can stop them.

“Mother,” you begin, voice soft and strained. “I don’t know what more I can do. Or… if I even want to soothe him anymore. Perhaps…” You hesitate, looking down at your hands, the words coming slowly, reluctantly. “Perhaps the city deserves to burn.”

Rhaella’s hands still, her fingers tightening around the edge of the blanket as she looks at you with a mixture of shock and sorrow. For a moment, she says nothing, simply staring, and you can see the conflict in her eyes, the pain of a mother who sees too much of her husband in her child. In that instant, it is as though she is looking at a stranger—a stranger who bears the shadow of Aerys’s fierce and destructive nature, a fire that cannot be controlled.

She steps toward you, her voice gentle, though there is an edge of urgency in her tone. “Y/N,” she murmurs, reaching out to take your hand, her fingers cool and comforting. “Listen to me, my dear. You cannot let his madness consume you. You are more than that… more than him. I have seen the strength in you, a strength he lacks.”

You turn away, a bitter smile flickering across your lips as you shake your head. “But Mother,” you say quietly, “what if that strength is the very same fire that he carries? The fire that destroys? I have tried, again and again, to calm him, to keep him from his worst impulses, but… I am beginning to wonder if it’s worth it. If any of it is worth it.”

Rhaella’s gaze softens, though there is a sorrow in her eyes, a sorrow she has carried for years, buried beneath her calm exterior. “There was a time,” she says softly, her voice trembling ever so slightly, “when he was not like this. When he was kind, even gentle. And I believe that part of him still lives, hidden, buried beneath the weight of his own fears and rage.”

You look at her, searching her face, trying to see the memory she clings to, but all you feel is a deep weariness, a feeling of being trapped in a cycle that cannot be broken. “Maybe it does,” you whisper, though your words are tinged with doubt. “But he is not that man anymore, Mother. He’s… he’s something else. And I don’t know if I can be the one to bring him back.”

Rhaella’s hand tightens around yours, her eyes filled with determination, a fire of her own that she rarely shows. “You must stay strong, Y/N,” she insists, her voice quiet but fierce. “You promised me, do you remember? You promised that you would endure, that you would not let his madness take you as it has taken him.”

You nod, the memory of that promise flooding back, the words you had spoken in a moment of strength, a strength that feels far away now. “I remember,” you say, though your voice is faint. “But it is harder than I thought it would be. Every day, I feel the walls closing in, feel myself slipping further into his world.”

Rhaella pulls you into a gentle embrace, her hand smoothing over your hair, her voice soft and soothing. “I know, my love,” she whispers. “But you are not alone. You have your brother, and you have me. We will bear this together, as we always have.”

You cling to her, drawing strength from her presence, feeling a flicker of resolve rekindling within you. The city may teeter on the edge of chaos, the realm may tremble with the threat of rebellion, but in this moment, here in your mother’s arms, you feel a sense of calm—a fragile peace that you know will not last, but one that you can carry with you as long as you are able.

“Stay strong, Y/N,” Rhaella whispers, her voice filled with both a mother’s love and a warning. “You are my hope, the hope for all of us. Do not let that fire consume you.”

Rhaegar stands before his father in a private audience chamber, his face calm, every word measured, though beneath the surface, an undercurrent of urgency pulses within him. Aerys watches him from his chair, his gaze sharp and calculating as he studies his son with a mixture of amusement and suspicion.

“Father,” Rhaegar begins, keeping his tone low, respectful, though there is a steel in his voice. “The situation in the realm grows more dangerous with each passing day. The rebellions stir like fire in the underbrush, and we must consider the safety of our family.”

Aerys raises an eyebrow, a smirk forming on his lips as he leans back, his gaze unwavering. “And what would you suggest, Rhaegar? That we hide like cowards? That we let the wolves and stags think they can frighten dragons into fleeing?”

Rhaegar’s jaw tightens slightly, but he maintains his composure. “No, Father,” he replies smoothly. “But even the strongest king protects his line. Viserys and Daenerys are young, vulnerable, as is Mother. They should be taken to Dragonstone, where they will be out of reach from any threats.”

Aerys’s smirk fades, his gaze narrowing. “You think to send my heirs away, Rhaegar?” he sneers, his voice tinged with suspicion. “To hide them on Dragonstone as if they were weaklings, too fragile to remain in my presence?” He leans forward, eyes gleaming. “Or is this Tywin Lannister’s influence? You speak his words now, don’t you?”

Rhaegar meets his father’s gaze steadily, though a flicker of irritation passes over his face at the mention of the former Hand. “No, Your Grace,” he says firmly. “I seek only to protect the bloodline of House Targaryen. Tywin’s counsel is not mine.”

Aerys’s expression twists, a sneer curving his lips. “Do not lie to me, Rhaegar. I see the Lannister’s shadow in this request,” he accuses, his voice filled with disdain. “He spoke of sending my blood away, of hiding in the shadows. Do you think I don’t see through this? Do you wish to repeat his cowardly plans?”

Rhaegar’s resolve hardens, though he keeps his voice steady, calm. “Father, the suggestion has no bearing on Lord Tywin. My concerns are for our family alone. I would not repeat his counsel if I did not think it necessary.”

Aerys taps his fingers against the chair, his gaze flickering as he considers Rhaegar’s words. “And what of your sister?” he asks, a cold smile curving his lips. “Would you send her away too, Rhaegar? Would you have her taken from me as well?”

Rhaegar hesitates, his heart sinking as he meets his father’s gaze. He knows the answer that Aerys wants, and he knows too well what it will mean. “No,” he replies, his voice quiet, steady. “Y/N should remain here, with you. Her place is by your side.”

Aerys’s eyes gleam with satisfaction, his smirk growing as he leans forward, pleased by his son’s acquiescence. “Indeed,” he murmurs, his tone soft, possessive. “She belongs here, Rhaegar. She is mine, and I will not be parted from her.”

Rhaegar swallows, the weight of the decision pressing down on him, though he knows it is what his sister would want. She would rather see her children safe, far from the chaos that engulfs the realm, even if it means sacrificing her own freedom. “Then let Viserys and Daenerys go with Mother to Dragonstone,” he says quietly. “They will be safer there. We owe her that much.”

Aerys regards him in silence for a moment, a flicker of something—perhaps approval, perhaps amusement—crossing his face. “Very well,” he concedes, though his tone holds a hint of warning. “They may go, but your sister will remain here. She will stand by me, where she belongs.”

Rhaegar nods, though his heart feels heavy, his voice softening. “Thank you, Father. For allowing Viserys and Daenerys this protection.”

Aerys waves a hand dismissively, as if the matter is already forgotten. “Go, then. Arrange it,” he says, his tone indifferent, though his gaze lingers on Rhaegar with a faint glint of satisfaction. “But remember, my son—no one, not even the gods themselves, will part me from your sister.”

Rhaegar inclines his head, his face expressionless, though inside, a storm of emotions roils. He knows what this decision will cost, the sacrifice it demands of his sister, and he silently vows to honor it, to ensure that this choice will not be in vain.

Taking a careful breath, he continues, his voice quiet but determined. “I would also ask that my wife, Princess Elia, and our children be sent to Sunspear. It is their home, and they will be safer in Dorne, among her kin.”

Aerys’s eyes narrow. “So, you would send all the women away, would you? First, my heirs, and now your own wife and children. You would leave me surrounded by empty halls. No, Rhaegar. Elia will remain here, and so will your children. If you are so desperate for their safety, then perhaps you should think more carefully about your allegiances.”

Rhaegar’s hands clench at his sides, though he forces himself to nod, his expression carefully composed. “As you command, Your Grace.”

Aerys watches him a moment longer, his gaze filled with that peculiar satisfaction, as if savoring his control over every word spoken, every action taken. “Do not presume to question me again on such matters, Rhaegar. I am not a weak minded fool, to be manipulated by whispers.”

Rhaegar gives a final nod, his face a mask, concealing the turmoil beneath. “I understand, Father. I will see to the arrangements.”

As he leaves the chamber, a bitter resolve settles within him, a reminder of the price his family will pay to survive the chaos that waits outside these walls.

Rhaegar stands in the dim, secluded corner of the Red Keep’s lower chambers, waiting as the echoes of footsteps fade into silence. The torches on the walls flicker and the damp, cool air clings to him, grounding him against the storm of thoughts raging within. At last, Varys appears, his footsteps soft, his hands folded neatly within his voluminous robes, his expression placid but his eyes sharp, observing every detail of Rhaegar’s face with his usual unsettling attention.

“Your Grace,” Varys begins, bowing his head in a respectful nod, his voice a soft whisper in the silence. “You summoned me.”

Rhaegar inclines his head, his gaze steady as he studies the man before him, the Master of Whisperers—the spider who knew every secret, every whisper, and every shadowed truth within the Seven Kingdoms. If anyone could ensure the safe departure of his mother and siblings to Dragonstone, it would be Varys.

“I did, Lord Varys,” Rhaegar replies, his voice calm yet laced with urgency. “I require your assistance to see that Queen Rhaella, my brother Viserys, and my sister Daenerys are safely transported to Dragonstone.”

Varys’s eyes flicker with a knowing glint, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he nods. “An excellent plan, Your Grace. The queen and your siblings would indeed be safer on Dragonstone, removed from the… delicate political climate here in King’s Landing.”

He pauses, his gaze sharpening as he considers Rhaegar carefully. “And what of the princess, your sister? Will she be joining them?”

Rhaegar’s face tightens, the faint hope that had flickered within him extinguished by the weight of his own words. He looks away, his voice heavy with resignation. “No. My father refuses to let her leave. He… he insists that she remain here, by his side. She is his anchor, the only thing keeping him from… well, from his worst impulses.”

Varys’s gaze darkens, a faint sigh slipping from his lips as he shakes his head slowly. “A pity,” he murmurs, his voice as soft as silk yet laced with sympathy. “The princess has been a steadying influence on His Grace, that much is certain. But at what cost to herself?”

Rhaegar’s expression becomes haunted, shadows gathering in his eyes as he turns to face Varys fully. “At too great a cost,” he admits, his voice barely more than a whisper. “She carries the burden of his madness as no one else can, and I fear… I fear it’s consuming her. But I know her. Even if he allowed it, I think she would refuse to leave. She would not abandon him, not when she believes that she alone stands between him and the city.”

Varys’s fingers brush thoughtfully along his sleeve, his expression pensive. “Ah, such loyalty,” he murmurs, though there is a flicker of something deeper in his gaze—an understanding that cuts to the core of the tragedy unfolding before them. “A loyalty that binds, even as it burns. She may be the only shield King’s Landing has from His Grace’s wrath.”

Rhaegar’s face tightens with sorrow, his fists clenching at his sides. “It should not be her burden,” he says, his voice low, fierce. “It is too much, even for her. She should be with them, with my mother, Viserys, and Daenerys. She should be free from this prison he keeps her in.”

Varys regards him quietly, his expression softening, though his eyes remain sharp. “Perhaps, Your Grace, there will come a time when the princess will find that freedom. But until then…” He hesitates, as if weighing his words carefully. “Until then, you must ensure the safety of the queen and the children. They, too, are vulnerable, and their survival may yet determine the future of this realm.”

Rhaegar nods, a bitter determination settling within him. “Yes. They must reach Dragonstone, no matter what. My mother, my brother, and my sister—they will be out of harm’s way.” His gaze hardens, and he fixes Varys with a fierce, unyielding look. “Will you see to it personally, Varys?”

Varys inclines his head, a faint smile curving his lips, though it lacks its usual humor. “I will arrange everything, Your Grace,” he replies smoothly. “They will depart quietly, without fanfare, and my eyes will be upon them every step of the journey.”

Rhaegar releases a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a faint flicker of relief passing over his face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with gratitude. “If you succeed, then at least… at least they will be safe.”

Varys’s expression softens, though his gaze remains unreadable, the shadow of secrets lurking behind his eyes. “You care deeply for your family, Your Grace. A rare quality, especially among those who wear crowns.”

Rhaegar’s face darkens, a sadness settling over him as he glances down, the weight of his decisions pressing upon him. “I would do anything for them,” he replies softly. “They are all I have. And my sister…” He trails off, the pain in his eyes evident, though he quickly masks it.

Varys’s gaze lingers on him, a hint of something almost compassionate in his expression as he gives a slow, understanding nod. “Then rest assured, Your Grace,” he says quietly. “I will see to it that the queen and your siblings reach Dragonstone in safety. And as for the princess…” He hesitates, a faint glimmer of resolve in his eyes. “Perhaps there is more than one way to protect her, even from here.”

Rhaegar’s gaze sharpens, and he studies Varys, searching his face, though he cannot quite decipher the meaning behind the man’s words. “If there is any way to shield her from this madness, from his wrath… then do it,” he says, his voice low, fierce.

Varys gives a small, respectful bow. “As you command, Your Grace. I will do what I can.”

With that, the Master of Whisperers turns, slipping back into the shadows, leaving Rhaegar alone with the silence, his heart heavy but a faint spark of hope kindling within him. 

The pale morning light filters through the narrow windows of your chambers as Rhaegar stands before you, his expression somber. His armor gleams softly, polished and ready for war, the ruby dragon embossed on his chest plate catching the light, a symbol of the strength he must bear in the battles ahead. His face is steady, composed, but as he looks at you, his twin, his resolve falters just slightly, a flicker of sorrow passing over his face.

You feel the weight of it all pressing down on you—the absence of Rhaella, of Viserys and Daenerys, your children that you could never openly call your own. Every day, you felt the emptiness they left behind, the silence in the halls that used to be filled with their laughter, their small footsteps, their innocent questions. And now Rhaegar, too, is leaving, setting off to face Robert’s armies in a war that feels as inevitable as it does senseless. You struggle to hold yourself together, but the grief, the helplessness, is too heavy.

“Rhaegar…” Your voice trembles, your eyes filling with tears you can no longer hold back. “I don’t know if I can do this. I don’t know if I can be strong enough without you, without them.”

Rhaegar’s face softens, his own pain mirrored in your eyes as he steps forward, wrapping his arms around you. You cling to him, feeling the warmth and steadiness of his embrace, a familiar comfort that feels all the more fragile now. His hand strokes your hair gently as he whispers, “You are strong, Y/N. You have always been stronger than you know. You must stay strong—for them, for Mother, and for the one you carry now.”

At his words, you feel a wave of both hope and despair wash over you. The life growing within you is a reminder of the legacy you bear, of the love you carry despite everything, but the thought of facing it alone, in the shadow of Aerys’s madness, feels unbearable.

Tears spill down your cheeks as you press your face against his shoulder, your voice choked. “I don’t know if I can endure this… If I can watch him descend further and further, if I can bear his wrath without you here.” You swallow, the weight of your words heavy between you, each one a plea, a confession you have kept locked inside.

Rhaegar pulls back slightly, his hands cupping your face, his gaze filled with a fierce, unbreakable resolve. “You must, Y/N,” he whispers, his thumbs brushing away your tears. “You are the only light left in this darkness. The only one who keeps him from bringing ruin upon us all. You are his anchor… and you are mine. Without you, this house would fall.”

The intensity of his words hits you, and for a moment, you see the weight he, too, bears—the weight of responsibility, of choices forced upon him, of a love that binds him as much as it empowers him. You nod, though the ache in your heart does not ease, feeling the fragile thread of determination stirring within you, the promise of resilience that only he can draw from you.

A movement at the door pulls you both from the moment, and the room shifts as Aerys enters, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight of you and Rhaegar, locked in an embrace. His expression darkens, a flicker of something dangerous glinting in his gaze as he strides forward, his steps measured, calculated.

“Enough,” Aerys says sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet and cold. He reaches for you, his hand closing around your arm as he pulls you to his side, his touch possessive, his gaze fixed on Rhaegar. “It is time for you to leave, Rhaegar. The kingdom awaits its prince on the battlefield.”

Rhaegar’s gaze hardens, though he keeps his voice calm, measured. “I was saying goodbye, Father.”

Aerys’s lips curl into a thin smile, though there is no warmth in it. “Goodbyes are for those who expect to return,” he says, his words laced with a subtle cruelty. “But you, my son, are a Targaryen, forged in fire. You will return victorious, or you will not return at all.”

You feel Aerys’s grip tighten, and the familiar chill of his presence pulls you back to the reality of your situation. Rhaegar’s face is a mask of control, but you see the sorrow in his eyes as he looks at you one last time, his expression filled with all the unspoken words that hang between you.

“Be strong,” he whispers, his gaze locked onto yours, a silent promise lingering in his eyes. “For them, and for us.”

You nod, barely able to keep your composure, your heart breaking with every step he takes toward the door. He pauses, looking back at you one last time, his gaze filled with a love that words could never capture, a bond that distance could never sever.

And then he is gone, the heavy doors closing behind him, leaving you in silence with Aerys, who pulls you closer, his hand firm as it rests against your shoulder. He leans down, his voice low, his words laced with satisfaction.

“Now, my dear,” he murmurs, his tone both gentle and menacing. “We are alone once more, as it should be. Your brother goes to fight my wars, and you will remain, as you always have.”

You close your eyes, the weight of his words settling over you, pressing down like chains. Rhaegar’s presence lingers in the room, a fading warmth that you cling to, even as you feel Aerys’s gaze upon you, claiming you as his, as if he can possess even your thoughts, even your pain.

Suddenly a crushing wave of grief overtakes you, and the tears you held back spill over, leaving you vulnerable and exposed before Aerys. You can no longer hide the tremble in your hands, the way your body aches with a mixture of sorrow and fear. The emptiness left by Rhaella, Viserys, Daenerys, and now Rhaegar’s departure—all of it weighs down on you, leaving you feeling hollow, fragile.

Aerys’s gaze sharpens, his lips twitching as he watches the tears fall, something unfamiliar flickering in his expression. He rarely sees you like this, and a strange, almost possessive tenderness comes over his face. Without a word, he draws you closer, his hand surprisingly gentle as it settles on your cheek, his fingers brushing away a stray tear.

“You are afraid,” he murmurs, the realization seeming to surprise him as he studies your face. “But you, my strong one… what could you possibly fear?”

You shudder, unable to stop the words from spilling out, your voice thick with a pain that can no longer be concealed. “I am afraid,” you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. “Afraid of what lies ahead. Of what will become of us, of this child…” Your hand moves instinctively to your abdomen, where the small swell of new life is just beginning to show.

Aerys’s gaze drops to your hand, and something shifts in his expression—a rare softness, an almost paternal pride mixed with a fierce, unyielding protectiveness. He places his hand over yours, pressing gently against the swell, his touch warm and grounding, a rare gesture of comfort from a man more known for cruelty than kindness.

“Nothing will harm you,” he promises, his voice soft yet edged with a conviction that sends a shiver down your spine. “Nothing will touch you, or the child you carry. I would see this city burned to ash before I let harm come to what is mine.”

He leans closer, his gaze intense, and his hand remains firmly on your abdomen, his fingers splayed protectively over the small curve. “I know this,” he continues, his voice lowering to a near whisper, his words almost reverent, as if he speaks of a prophecy only he understands. “I know it because I have seen it… I saw us together, burning bright in the great fire.”

A chill runs through you, his words hanging heavy in the air. The “great fire” he speaks of is something he has mentioned before, always with a fervor that borders on madness, a vision that seems to haunt him. You do not know whether he speaks of a literal fire or some deeper, darker omen, but his gaze is filled with a sinister certainty, a conviction that frightens you even as his hands remain gentle.

You look up at him, searching his face, the insanity in his eyes tempered by something raw, something that almost resembles love. “You… you saw us again?” you ask, your voice barely audible. “Together?”

Aerys nods, his fingers pressing ever so slightly against your abdomen, as if grounding himself in this moment, in the life growing within you. “Together,” he murmurs, his gaze distant, lost in whatever vision haunts him. “We stood in the heart of the flames, unbreakable. All around us, the world burned, yet we remained, untouched, eternal. I saw it, as clearly as I see you now.”

His words wrap around you like a shroud, and for a moment, you feel a strange mixture of comfort and dread. There is a part of you that wants to believe him, to let his certainty banish the fear that gnaws at you, but the darkness that lingers in his eyes, the way he speaks of flames and ruin—it is a comfort laced with danger.

“But what if…” you hesitate, your voice trembling. “What if there is no fire, no… destiny waiting for us? What if it’s only darkness?”

Aerys’s expression hardens, a flicker of impatience crossing his face, though his hand remains gentle against you. “There will be fire,” he insists, his voice fierce. “There will be fire, and we will rise above it, stronger than any who have come before. You carry the future within you, a future that will be forged in flames. Our blood is fire, and we are destined to endure.”

You close your eyes, allowing his words to wash over you, the strength of his conviction settling like a weight in your chest. Despite everything, despite the pain and the fear, his presence, his touch, brings a strange comfort, a feeling that perhaps, in his madness, he sees something that you cannot—a path through the chaos that surrounds you.

As you open your eyes, he leans down, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to your forehead, his hand lingering on your abdomen as if to reassure both you and himself. “Rest now,” he murmurs, his voice softer, an unexpected gentleness lacing his tone. “Nothing will harm you, my sweet. I will not allow it.”

The day dawns heavy with a strange, oppressive silence, a quiet that feels unnatural, weighted. You wake with an overwhelming emptiness, a sadness that gnaws at you, sharp and deep, though you cannot say why. It feels as though something precious has been torn away, a part of you hollowed out, leaving nothing but ache in its place. You cling to the blankets, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your hand instinctively pressing over the small swell of your abdomen as if to shield the life within from the weight of the sorrow that presses down on you.

The hours pass slowly, each one thick with dread, and as the afternoon wanes, a soft knock sounds at the door, followed by Grand Maester Pycelle’s familiar, shuffling steps. He enters slowly, his face grave, and you feel your heart plummet, though no words have yet been spoken. Behind him, a raven perches silently on his arm, its black eyes gleaming, watching you with an unblinking stare that feels like a harbinger.

“Your Grace,” Pycelle begins, his voice low and somber, filled with a cautious gentleness that only deepens your fear. “I… bring word from the Trident. Prince Rhaegar…” He hesitates, his eyes meeting yours, and in that instant, you know. The pain, the emptiness—it all has a name.

“Rhaegar is dead,” you whisper, your voice cracking as the words leave your lips. The room sways, the world blurring around you, and before you can steady yourself, the weight of the grief crashes over you, pulling you down, down into a darkness you cannot escape.

“No,” you murmur, your voice thick with disbelief, your hands shaking as you clutch the edge of the bed. “No, he can’t… He promised…”

Pycelle steps forward, his hand hovering as if to comfort you, though he does not touch you, his gaze filled with pity. “Your Grace, please… for the sake of your child, you must rest. This shock… it is too great. You must not strain yourself.”

But you cannot hear him. The pain, the emptiness, is all-consuming, ripping through you as if it has a life of its own, a force that demands to be felt, to be voiced. Memories of Rhaegar flood your mind—the soft look in his eyes, his steady presence, his strength, and the way he had held you, comforting you, as if he could shield you from every sorrow.

“He’s gone,” you say, your voice a broken whisper, your hands pressing against your chest as though trying to hold yourself together. “Gone… as we were born. Like Summerhall.”

Pycelle exchanges a worried glance with one of the attendants, who quickly approaches, gently guiding you back onto the bed, though you barely feel their hands, your mind lost in the memories you shouldn't have, in the fire, in the ashes of that night so long ago.

“Summerhall,” you murmur, your eyes distant, seeing not the room before you but a memory etched into your soul. “The fire… we were born in fire. Rhaegar and I… we were born from tragedy, on the day it all turned to ash.”

Pycelle looks at you with concern, his voice soft, urging you to lie back, though you cannot stop the words from pouring out, your mind unraveling with grief and memory. “The walls crumbled… the heat, the smoke… Rhaegar was there with me. He’s always been there.” Tears stream down your face, each one a testament to the bond that has been ripped from you, a connection you can no longer touch, no longer feel.

The attendants ease you onto the bed, murmuring soft words meant to soothe, though they cannot reach you, your thoughts tangled in the past, in the vision of flames and loss that has defined so much of your life.

Aerys enters the room, his face darkening as he takes in the scene—the maester, the attendants, and you, lying in the bed, eyes hollow, lost in grief. His expression hardens, a glint of anger flashing in his eyes as he approaches, his voice sharp with irritation as he speaks.

“What is this?” he snaps, his gaze cutting toward Pycelle, his voice a mixture of frustration and contempt. “Even in death, Rhaegar seeks to take her from me? He poisons her mind with grief, seeks to drag her to the grave beside him.”

Pycelle bows his head, his tone careful, placating. “Your Grace, the shock has been great. The princess is deeply affected by this loss… for the sake of her health, and that of her unborn child, I have ordered her to remain bed-bound. Any further strain could be dangerous.”

Aerys’s eyes narrow, his hand clenching at his side as he approaches the bed, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of anger and possessive fury. “He will not have you, Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice low, venomous. “Rhaegar is dead, and you are here, with me. He has no power over you now.”

You look up at him, your eyes filled with tears, a hollow emptiness lingering in your gaze as you meet his. “He was my brother, my other half,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “A part of me is gone, Aerys… He was… he was all I had left.”

Aerys’s hand moves to your shoulder, his grip firm, almost too tight, as he leans close, his eyes fierce. “You have me,” he insists, his voice laced with anger and a twisted form of affection. “You belong to me, and I will not let you follow him into the shadows. You will remain, as you are meant to.”

He places his other hand over your abdomen, his fingers pressing gently against the slight swell there, his gaze dark and selfish. “You carry my blood, my future,” he murmurs, his voice softening, though there is an edge of madness in his eyes. “And I will not let even death take you from me. You will live… for our child.”

You close your eyes, the weight of his words pressing down on you as you feel the touch of grief, of fear, of a love that is as binding as it is toxic. There is no escape, no solace, only the echo of Rhaegar’s memory and the life growing within you—a life that binds you to Aerys’s side, even as the world you knew slips further and further away.

As he watches over you, his hand resting greedly on your abdomen, you feel the emptiness settle deeper, a hollow ache that even the promise of new life cannot ease. You are bound, a tethered flame caught between love and duty, between life and the fire that has claimed everything you once held dear. And in the shadows of that chamber, you realize that this is the prison you must endure, until the very end.

The darkened halls of the Red Keep are heavy with a stillness broken only by the occasional, faint whisper of footsteps echoing through the stone corridors. Outside the doors of your chamber, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Jonothor Darry stand guard, both vigilant yet troubled. Aerys had given strict orders—no one was to disturb him and the princess tonight. The king’s word had been absolute, his tone carrying a menace that kept even his Kingsguard rooted in place, unwilling to test his patience.

Jaime shifts uncomfortably, his jaw clenched, the faintest tremor in his hands betraying the thoughts that rage in his mind. His face is pale, and he stares down the hall as though trying to escape the lingering memory of screams—the screams of Qarlton Chelsted, Aerys’s new Hand, who had been burned alive that very evening. The smell of burning flesh still clings to his memory, acrid and inescapable, and he cannot banish the echoes of that brutal spectacle from his mind.

He glances at Darry, his voice a low murmur, tinged with uncertainty. “Should we… should we really allow him in there with her? Grand Maester Pycelle was clear. She needs rest, not… whatever madness the king intends.”

Darry’s face is stern, his voice hard as he replies, keeping his tone clipped. “The king has given his orders, Ser Jaime. It is not our place to question him, not regarding the princess. She is his wife in all but name, and he decides what is best for her.”

Jaime grits his teeth, a flash of frustration in his eyes. “And what if his ‘care’ drives her to ruin, Darry? The man just burned his own Hand alive, for refusing to burn the city. What will it take before we act?”

Darry’s gaze sharpens, his voice dropping to a near whisper, his eyes darting down the hall to ensure they are alone. “Hold your tongue, Lannister. You’re new to this post; you don’t yet understand the cost of questioning the king’s orders. Men have lost their lives for less. Especially regarding her.”

Jaime bites back his retort, turning his gaze away, though the tension in his jaw does not ease. The door remains shut, and silence falls once more between the two knights, broken only by the faint murmur of voices and the cold stone beneath their feet.

Inside the bedchamber, the air is heavy and warm, dimly lit by the few candles scattered about the room. You lie in the bed, your mind hovering in a restless haze, caught between sleep and wakefulness. You sense a presence beside you, the familiar, chilling touch that brings you back to consciousness, pulling you from the shadows of grief and exhaustion.

You feel soft kisses trailing down your cheek, a sensation that both soothes and unsettles, and you open your eyes slowly, a familiar face coming into focus. “Aerys…” you murmur, his name leaving your lips in a barely audible whisper, a mixture of confusion and resignation coloring your tone.

Aerys’s face hovers over yours, his eyes gleaming with a manic satisfaction, his lips curving into a sardonic smile as he continues his kisses, his touch damanding as his hands begin to wander, his fingers tracing your skin with a needy hunger. “You could not join me tonight,” he murmurs, his voice tinged with mock regret, though his eyes betray the fire within him. “You missed it, my dear. Another traitor, another flame to cleanse this city of its filth.”

Your heart sinks, and though you try to keep your face composed, the weight of his words presses down on you, filling you with a sickening dread. “Qarlton Chelsted,” you whisper, the name slipping out, your voice trembling as you recall the man—a good and dutiful Hand, or so you’d thought, a man who had served loyally despite the king’s erratic decrees.

Aerys’s smile widens, his fingers drifting over your shoulder, down your arm, his touch lingering as he revels in your reaction. “Yes,” he says, his tone almost playful. “Chelsted thought himself too noble, too principled to carry out my wishes. When the time comes… he would not burn the city. He would not take this rebellion down in the fire it deserves.”

You shiver under his touch, your voice barely a whisper, each word drawn out with care. “So… so you burned him?”

Aerys’s expression sharpens, a glint of malice in his eyes as he nods, his hand moving to trace along your collarbone, each touch a perverse form of reassurance. “Yes. Burned him alive. He screamed, Y/N, how he screamed,” he breathes, his voice filled with dark pleasure. “But he understood in the end, I think. He saw the truth as the flames took him.”

You turn your head, unable to meet his gaze, feeling the bile rise in your throat, but his fingers grip your chin, forcing you to face him, his gaze unyielding. “Do not look away from me,” he says softly, though the command in his voice is unmistakable. “You are the only one who understands. The only one who could understand.”

You close your eyes, trying to shut out the world, his voice, the memory of those screams that seem to echo even here. “Aerys… I’m… I’m tired,” you whisper, a faint plea slipping into your words, though you know he will not heed it.

Aerys’s mouth curls into a mocking smile as he slides onto the bed beside you, unperturbed by your pleading. “Tired? Is the rest what you desire? When the blood of the dragon runs hot and fierce through us?” His words, a mockery, carry with them that familiar demand—a hunger only you seem to satisfy.

He leans forward, pressing his lips to yours, and this kiss is different—more forceful, more possessive. He tastes of salt and fire, and his hands are eager, moving over you with a familiarity that should have brought comfort, but instead brings dread. He slides a hand up your nightgown, the coarse skin grazing your thigh, and you feel yourself tense, trapped. The soft, involuntary whimper that escapes your lips only seems to embolden him.

“Oh, Y/N,” he scolds mockingly, his voice darkly playful. “Is this how my beautiful daughter behaves? So meek, so small. What has become of the proud girl who kept her father’s wrath at bay?”

You say nothing, knowing any response would be met with his further amusement. With a deliberate slowness, he undoes the lower part of your gown, his fingers brushing over your belly, where the life of another child stirs, the symbol of this forbidden love, the bond you can never name openly. You close your eyes, summoning the last of your strength, pushing thoughts of Rhaegar from your mind, of the tragedy, the ruin left in your family’s wake.

Aerys’s breath warms against your neck as he presses into you with a fervor that you’ve come to know all too well. His skin is rough beneath your fingers, bearing the fresh, bloody cuts from the Iron Throne. Your nails dig in, but he pays no mind, only quickening his movements. The room fills with the sounds of his heavy breathing, and the familiar mingling of pain and pleasure stirs within you, hollow and aching.

In the flickering light of the torches, Aerys’s fevered gaze bores into yours as he whispers against your ear, words that sting like embers, unholy in their nature. “Do you see, Y/N? You were meant for me alone. No one else could satisfy me, no one else could understand me as you do.” His pace grows erratic, more fervent, and you suppress the urge to cry out, keeping your composure even as the ache overwhelms you.

But Aerys isn’t satisfied with your restraint. His hands grip you tighter, his voice cajoling, insistent. “Let them hear you, Y/N,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “Let them all know how much you need me, how I am the only one who can bring you to life.”

A trembling moan escapes you, almost involuntarily, but it isn’t enough for him. He craves more, always more, and his voice sharpens, a goading hiss. “Louder, my love. Show them how you belong to me, how you always have.”

You feel the weight of it all—the love you once held, the loyalty that bound you to your father and now entraps you in this ruinous devotion. History will never remember me as his daughter, you think bitterly. I will be nothing but his concubine, a consort whose only legacy is scandal and shame.

“Tell me you need me, Y/N,” he demands, pressing deeper, his eyes wild and alight with the mania that now defines him. “Tell me you crave only me.”

Your voice, barely a whisper, betrays the resignation in your heart. “Yes… only you, my king,” you murmur, hoping he cannot see the pain hidden within your words.

Aerys’s laughter fills the chamber, a sound as consuming as fire, and his movements grow frantic, fevered, until at last, he releases, his grip softening as he collapses beside you. You feel the familiar coldness settle in as his fervor fades, leaving only the emptiness that follows.

His voice, almost gentle now, pierces the silence. “I would burn the realm for you, Y/N. For you and our blood alone.”

You lie beside him, silent, as his words linger in the air, feeling the weight of that promise, that curse, and wondering what price the realm will ultimately pay for this devotion.

The warmth of the bath envelops you like a gentle embrace, and for the first time in days, you feel almost at ease. The faint ache in your body has dulled, softened by the steam and warmth, and your servants move around you quietly, each careful touch easing your discomfort. Slowly, you close your eyes, letting the stillness take over as your condition begins to improve, bringing with it a tentative relief.

Soft, scented water trickles down your shoulders, and your thoughts drift, barely anchored in the present, lost in fragments of memory. Rhaegar’s face appears and fades again, hauntingly familiar. You feel your hand drift over your collarbone, over the faint scar that rests there—the mark left behind from an injury years ago, a wolf’s bite you don't want to remember, but one that Aerys never allowed you to forget. As your fingers graze it, a sudden, cold shiver runs through you, and a discomfort stirs beneath your skin, prickling from your neck down to your chest.

Your eyes open.

The water, once clear and calming, is now red—deep, dark crimson, swirling in thick, viscous streams. The shock of it paralyzes you for a moment, the horror anchoring you in place as your eyes dart to the water around you, pooling beneath your body, seeping from somewhere unseen. A strangled gasp escapes you, your hand flying to your neck where the faint scar should be, only to feel warm, sticky blood pouring from it, running down your chest, staining the water further.

“No... no, it can’t be…” you murmur, your voice trembling as you clutch at your neck, your hand coming away red and slick with blood. Panic claws at your chest, making it hard to breathe as the realization sets in. “Help me!” you scream, desperation tearing through your voice, echoing against the walls. “Please, someone—help!”

The servants, alarmed by your cries, rush to your side. Their faces are painted with confusion and fear as they look at you, then at each other, their hands hovering over you, uncertain of what to do.

“Princess! What is it? What has happened?” one of them stammers, her voice barely steady, her eyes darting to the bathwater, which seems clear to her, untouched. “There… there is nothing here…”

You can hardly hear her words, the haze of fear thickening as you stare down at your own hands, stained with red. “No—look!” You thrust your hands out, shaking, imploring them to see what is so horribly clear to you. “I’m bleeding, don’t you see? It’s everywhere—there’s blood!”

Another servant, older and wiser perhaps, bends down and speaks to you soothingly, though her own hands tremble. “My princess, please… be calm. There is no blood, none that we can see. Perhaps… perhaps it is your mind, troubled after all you have endured.”

Her words barely register. You reach for her, your voice breaking as you struggle to explain, to make her understand the depth of this horror. “I… I felt it, the scar—it tore open. It’s real; I know it’s real.”

One of the younger servants gasps, looking at you with a mixture of pity and fear, and murmurs to the others, “She’s still unwell… perhaps this is some feverish vision.”

The murmurs grow, and you feel the tension rise in the room. They think I’m imagining this… they think I’m mad.

Another servant steps forward, her tone gentle, but insistent. “Princess, let us help you out of the bath. We’ll dress you, and see that you rest. This strain is not good for you… or for the child.”

A flicker of reality cuts through your panic, and you find yourself nodding, though your heart still pounds. The thought of your child brings a sense of urgency—a need for protection. You allow them to lift you from the water, though your hands shake as they steady you. The older servant wraps a towel around you, her fingers tender and quick, the motherly comfort in her touch helping to anchor you, even as your mind races, questioning what you saw, what you felt.

One of the younger servants, still pale, whispers to the others, “What if something happens to her, or the babe? You know what the king would do if—”

“Hush, child!” the older one snaps, her voice low and sharp as she eyes you with guarded worry. “Speak of such things, and you’ll bring his wrath upon us before it’s due. We are here to serve, and serve we shall.”

Another servant hurries to your side, her eyes wide and fearful. “Please, my princess,” she murmurs, taking your hand gently, guiding you from the chamber. “You must rest. Think of the little one inside you. The king will not forgive any harm befalling you… or his heir.”

The mere mention of Aerys’s wrath settles a silence over the servants. The tension is thick as they lead you to your chamber, where you are made to sit, their hands fussing over you, drying your hair, dressing you as though you are a porcelain doll too fragile to handle on your own. Yet you feel distant, removed from your own body, haunted by the vision that felt so real, so vivid.

As the servants finish, one of them casts you a wary glance, voice barely a whisper as she asks, “Are you… feeling well now, my princess?”

You hesitate, feeling the weight of their eyes on you, knowing the implications of your answer. “Yes,” you lie, swallowing the remaining traces of panic. “I’m… well enough.”

But as they leave, their backs turned, you press a hand to your neck, your fingers tracing over the scar. The blood is gone, as though it never was—but the fear remains.

...

The walls of the Red Keep shudder with the weight of approaching doom, the faint tremor in the stone echoing in your bones. You can hear the clamor of footsteps, the chaotic thundering of hooves and shouts from beyond the towering walls of the city, and you know this is the final stand. This is the end Aerys had always warned you about, the moment his madness had whispered in fragments, the visions he had spun of betrayal, of blood.

Rumor had reached you in broken whispers among the servants: Pycelle had convinced your father to open the gates, allowing Tywin Lannister and his army within. They were supposed to be allies, a beacon of hope in this siege, yet a sick feeling gnaws at your stomach, an intuition you cannot silence. Aerys should have known, should have sensed the treachery veiled beneath Tywin’s offer of aid, but his mind had been too clouded by rage, by the fires he stoked in his own imagination.

The sounds of chaos draw closer, tearing through the heart of the keep, and you realize you are alone. The servants who dressed you earlier have disappeared into the shadows, no doubt trying to find some small corner to hide from the violence sweeping through the halls. You try to gather your strength, wrapping your cloak around you tightly, though your hands tremble, and your heart races with a familiar, dreadful fear.

Before you can make it down the corridor, a rough hand grabs you, yanking you backward, and the world spins in a blur of motion. The cold edge of a blade presses against your throat, biting just enough to send a shiver of pain down your spine. You gasp, frozen by the dagger’s touch, your hands coming up in a desperate bid for freedom, but the hand that holds you is unyielding, cruel.

“Well, well,” a cold, mocking voice murmurs near your ear, the breath hot and damp against your skin. “The dragon princess herself, all alone in this den of madness. Seems the lions have come to claim their prize.”

You feel the blade press harder, forcing you to tilt your head, exposing your throat further. You try to swallow the rising panic, but it lodges in your throat, and your voice emerges barely above a whisper. “What… what are you doing?”

The man holding you chuckles, a dark, humorless sound that vibrates against your back. “A gift for the king, that’s all. Lord Tywin thought you’d be the perfect little… wound, a reminder of what happens to those who fancy themselves untouchable.”

With a sudden jerk, he begins dragging you down the corridor, his grip iron-strong, unyielding as he pulls you through the Red Keep. The familiar halls warp under the terror that pulses in your veins, each twist and turn leading you deeper into the heart of chaos. Your bare feet scrape against the cold, rough stone, and the shouts of men and the screams of those caught in the massacre ring out around you, a haunting melody of blood and betrayal.

The dagger never leaves your throat, pressing just enough to remind you of its deadly promise. The guard pulls you around a corner, where the grand double doors of the throne room loom ahead, towering and foreboding. The sight of them sends a renewed wave of fear crashing over you; you know Aerys is within, but the image of him, proud and unyielding on his throne, is sinister now, tainted by his own madness and paranoia. You can almost hear his voice, echoing in your mind, whispering of fires and betrayal, of punishment for disloyalty.

You struggle against the iron grip, desperation clawing at you. “Please,” you gasp, feeling the sharp edge nick your skin, a faint trickle of blood warming your neck. “You don’t have to do this… he’s my father.”

The man sneers, tightening his hold. “And yet here you are, brought before him like a lamb for slaughter. Dragons and their kin burn just as easily as any other. Perhaps your father will enjoy seeing you in this state—a broken little treasure he couldn’t protect.”

With that, he drags you closer to the throne room doors, each step heavy, each echo a death knell that reverberates in your heart. The great doors loom larger with every step, the distant flicker of torchlight casting monstrous shadows that dance upon the walls. Behind you, you can hear the laughter and jeers of the soldiers ransacking the Red Keep, their voices filled with bloodlust, their footsteps a dark rhythm that matches the rapid beating of your heart.

As you near the doors, you feel the faintest flicker of hope falter, knowing what awaits on the other side. Yet you find yourself whispering a silent prayer to the gods, clinging to the memory of those fleeting moments when Aerys was still a father, still someone you loved. And despite everything, you can’t help but hope that he will save you, his daughter—his blood.

The guard wrenches open one of the doors, pulling you roughly forward. The throne room stretches before you, vast and shadowed, the Iron Throne looming at its center like some grotesque, jagged specter, sharp and unforgiving.

And as you are forced through the threshold, past the flickering torches, you know there is no turning back.

...

The throne room stretches before you, vast and dim, shadows cast from the torches that flicker along the walls, only deepening the monstrous, jagged silhouette of the Iron Throne. You feel the dagger bite against your throat, a deadly reminder of how little choice you have. But in that moment, as you’re forced forward, you see him—Aerys, sitting atop his throne, a figure of fractured pride, paranoia, and wrath.

His wild gaze sharpens, locking onto you, and for a breathless moment, the madness is held at bay, replaced by something raw and vulnerable. His mouth parts, and he shifts as though drawn toward you, like a man reaching for something precious slipping away.

A guard in Lannister colors steps forward, and Aerys rises, his fingers curling tightly around the arms of the throne, his movements jerky, barely human. His ascent is unsteady, and one of the sharp blades protruding from the throne digs into his leg, tearing through his flesh, drawing fresh blood that stains his already-dark robes. He doesn’t seem to notice, his eyes fixed on you, and in his gaze, you see a mixture of desperation and terror—an emotion rarely seen in a man consumed by rage.

“Release her!” Aerys’s voice cracks, high and thin, yet filled with a frantic, desperate command. His hand trembles as he gestures toward you, like a father beckoning his frightened child. “She is mine. You will pay for this—Tywin’s golden lions will burn for this!”

But the guard’s grip remains firm, his lips morphing into a cold, mocking smile. You feel the sharp edge of the dagger press harder into your throat, the tension unbearable, as though you’re caught in a nightmare from which there is no waking. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, and in a voice barely a whisper, you murmur, “Aerys…” Your voice trembles, soft and fragile, a plea, a desperate reach for the man you once loved, a man who once cherished you above all else.

The guard moves without warning, his arm jerking with deadly precision as the dagger slices across your throat, the cut deep and vicious. Pain flares, sharp and searing, and the world spins as your blood spills forth, warm and relentless. You feel yourself falling, and the last thing you see is Aerys’s face, twisted in horror, as he lunges toward you with a scream that reverberates through the throne room.

“No! No, Y/N!” His cry is raw, torn from somewhere deep and ancient, a sound of pure, unfiltered agony as he catches you, his arms trembling as he pulls you close. His hands press against your throat, desperate to staunch the flow of blood, but you can feel it, thick and warm, slipping through his fingers, unstoppable.

“Stay with me,” he pleads, his voice breaking as he clings to you, his hand cupping your cheek, blood-streaked and trembling. “Please, Y/N, stay with me. You cannot leave me… I cannot… without you, there is nothing.”

Your vision begins to blur, shadows creeping in at the edges, and your mind, desperate for solace, conjures the faces of your children—Viserys, with his fierce eyes and tiny fists, Daenerys, a babe in Rhaella’s arms, safe, sheltered on Dragonstone. You think of Rhaegar, your beloved twin, now gone, his laughter, his warmth slipping further from your grasp. The child inside you who you'll never see. You try to speak, but blood chokes you, filling your mouth, suffocating any final words.

Yet you summon your strength, forcing the air past the blood pooling in your throat, and manage to choke out a single word: “Burn…”

Aerys’s eyes widen, a manic light igniting within them, a cruel spark that twists his grief into something monstrous. He clutches you tighter, his fingers digging into your shoulders as he looks up, the madness consuming him again, overtaking the momentary glimpse of humanity that had emerged. “Burn them all!” he screams, his voice echoing through the throne room as he looks to his pyromancer, who stands frozen, wide-eyed. “Do you hear me? Burn them all!”

He turns back to you, his hands still desperately trying to stem the blood, as if he could somehow save you, as if his touch alone could rewrite this cruel fate. Your eyes begin to glaze, unfocused, the life draining from you, and Aerys watches as the light fades, his own breath coming in short, ragged gasps. You feel his lips brush your forehead, his words soft, broken, nearly incoherent. “You were mine… you were always mine…”

A shift in the air catches his attention. Aerys turns, his gaze locking onto Jaime Lannister, standing before the Iron Throne, sword drawn, his face pale but resolute. There’s a brief flicker of understanding in Aerys’s eyes, and in that split second, realization dawns—a final betrayal, one last wound that will cut him deeper than any sword.

Jaime’s expression is unwavering as he steps forward, driving his sword into Aerys’s back, the blade slicing through cloth, flesh, and bone. Aerys’s body jerks, his grip on you tightening in a final, futile embrace.

As he collapses, his life ebbing away, he clings to you even in death, his blood mingling with yours as his final breaths escape him, still protective, still grasping as if his grip alone could hold you to him. And there, upon the cold stones of the throne room, amid the ruin of his madness, the last king of the Targaryen line dies, clutching his beloved daughter to him, refusing, even in death, to let her go.

...

The throne room stands cloaked in an eerie silence, broken only by the faint echoes of steps as Tywin Lannister and Robert Baratheon enter, their presence filling the vast, haunted space. Before them, seated upon the Iron Throne, is Ser Jaime Lannister, his posture still, his gaze distant, as if lost within the shadows of his own thoughts. Around him, blood has dried dark upon the cold stone floor, and at the base of the throne lies a grim tableau—Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King, cradling his daughter Y/N, both lifeless, entangled as they were in their final moments.

Robert’s face contorts in disgust at the sight. The smell of old blood and death fills his nostrils, the iron and salt clinging thickly to the air. He lets out a grunt of disapproval, his eyes narrowing as he glances between Aerys and Y/N’s entwined bodies. "This is sickening. He died clinging to her like some... abomination. We should dispose of them—burn them apart, dump the ashes to the winds."

Tywin’s gaze remains steady, and a flash of something unreadable crosses his expression as he regards the twisted remnants of the Targaryen dynasty lying at the feet of his son. “No,” he says quietly but firmly. “They will be burned together. The realm has seen enough bloodshed. We will end it with fire, as it began.”

Robert glares, his mouth opening to argue, but Tywin’s resolve is immovable, the steel in his eyes silencing the king-to-be. Robert lets out a huff, his lips curling as he averts his gaze, unable to look at the bodies any longer. Tywin gives a curt nod to Jaime, who rises from the Iron Throne, stepping down with the stiffness of a man who’s borne too much weight, his face a strained of contained emotion as he steps aside, following his father’s orders with silent obedience.

...

A week later, at the peak of King’s Landing, under the pallid sky, the pyre is built, stacked high with carefully arranged wood. Aerys and Y/N are placed in the very position they were found, with his arms wrapped around her in a twisted embrace, his lifeless hands clutching her, their heads resting close together. The gathered nobles watch in silence as Tywin Lannister gives the final nod, signaling for the torches to be lit.

The flames lick upward, curling around the wood, consuming it hungrily as they rise, and soon the fire reaches them, its tongues wrapping around the lifeless figures, devouring them whole. The heat grows intense, the orange and red hues dancing against the dusk, and the acrid smell of burning flesh fills the air, a somber reminder of the Targaryen line being erased.

Robert stands beside Tywin, his expression one of deep, simmering distaste. He breaks the silence, muttering under his breath, “A king and his daughter… burned together. Targaryens, all the same. Mad, every last one of them.”

Tywin, arms crossed, stares into the flames, his face stoic, unflinching. “It is done. We give them this final dignity—whatever they lacked in life, they will have in death.”

Robert’s jaw tightens, but he bites back his anger, watching as the fire roars, the flames reaching high into the sky. His voice takes on a lower tone, laced with resentment. “A waste of wood, if you ask me. The rest of them should’ve been given the same treatment.”

Tywin’s eyes remain fixed on the fire, ignoring Robert’s complaint. Robert turns to him, his voice now edged with irritation. “Did they manage to get rid of the rest of them? Is it finally done?”

Tywin glances at him briefly, his voice cold, businesslike. “The Mountain took care of Elia Martell and her children.” His words are curt, but the implication hangs heavy in the air—a brutal, merciless end to the remnants of Targaryen loyalty.

Robert’s lips twitch in a grim smile, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes as he considers the deed done in his name. He lets out a slow exhale, his satisfaction barely restrained. “And what of the dragonspawns?” He sneers. “The children Y/N bore for her father…?”

Tywin’s expression hardens. “A ship departed for the Free Cities before my men reached Dragonstone. Queen Rhaella was found dead in her chambers—servants say she collapsed when word of her daughter’s death reached her.”

Robert’s expression darkens, his eyes flashing with a mixture of fury and contempt. He stares into the flames, fists clenched, his voice low and laced with venom. “I’ll see the end of them. Every last dragon, down to the hatchlings. I’ll hunt them across the sea if I must, but none of them will live. They will all burn, just as he did.”

Tywin does not respond, his gaze unwavering as the pyre continues to blaze, the fire consuming all traces of Aerys and Y/N. Their forms dissolve into embers, ashes swept up by the heat and scattered by the wind, carried beyond the keep and out into the world—a fitting, final end to the dynasty that had once ruled with fire and blood.

As the flames rise higher, Robert remains beside Tywin, his gaze hard and unyielding, filled with a singular purpose—to wipe out every last trace of the Targaryen legacy, to ensure that dragons are remembered only in tales of madness and ruin. And all the while, Tywin stands silent, his face unreadable, watching the flames burn away the past, and perhaps, in his own way, the last remnants of something he, too, once feared.

[tsukimefuku]

Kindness and sunflowers

This is part of my "Jujutsu Partners Canon Divergence AU". A sequence of short stories and random drabbles for a fic I'll eventually write (eventually). To see the ever-growing list of one-shots, please visit my masterlist :) 

Disclaimer: they’re NOT written and posted in chronological order of events. To see where this story fits in the timeline, please check the masterlist mentioned above.

Tags: f!reader, soft/implied Higuruma x reader, drinking, fluff, hurt, and comfort.

WC: 1.4k

"Hey, I think he's not doing very well." You said to the other sorcerers, while you were all sitting at the bar. Higuruma had his face plastered on the counter, and one of his hands covered a beer mug. He was mumbling unintelligibly.

This was his first time out of Jujutsu High's headquarters ever since they detained him. After saving your ass when you were on a mission, Higuruma — a curse user that was being hunted by Jujutsu High — was granted mercy under some conditions. If he proved himself as a worthy jujutsu sorcerer in their service, his suspended execution would be extinguished. You asked Gojo, as a favor from your friend, to try saving the guy (after all, he saved you first). Gojo agreed, but warned you'd be responsible for accompanying him in this "parole" period. Deal, you answered, and here you all were a month later.

The guy was smart (and a smart mouth), even with his kind of nihilistic demeanor sometimes. Working with him was very different from working with Nanami the months prior. Higuruma was an absolute beast in the field, and took many more risks than your previous mission partner. On one occasion, you had to take the poisonous hit from a curse to protect him, simply because he made no effort to dodge. You knew full well you could recover using your own RCT, but man, it was a nasty recovery period. He apologized at the time for his irresponsibility, and his empty sardonic facade seemed to get a little chipped away since then. At least for you.

"He seems fine to me." Nanami sipped on his own drink nonchalantly, as he raised one eyebrow while looking at the man. His contempt was hidden under the perfect monotone he had to his voice — Nanami was still furious at Higuruma due to the poisoning debacle that left you bedridden for an entire week.

You looked at him, somewhat irritated.

"Really? Does he, Nanami?" You asked rhetorically, pointing dramatically to face-plastered-on-the-counter Higuruma.

He sighed, putting his drink glass back on the counter. "I apologize, that was uncalled-for." Nanami said. "Yes, he should be taken somewhere else to sober up and sleep properly."

"Hey, lawyer man." Shoko poked Higuruma's arm, and he barely moved. "Yeah, he's out."

"This is it, I'm getting him home." You sighed. "I mean, now he's allowed to go out the headquarters, he might go home, right?"

Gojo shrugged, laughing, as he took many pictures of passed out Higuruma on his phone from different angles. "I didn't ask. They just said he could leave headquarters."

"You didn't ask?" You said, stunned.

He put his phone away in his pocket, clearly amused. "Well, when this happened to one of my students, he wasn't bound to be in headquarters all the time. So I think it's safe to say the man is free to go, as long as he comes back."

You facepalmed. Getting money from your wallet, you gave your and Higuruma's part to Gojo, the only person sober in the whole entourage. "Here, this should cover for us. I'm calling a cab."

He smiled as he said good luck.

***

After fumbling through Higuruma's wallet and questioning him relentlessly, piecing together everything the drunk man could tell, you finally got to drag him to his apartment, where he used to live when he was still a lawyer. There was just one thing you hadn't accounted for — neither of you had the key. You were cursing yourself and him under your breath as you conjured up a tiny grenade with your innate technique, just strong enough to bust open his door without causing collateral damage. He was leaning against the wall, sitting on the ground, and seemed to be snoring. May the neighbors not hear this. It was late enough to be almost early.

The controlled explosion was loud enough to startle him awake, but didn't seem to attract any attention from the other apartments. You threw Higuruma's arm over your shoulders and lifted him up, while you opened the door and carried him inside. Miraculously, when you flipped the lights on, it actually worked. You put him on the couch as you used one of the chairs around the place to hold the door closed.

"You're kind, did you know that?" Higuruma said, while he was a tad bit more sober now than when you both left the bar. He threw himself over the couch, extending his arms on the cushions and leaning his head back to look at the ceiling. "The world is not a great place for kind people."

"You don't say." You replied, smiling, while you looked around the apartment. Somehow, it was exactly what you expected his place to look like. A little messy, with lots of books lying around the house, and even if the place had no big decor or anything like that, it still felt warm. You saw a sunflower withered by the window, and you noticed he looked at it at the same time, grunting in complaint.

Higuruma leaned forward to remove his shoes, but was having a hard time pulling his shoestrings. You sighed as you said, "here, let me help you." You got on your knees and undid both of his shoes, taking them off. 

Higuruma took you by surprise, as he directed his hands to hold your face delicately and lift your gaze. He looked at you, your faces inches apart, as you could still smell the beer from him. His eyes were soft, something you hadn't seen yet. You felt your heart skip a beat as he was holding you like that. "Thank you."

You gulped and blinked a few times, as you removed his hands from your face and got up. "It's just shoes." You turned to walk away into the kitchen and see if you could grab him a glass of water, but he held your hand, still seated on the couch, looking down.

"No. I mean... Thank you." Higuruma said softly. "Thank you for defending me." He sighed deeply. "It's usually the other way around."

"Oh." You turned to look at him. A soft smile took over your face. "You saved me that day. I wouldn't forgive myself if I didn't at least try to return the favor."

He pulled you and had you landing beside him on the sofa. It startled you, as you felt your face warm and blushing. He was still holding your hand, making circles with his thumb over your hand's back, and spoke, nearly whispering, "You're too kind." He closed his eyes, and for your surprise, he leaned over and rested his face on your shoulder in a cat-like demeanor. Your body quivered as you felt his slow breath pressed against your skin, and you both stayed completely still for a while.

"Higuruma?" You asked, hearing in response a soft snore. Oh, he's out. Sliding him very carefully out of your shoulder and onto the couch, you got up. Time to go.

After taking a last look at the withered sunflower that was beside his window you sighed, looking at your wristwatch and feeling you could still wait a few hours. There was something you to do first.

***

Higuruma's head made him a thousand promises of regret as he tried to remember how exactly he got home. The sun was high outside, and it was probably noon already. After getting completely hammered at the bar, he had only a few flashbacks. Getting poked, an insistent camera flash on his face, everyone's voices, his sunflower dead by the window.

You.

He sat up on the couch hastily, feeling instantly dizzy as he put his hands on his head. "Where is she?" He looked around, and the apartment seemed empty. I hope I didn't make a complete fool out of myself yesterday, Higuruma thought to himself, as he got up, careful not to get the drunken vertigo.

Higuruma remembered the sunflower again, and grunted, displeased. He had bought it in an attempt to decorate his apartment, at least a little, and make it feel more like a home. The former lawyer found the idea of him taking care of a sunflower kind of funny and surely ironic. After everything that had happened, he was away from his apartment for nearly two months by this point. "Good thing I never had any food in here." He said to himself, walking towards the window.

He stopped as he saw a brand-new sunflower in a vase, right where the other one previously was. Higuruma smiled, amused with himself, and traced his messy hair with his fingers, wondering how he would thank you for that.

"Yeah. Too kind."

[shmaptainwrites]

wait i lied do childhood besties to enemies to lovers PLS

betsie ngl it took me a minute to figure out a good plot for this concept that i could do justice with the length i'm going for so now that i have something i really hope you like it! also atp it isn’t a mini blurb it’s a full on ficlet cause i just kept writing LMAO

Pairings: Fitzwilliam Darcy x GN!Reader

Warnings: Wickham mention (yes that's a valid warning bc he sucks), minor height descriptions (again i'm sorry)

Lost Years

Your least favourite time of year was always the time you visited Pemberley with your siblings. It had been that way for a while now, you probably could have pinpointed the date if you tried hard enough.

But just as every year before it was unavoidable.

It used to be an occasion of good fun. Two of your closest friends lived on the estate and you would savour every chance you got to spend with them both, but as you grew older and responsibilities set in, so did the disputes. Your close friendship had become fragmented along with your heart.

The first few days you tried to make sure you were always with at least one of your siblings, or maybe even Miss Georgiana Darcy which would create a buffer for the tension between you and her older brother.

As the estate was so large, it was always possible that by mere coincidence, one may end up in a room alone with another individual.

That quickly became the case for you, as you walked in the library, perusing the selection of books curated by the late Mr. Darcy and his son.

You went to reach for a book on a shelf you could not reach and before you could even thinking of a further attempt to grab it, someone reached from behind you and brought the book.

When you turned around and saw it was the younger Mr. Darcy you couldn't help the sharp remark that slipped past your lips.

"I could have gotten it myself. There was no need for that."

"And I suppose you would have climbed the shelves to accomplish that," he snapped right back.

"I find myself in a different mood than before. You may keep the book, Mr. Darcy," you said curtly and began to walk away.

"Am I to assume that nothing that comes from my hand will be accepted?" he asked.

You turned around.

"Miss, I have delt with your contempt of me in as amiable of a manner as I thought I was capable, but this has crossed a boundary."

"I have crossed a boundary?" you blinked, pointing to yourself. "I believe maybe you should have thought of that when you refused to give Wickham his portion entitled to him of your father's estate!"

Mr. Darcy stared at you blankly for a moment before his expression hardened.

"If Wickham is where your loyalties lie then perhaps contempt on both sides is justified."

"I disagree," you shook your head. "When he told me I could not believe what I was hearing. That you of all people could be so cold and unloving towards a friend. If you could do something like that to Wickham what was stopping you from doing it to me?"

"And what exactly did he tell you?" Mr. Darcy asked and you didn't hesitate to recount Wickham's version of the events.

You could see what almost looked like shock on Mr. Darcy's face as he saw in what light he was being painted, but he allowed you to finish before saying anything.

"I don't suppose you have anything to say for youself," you crossed your arms over your chest.

"That isn't what happened," he said simply.

"T-That isn't what happened? Really Mr. Darcy is that all you can-,"

"I swear it to you," he said. "Ask Mr. Bingley, if you must, but that is not what happened after my father's death."

You loosened your stance, letting your arms fall to your side.

"If not, then what did happen?"

Mr. Darcy took a breath before beginning to explain to you the events following his father's death. He was able to say in great detail what had occured, lining up his story with the timeline of events that had occured in his own life and Wickham's. Even things you had witnessed to your friend's character. Suddenly everything came crashing back down to reality.

When he finished speaking you had to excuse yourself in order to sit down on one of the couches behind you.

"Years," you whispered. "I went on for years believing this."

"You were listening to a friend you thought you could trust," Mr. Darcy even went as far as defending your actions towards him, when all this time he had been innocent of what he was accused. "I understand that this is a lot of information to take in, but may I ask you something?"

"Yes, I suppose," you nodded your head.

"Why didn't you ever ask me about this?"

Of everything he could have asked you, it had to be that. You closed your eyes and swallowed thickly.

"Mr. Darcy I-I'm not sure it would be appropriate to say."

"I have delt with many things much more difficult than this," he assured you. "Please...answer the question."

You chuckled softly to youself,

"We were young, Fitz," you looked over to him and you could see his face soften at the childhood nickname you called him. It was so easy how one word could transport you back in time, maybe a time where things were simpler. "I-," you shook your head and held it in your hands, massaging your temples. The words had become caught in your throat. "I-I-I loved you and if I spoke to you and it was true? It was easier to believe him and spare myself the hurt of hearing it from you directly."

You couldn't sit next to him, quickly standing and moving towards a window instead.

"The thought of finding out someone for which you feel so deeply, might be capable to do something of such an unkindly nature was too much for me to bear I-I'm so sorry."

"You loved me," he whispered softly. "Past tense."

"If I didn't love you, would I care this much about your treatment of Wickham?" you looked back at him, tears glistening in your eyes.

Mr. Darcy stood from his seat and slowly made his way towards you, gingerly reaching for your hand before finally clasping it in his own and bringing it to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to its back.

"I have lost money; I have lost trust; I have lost many things because of Wickham," he murmured, your hand still close enough to his lips your could feel them move as he spoke. He lifted his other hand to gently caress your cheek. "But I will never forgive him for making me lose the years I could have spent with you."

"Fitz, I'm so sorry," you apologized as the tears finally spilled from your eyes, "I'm sorry."

You repeated your apologies many times, but they became muffled as he pulled you into him for a tight embrace.

You wrapped your hands tightly around his neck and buried your nose in his shoulder.

When your apologies quieted, he gently moved away, just barely half an arm's length.

"There is no need to apologize, my dear," his countenance calm, at peace. "We will simply have to make up for lost time."

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

@iceman-kazansky

[fefairys]

"[Karkat's] past and future selves aren't real splinters, like Jadesprite. They're still just him, from different points on the timeline, which for convenient purposes of ludicrous self-incrimination, he targets as his number-one enemy. If you disregard the time travel component, I think this is akin to more conventional psychological defense mechanisms real people have, like a form of dissociative identity disorder. He's broken himself up into various "identities," compartmentalizing them by where they are in time rather than who they are, in the same way one might in response to trauma, grief, shame, or anything else that might trigger that kind of psychological fragmentation. Whether it's this mostly comedic faux splintering or real splintering, the intent is always to point to the same thing, which is: the struggle to understand oneself is intense. Being forced to confront the multitudes one contains—the contradictions, the different facets of personality, the internal schisms—sometimes in extremely literal ways, that's what this stuff is All About, All The Time." -Andrew Hussie

DID MENTIONED!!! lol no but yeah this is really fascinating to me i love this about homestuck. possibly my favorite thing abt homestuck is the confrontation of different versions of yourself. being forced to stare your contempt for yourself in the face, because you're talking to yourself, not matter how much you want to detach yourself from them, because theyre a "different version" you know that its still you that you hate.

[boyfridged]

If it were up to you to edit Robin Jason's post-crisis storyline to give him a more cohesive and consistent characterization, which parts of the run would you remove and what else are you gonna write in their place? Say, would you take out anything Starlin wrote altogether?

oh you're giving me a task... a big one. jason's robin era is one of the most incomplete eras in the batman timeline. there's a weird age-up/time skip in jay's post-crisis run and we miss at least 2 years of his robin tenure. we barely get jason's pov ever; his relationship with bruce is so underwritten that we have bruce telling him to stop him mr wayne after 6 months of training simply because it's the first dialogue we have post him being taken in; we know nothing about the adoption process; we do know that he's seen dick several times but we get a glimpse at only three of those meetings, and two of them almost in passing; etc.

these are mostly problems that were to be tackled by collins in his run that was to be much longer and named robin: year one, but collins' concept was not "dark" enough for o'neil's liking, so they ditched it... which in my opinion means there was supposed to be more pre-crisis character to how their family life was to be portrayed. and i would definitely like some semblance of that to be restored...

when it comes to starlin's work, i'd definitely change much of the minuate. i've said it before, but starlin is not even the worst jason writer -- plenty of jason's actions in his run are more or less reasonable courses of action for someone of jason's background and psychology to take, at a particular age (ah, the disease of being 15 years old). i, for one, find the parallels he makes between bruce and jason, o rather bold statements of how jason's cynicism and 'recklessness' mirror batman at his worst, a quite compelling path to take. the main problem here it is that these actions are written with an attitude of contempt that would not be found have dick or tim did the same things. the storylines which struggle with that the most are judy's case (also discussed by me here + i talk about what i'd specifically like to do it in the tags) and the garzonas' one too. they would really benefit from some more focus on jason.

one thing definitely take out the cult though. or rewrite it as something completely else. btw if anyone has seen my post about the cult recently please link it to me because i've been trying to find it but tumblr search option claims i've never mentioned the cult in my life. and i definitely did because as you all know i am quite vocal about books i do not enjoy.

oh and i would write a dick & jay story that we were robbed off due to the office politics.

[gloriousburden]

This is SO late, but I just have to say my piece on the Loki Series and Mobius (both derogatory).

The only good part of the series was when Loki landed in the Gobi Desert and flicked away his gag, after that, all the gentrification, oocness, and other stupidity began for me. The way he would never say 85% of those lines, and how he was made to be so “quirky” via humiliation after the Battle of New York?

Mobius is so fucking far up his own delusions, like he basically watches other realities and people through screens, he only socially interacts with other TVA staff, is friends with one of the main fascists in charge, etc. 

His fucking “I’m a nice guy” act makes me want to fucking punch him all the more harder.

In some ways, I have more respect for that TVA officer in Roxxcart being like “they’re all going to die” and Loki for say that also in Pompeii, than Möbius’s meandering holier-than-thou bullshit of basically softening the blow with “good taste” by distracting a little girl with candy as he blows up her timeline.

People hate on Brad for his treatment towards Loki, but love on Mobius for that v similar treatment. Talking down to him, condescending him as not a threat, calling him privileged and harmless and basically saying that he knows Loki better than he knows himself.

I will be forever be disgusted and spiteful that Mobius never got treated as nearly much contempt as Brad and Renslayer, nor did he have something horrible happen to him because of Loki.

Like he just EMBODIES the naive, starry-eyed fool that arrogantly thinks he’s an expert on someone but will never get out alive once meeting that someone.

It was far more interesting to me to see Loki in captivity in “Avengers” and “Dark World”  (both had flaws for me) acting like Hannibal in “Silence of the Lambs” than the bullshit I saw in the Loki Series. And “Dark World” also let him have some more vulnerability without completely demolishing his dignity and character.

I got up to the episode after they met He Who Remains, and I don’t think I’m going to finish this mess. 

So sorry for seeing this months later. Thank you for the ask! Honestly… The second I pressed play the first episode of the series when it came out in 2021, I just knew that… this is going to be really bad. When he first walked into the tva, I was bewildered at how out of character he was. This is Avengers 2012 Loki we’re talking about! He would not say that shit. Instead of his usual dry, sarcastic, old englishy-esque way of talking and humor, it was, as you perfectly put it, very… “Quirky.” He wasn’t even that “quirky” in Ragnarok!

Exactly! The “I’m a nice guy” thing about Mobius has always irritated me so badly. I’ve really never liked him, and was surprised to see such a positive reaction. The negative reaction to Sylvie, I expected of course, But… they’re both bad! Wish people would understand that.

Yeah.. the double standards with Brad/everyone else, and Mobius are so annoying. Why is it okay for Mobius to continuously belittle Loki, throw him into a time loop where he is repeatedly physically assaulted, mock the death of his mother, and all the other bullshit he put Loki through just because you want them to be together romantically? And… this isn’t even some toxic relationship “turned better” situation. They don’t even acknowledge the shit Mobius has done to Loki!

People don’t even talk about the other bad things Mobius has done. It’s a series about people being mislead and morals being questioned, yet… so called fans don’t get into any of it at all. Just ship discourse, and fanon. If I liked the series… I think I’d get into the themes of chaos versus order, the people of the tva being mislead and lied to, etc… But they don’t even do it in the series as everything is a second thought, and doesn’t match up. The writers don’t care, and neither does the fandom.

Agreed! Series fans always say that the belittling of Loki, and the underutilization/erasure of his past characterization is just him… “healing” and being “vulnerable”…. Loki has been vulnerable before after the events of Avengers 2012 (Tdw), and he still was him! It wasn’t an immediate switch in his behavior, and didn’t erase everything that made him, him!

The psychology of Loki’s character from Thor 1, to the dark world was so interesting, and even well done at times. I know a lot of people on this side of tumblr don’t love Tom that much after the series, but I truly do think he understood Loki very well, and portrayed him beautifully back in the day. There was so much care put into his characterization. He stood out from the snarky, quirky superheroes of the mcu.

I miss when it was understood that Loki’s character should reflect the origins in Norse myth. That he is not evil, nor good. Not that he’s strictly good, and not at all evil just because he’s suffered! He’s the god of mischief, chaotic in his nature. Not the god of anti hero with a shitty redemption arc!

Ugh, people are so blind to everything that happened with Mobius, because they’re too focused on shipping him with Loki. Some have the nerve to complain about the mischaracterization, while not realizing that their ship is mischaracterization as well! You can’t cherry pick.

Thank you for the ask!