#you know it’s not real and there are edges where the illusion fades away and turns into the stage

[janasrdhr]

Sweet Dreams - Bakugou Katsuki

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Warning(s): Mild Explicit Language, Violence, Major Character Death, Angst

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You both lay broken amidst the ruins of the battlefield, the sky above smeared in smoke and crimson. Shigaraki and his legion held the upper hand now — chaos had chosen its side.

Your body trembled with exhaustion, a deep stab wound tearing through your abdomen, warmth pooling beneath you in steady betrayal. Beside you, he lay motionless, a gaping hole carved into his chest — where a heart should beat, there was only silence and slow, suffocating blood. It spilled from his lips with every fading breath.

You’d spent so long despising each other, built from hatred and scorn. And yet… in that fragile, crumbling moment, something unspoken bound you together — not as enemies, not as strangers, but as two souls slipping from the same edge.

With the last flicker of strength, he turned his head to you, pain etched into every twitch of muscle. His eyes, once sharp with fury, were dull now… distant.

“‘m…”

He choked, the word caught in the blood rising from his throat. He coughed violently — it sounded final.

“Sorry…”

“N-No… don’t.”

Your voice is a shaky whisper, barely holding together as the weight of everything crashes down.

“We did the b-best we could…”

You wheeze, breath catching on every word. The adrenaline that kept you going — that fragile illusion of strength — fades fast. And now the pain comes. Real and unforgiving. It sinks deep, like ice threading through your veins. You can feel it all now.

Every heartbeat hurts. Every breath feels like it’s being stolen.

And yet, you still speak… because if you don’t, the silence might just kill you first.

He tries to give you a reassuring smile — or something close to it — but it barely forms. The pain is written all over his face, and there's so much blood. Too much.

“Hey,” he breathes out, voice rough and faint, like it’s hanging by a thread.

His hand reaches for you — trembling, weak — and somehow, it still finds yours. His fingers are cold. Shaky. But they curl around yours anyway, like it matters. Like it’s enough.

Another cough escapes him, wetter this time. You feel it before you hear it. He doesn’t wipe the blood from his mouth. He just looks up at the sky, like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll forget how close the end is.

And yet, even now… he’s trying to comfort you.

You blink hard, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to spill — but they’re stubborn, just like you. Just like him. The world around you is spinning, distant, but this — his hand in yours — is the only thing keeping you grounded.

With what little strength you have left, you squeeze his hand. It’s barely a movement, but it’s everything. A signal. I’m still here.

The pain claws at you instantly, sharp and unbearable. It radiates from your wound like fire, and you wince, breath hitching in your throat. It hurts more than it ever has — but you don’t let go.

You won't. Not yet.

Not while he's still breathing.

He lets out a low groan, the kind that barely escapes his throat. You feel the tremor through his hand as he squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenched from the pain. Another breath leaves him — shaky, broken — like it took everything just to let it out.

“I… I just gotta say something,” he murmurs, voice almost swallowed by the stillness around you.

Slowly, painfully, he opens his eyes again. They find you — heavy with something unsaid, something fragile. And in that look, you see it: the fear, the regret, the last traces of a war he never wanted to end like this.

His hand trembles again, but he doesn’t pull away.

He’s holding on. Just long enough to say it.

“S-Stop…” you whisper, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “Save… save it for later.”

It’s a lie — and you both know it. But you say it anyway, because it’s the only thing you have left.

“We can stay up all night, just… just talking,” you breathe out, desperate, trembling. “We won’t s-stop. W-We’ll be okay. Please…”

The words fall apart in your throat, slipping out in broken fragments. You’re not even sure he can hear you anymore, but you say them like they might change something. Like they might rewrite this ending.

You shift your aching body, biting back a sob as the pain screams in protest. Slowly, carefully, you rest your head on his arm — what’s left of it — clinging to the warmth that’s already fading.

Silent tears carve paths down your face, mixing with the blood and dirt. You don’t wipe them away.

You just stay there, next to him, begging time to stop.

He lets out a soft, breathless chuckle — not because anything is funny, but because the pain makes everything feel unreal. His breath hitches again, shaky and strained.

“I…” he starts, voice barely there.

He tries to clear his throat, to steady himself, but the effort backfires. He coughs hard, blood bubbling up and spilling down his chin. It’s too much. He doesn’t even try to wipe it away.

Slowly, he turns his head to face you again. His eyes meet yours, glassy but sharp with certainty.

“No,” he says, barely louder than a whisper. “I’m not waiting.”

You feel your chest tighten.

“I know I won’t make it through the night.”

He winces, jaw tensing as another wave of pain cuts through him. You see it — how close the end is. How much it’s costing him just to keep his eyes open. Just to speak.

“I… just want you to know something.”

His voice falters again. But this time, not from pain — from the weight of what he’s about to say.

“S-Shut up!” you cry out, the words breaking as they leave you. “Shut-… shut up. Please just—… shut up.”

Your voice cracks, strangled by grief. You don’t even know who you’re begging — him, yourself, the universe — but you say it like if you say it hard enough, this will all stop.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it out, all of it — his voice, his blood, the way the truth clings to every word he speaks.

But it’s no use.

Another sob rips through you, your body jolting from the force of it. The pain explodes in your side again, sharper than before, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t care.

You’re breaking. And you can’t stop it.

He’s slipping away. And you can’t stop that either.

He winces again, his whole body tensing, but he doesn’t let it stop him. Doesn’t even let it show for long. With all the strength he has left, he reaches up — hand trembling, bloodied — and brushes his fingers against your cheek, wiping away a few of your tears.

They’re still falling. He knows they will keep falling. But he does it anyway.

“Shh… look at me,” he whispers, voice softer now — not because of weakness, but because he’s trying to be gentle.

Because in this moment, he doesn’t want you to remember the pain, or the blood, or the chaos still raging around you. Just this. Just him.

His thumb lingers just under your eye, and though his touch is faint, it’s steady enough to hold onto.

Your hand trembles as you lift it, barely steady enough to move, but you manage. Slowly, you place it over his — his blood-warmed fingers resting on your tear-streaked cheek.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, choked with pain and denial.

But your eyes flutter open, just like he asked. Just enough to meet his.

He’s still there. Barely. But he’s still there.

And even as everything inside you screams that this isn’t fair, that it isn’t supposed to end like this — you look at him. Because he asked you to.

Because he needs you to.

Because he’s holding on… just long enough to say what he came here to say.

He looks into your eyes — really looks — and for once, there’s no tension, no guarded edge. Just softness. Just him, stripped bare in a way you’ve never seen before.

His chest rises unevenly, each breath harder than the last, but somehow, he still manages a small half-smile. It’s tired, faint… but it’s real.

“You have… beautiful eyes…” he whispers, the words barely holding together as they leave his lips.

Your heart twists. Because even now — as the blood pools, as the night closes in — he chooses to say something kind. Something true.

And somehow, that hurts more than anything else.

“Not as pretty as yours…”

The words slip from your lips in a trembling breath, barely more than a whisper. You don’t even know where you found the strength to say them — maybe it’s the truth, or maybe it’s the ache tearing through your chest, begging you to hold onto something.

Your gaze locks with his, unsteady, shaking — but you don’t look away.

You can’t.

You study every line of his face like it’s the last page of a story you’re not ready to finish. The way his lashes flutter with each breath. The way his mouth twitches at the corners, still trying to smile. The soft, fading warmth in his eyes.

You drink it all in — desperate, pleading — because deep down, some part of you knows.

This is the last time you’ll ever see him like this.

And you want to remember everything.

He lets out another quiet chuckle, broken and low in his throat. The sound is strained, cracked around the edges — and it’s followed by a soft wince, his body curling slightly from the pain it cost him.

“Sh-Shut up, nerd…” he murmurs, voice barely holding together, but there's still a flicker of teasing in it — weak, but familiar. Him.

He takes another shaky breath — longer this time, like he's trying to hold it in, like he’s trying to stay just a little longer.

Then, with what little strength he has left, his other hand reaches up. Slow, trembling, deliberate.

His fingers brush your cheek, gentle despite how unsteady they are. He cups your face like it’s fragile, like he’s afraid you’ll break if he lets go.

Maybe he’s right.

And still… even now, he’s trying to comfort you.

A soft, broken laugh escapes you — barely there, more breath than sound — but it’s real. Just for a second. Your eyes close, like maybe if you don’t look at him, this moment won’t be what it is. Like maybe time will stop if you just… shut your eyes long enough.

“I love when y-you call me that…” you whisper, voice cracking as you lean ever so slightly into his touch.

You don’t say why.

Maybe because it made you feel seen. Maybe because it meant he was still him, even when the world was falling apart. Or maybe just because it made you forget — even for a moment — how this is all ending.

You want to stay here. Like this. In the space between pain and goodbye.

But you can feel it — the way his hand trembles more now, the way his breaths keep getting shorter.

You’re running out of time.

His thumb moves slowly across your cheek, barely more than a ghost of a touch. It’s trembling now, but still full of a tenderness that makes your chest ache even harder.

More blood spills from the corner of his mouth, trailing down as he exhales shakily — like every breath is a war he’s fighting just to stay with you a little longer.

“Yeah… I know you do, you nerd,” he whispers, and even now, his voice holds that familiar warmth, stretched thin by pain but still there. Still him.

His hand stays on your cheek, though it’s weaker now — fingers twitching, barely able to hold on.

But he does.

Because he’s not ready to let go.

And neither are you.

You lift your hand, still shaking, and gently weave your fingers through his — the ones still resting against your cheek. His skin is cold now, colder than it should be, but you hold on like you can warm him just by staying close enough.

A soft smile touches your lips, bittersweet and trembling, but it’s real. For him. Just for him.

You nod slowly, blinking past the blur in your eyes as fresh tears slip down your cheeks and soak into the spaces between your joined hands.

You don’t have to say anything.

He knows.

And for a moment, everything goes quiet — just the two of you, holding on.

Even if it’s only for a little longer.

His fingers curl weakly around yours, returning your touch with the last strength he has. It’s not much — just a soft squeeze — but it’s enough to send another wave of pain crashing through your chest.

That smile is still there, faint and faltering, blood clinging to the corners of his lips, but it stays. Like he’s trying to make this easier for you. Like he wants that to be the last thing you remember — not the blood, not the battlefield, but him. Smiling.

He takes a deep, shaky breath, and his eyes flutter shut for just a moment — like he’s gathering the will to say what needs to be said.

Then he looks at you again, gaze heavy with meaning, with everything he never got to say before this.

“You… you mean a lot to me… you know that right?” he whispers, voice hoarse and strained, but laced with nothing but truth.

And behind it — all of it — is that quiet, desperate hope.

That you believe him.

That you knew, even before he said it.

Your smile falters — slips, crumbles — and then it’s gone, lost in the sob that tears out of you before you can stop it. It racks your already broken body, sending another wave of agony through your chest, but you don’t care.

You lean in closer, pressing yourself against him, trying to feel something — anything — that says he’s still here. Still warm. Still alive.

“T-This isn’t how it was supposed to go…”

The words come out cracked and small, like a child’s — raw and pleading. You’re not even sure who you’re saying it to. Him. The universe. Yourself.

None of it matters.

All that matters is he’s slipping through your fingers, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

So you just hold on tighter.

Because you don’t know how to let go.

He wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer, trying to offer what little warmth he has left. It’s weak, but it’s there. His hand brushes against your back, the touch a soft, trembling comfort — like he's trying to keep you from breaking, even though he’s the one shattering.

“I know…” he murmurs, voice thick with regret. It’s a whisper against your ear, rough but steady.

His body trembles against yours, and you can feel it — the tremor of his heartbeat slowing, the way his breaths are becoming ragged and shallow.

“I should’ve done better… I should’ve been faster…” The words come out like they’re tearing at him, like each one costs him more than he has left to give.

But he says them anyway. Because maybe, just maybe, if he says it enough, it’ll make this moment hurt just a little less.

It doesn’t.

It never could.

Your hand — bloodied, trembling — rises slowly. Every muscle protests, but you ignore it. You have to do this.

You cup his cheek, the skin clammy beneath your fingers, and gently turn his face toward yours. His eyes flutter open again, just barely, as if even now, even like this, he knows it’s you.

You meet his gaze, voice cracking under the weight of everything you should’ve said sooner.

“I should’ve told you…” you whisper, choking on the words. “T-Told you how hopelessly I’m in love with you. A-...A long time ago.”

Another sob escapes you as your thumb brushes against his cheekbone, smearing blood and tears together.

“I should’ve kissed you until neither of us could breathe. I should’ve been faster.”

Your voice breaks entirely at the end, collapsing into a whisper so soft it’s almost not there.

You’re not just mourning what’s happening — you’re mourning everything that could’ve happened. Everything you’ll never get back.

And still, you hold him like he’s your whole world.

Because he is.

His breath hitched, like your words had pulled the air straight out of his lungs. And somehow… somehow, even now, he smiled. Just the smallest curve of his lips — bloodstained, broken — but real.

His eyes closed for a moment, long lashes fluttering against your hand as he leaned into your touch like it was the only thing grounding him to this world.

“You… you love me?…”

His voice was disbelieving, soft — like it didn’t quite register, like it was something too impossible to be real. His eyes opened again, searching yours.

And in that moment, he looked at you as though you were the most unexpected, most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Like he couldn’t believe you were saying it — here, now, at the edge of everything.

And you could see it — the quiet devastation in his eyes.

He’d wanted to hear those words.

He just hadn’t expected to hear them this late.

“S-So much. So fuckin’ much, Katsuki…”

Your voice is barely more than a whisper, cracked and bleeding around the edges. It slips out like a confession and a goodbye all at once, and it hurts — because it’s the truth. And the truth has never felt so heavy.

You force yourself to look at him, really look — but your gaze drifts, unbidden, to the gaping wound in his chest.

It’s bad. Too bad.

And you know it.

Your bottom lip trembles as you bite down on it hard, trying — begging — for the tears to stop, for time to stop, for this not to be the end. But the taste of iron fills your mouth and your chest starts to heave with quiet, helpless sobs.

Katsuki doesn’t look away. Even through the pain, even as everything starts to dim around him — he looks only at you.

Because you're the last thing he wants to see.

He let out a soft, breathy chuckle — what little he could manage. The sound was broken, shaky… but genuine.

His eyes never left yours.

And this time, there was something in them you’d never seen before. Not the usual fire, not the sharp edges or stubborn pride — but something gentler, softer. Something that belonged only to you.

“You don’t know how much I’ve wanted you to say that…”

His hand lifted with effort, trembling as it rose. He reached toward your face, brushing a strand of hair away with the care of someone who knew it might be the last thing he ever touched.

“I’ve always loved you too, dumbass…”

His voice cracked at the end — not from pain, but from feeling. From every unspoken word that had burned behind his silence for so long.

And in that moment, even with the world falling apart around you, it was just you and him.

Just love.

Just heartbreak.

Just… goodbye slowly creeping in.

A broken, watery laugh escapes your throat, caught somewhere between joy and devastation. It rattles out of you before you can stop it, your chest aching with the weight of it all.

You look back up at him — and God, even now… even like this…

He’s still everything.

The blood, the bruises, the fading light in his eyes — none of it takes away from the way he looks to you. Like he hung the stars. Like he fought the whole damn world and still somehow managed to be yours in the end.

Your gaze drinks him in, every inch, every breath, like you’re burning him into memory — because some part of you already knows.

You’re running out of time.

And still, as you look at him — cradling his hand, holding on with everything you have left — all you can think is:

He’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Even in death, he’s your goddamn hero.

His hand didn’t leave your cheek.

It trembled now, weaker with every passing second, but it kept moving — slow, reverent, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin like he was memorizing the feel of you.

Like he was begging time to stop.

His eyes searched your face, full of something raw… something fragile. He was looking at you like this was the last thing in the world he’d ever see — and he wanted to burn it into the very last beat of his heart.

Then, barely a whisper:

“Why…”

He cleared his throat, voice hoarse and fading.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

It wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even sad.

It was just… broken.

Not because he was dying.

But because you both could’ve had so much more.

And now all he had was this — your face in his hand, and a question that would haunt the silence you’d be left with.

“I—... I was scared.”

Your voice quivers, raw with the weight of everything you should’ve said long before now. The confession slips from your lips like blood from a wound — slow, painful, irreversible.

“I didn’t w-want you to think I was… weak,” you breathe, your throat tightening as more tears blur your vision. “That I’m some sick person who falls in love with the same man she thought she hated…”

Your fingers curl tighter around his, terrified of the moment his hand might go still.

“I c-couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk you not feeling the same for me.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, and your whole body aches — not just from the injuries, but from the unbearable ache of almost. Of what could’ve been.

And even now, with the world crumbling around you, you wonder what it would’ve been like to love him in the light.

Not on a battlefield soaked in blood and regret.

But in peace. In safety. In time.

He let out a soft, breathless chuckle — the sound fragile, barely hanging on.

But his eyes… his eyes never left yours.

“I could never think you’re weak…” he whispered, voice thin and unraveling.

His gaze burned into you — not with fire, but with truth, with something so raw and open it tore straight through you.

“And I could never hate you…”

He swallowed hard, blinking slowly as the world around him seemed to grow dimmer.

“Even when I thought I hated everyone…” His voice faltered, a flicker of pain cutting through his features. “I never hated you…”

Another sharp breath. His body tensed, a wave of agony rippling through him.

You felt it as his grip on your hand tightened — not by much, but enough to make your chest cave in all over again.

He was still holding on.

For you.

“I—... I know that now,” you whisper, your voice trembling like the world beneath your feet.

Your smile flickers, shaky and pained, but real — as real as the blood drying on your skin and the heat slowly draining from the battlefield.

“I f-feel like I can die easier.”

And somehow, it feels true.

Because now you know. Now you finally know what his heart sounded like when it beat for you. And for once, even with death brushing at your heels, there’s peace in that.

Your hand trails up to his cheek, gentle, reverent — like he’s fragile glass and you’re trying to keep him from cracking too fast. You rub slow, calming circles against his skin, trying to distract him from the agony clawing at his chest.

His eyes flutter under your touch.

His breath stutters.

But he leans into your palm, like your hand is the only thing anchoring him to the world.

And maybe it is.

He leaned into your hand like it was the last bit of warmth he had left in him — like he could imprint the shape of your fingers into his memory, even as it all started to slip away.

Your touch was soft… but it was everything.

And then, with a voice so fragile it nearly shattered between his teeth, he whispered—

“I… I don’t want to die…”

His eyes — wide, glassy, pleading — locked onto yours, and it broke something deep in your chest.

Because it wasn’t just fear.

It was want. It was longing.

He didn’t want to leave this moment — you — behind. Not when he’d just gotten to hold you like this. Not when he finally knew you loved him back. Not when the world had finally, finally made sense.

But life doesn’t care about perfect moments.

And time, cruel and indifferent, never slows down.

Not even for love.

“M-Me too…”

The words barely make it past your lips — broken, trembling, as if admitting them aloud might make the pain more real. But you say them anyway. Because it’s the truth.

You don’t want to die.

Not like this. Not here. Not without him.

You shuffle closer, body crying out in protest, but you ignore it — every scream of pain, every pulse of blood — just to be nearer. Just to feel him, even if it’s only for a little longer.

You tuck your head into the crook of his neck, pressing your face against the warmth that’s already starting to fade. His scent still lingers — smoke, sweat, him — and it’s enough to make your eyes spill fresh, silent tears down your cheeks.

He lets out a small, ragged breath at the feeling of you so close.

His arm tightens weakly around you.

Neither of you says anything for a moment.

You just hold on — to the silence, to the closeness, to the lie that maybe, somehow, this moment could last forever.

His arm curled around you with what little strength he had left, trembling but sure. He held you like he was trying to stitch the two of you together — like maybe if he held on tight enough, the world would forget to take him away.

Your body, warm against his, was the last good thing he could feel. The last real thing in a world that was fading at the edges.

He pressed his forehead gently against the crown of your head, his breath hitching in his throat as he inhaled you — memorized you. It was shaky. It was shallow. But it was filled with every ounce of him that still remained.

And then his grip tightened.

Not violently — no. Just desperate. Desperate in the way only someone who knows they’re running out of time can be.

He didn’t want to let go. He couldn’t let go. Not when he’d just found home — and it was you.

“Maybe-...maybe in another life, we’ll be happily married with… two kids?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, soft and dreamlike — like you’re trying to paint a future over the ruin around you. A fragile little giggle slips out, even as your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

You tilt your head, just enough to look up at him, waiting for him to laugh with you. Waiting for him to promise you that dream.

He looks down at you.

And despite everything — the blood, the pain, the creeping cold — his lips twitch into a faint smile.

His gaze softens, eyes shimmering with everything he never got to give you.

He chuckled softly, the sound cracked and low in his chest, but still undeniably him. For a fleeting second, it felt normal — like you were lying in bed after a long day, laughing about a future you hadn't even begun yet.

“I bet they’d be real brats just like me, huh?” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper, laced with exhaustion… and affection.

His eyes fluttered closed as he pictured it — a messy little family, loud and chaotic and whole. You. Him. Two little firecrackers running around, carrying pieces of you both.

It would’ve been beautiful.

He let out a breath, then pulled you closer — like it physically hurt to have even an inch between you. You felt his arm tighten, shaky and weak, but full of need. He was holding on with everything he had left.

“A-and just as strong, j-just as smart… just as… brave.”

Your voice cracked with every word, the weight of the dream settling heavy on your chest. You pressed your forehead against his, blinking back tears that refused to stop. You wanted to give him that picture — a legacy of love and light in a world that had been so cruel to him.

He let out a soft, broken sound — something between a breath and a sob — as his thumb traced slow, lazy circles against your skin.

He chuckled again, the sound faint — barely a whisper carried by the wind — but still there. Still him.

“And just as beautiful…” he breathed out, voice thin and ragged.

His head inched closer, the last of his strength spent just to be nearer to you. His bloodied hand never left yours. His eyes, dulling yet warm, searched your face like it was the last light in a collapsing world.

“Just like their mother…”

That smile — small, cracked, fading — it still somehow made your heart skip. Even now. Even here.

The tears finally fell faster. You didn’t stop them.

Because what do you say to the man you almost had forever with?

What do you do when love arrives at the end?

You grin, sheepishly, weakly — like a flicker of warmth in the middle of a storm.

“S-shut up…” you mumble, voice small, cracking at the edges.

Your face flushes despite everything, and for a second — one impossibly fragile second — it feels like you’re just teasing each other again. Like you're lying on the couch at home, not on blood-soaked ground with time slipping between your fingers.

His smile deepened just a bit, like seeing your blush was the only thing holding him together.

He took in how flustered you got, the way your face flushed despite everything. Despite the battlefield, despite the pain, despite the blood.

A small, crooked smirk pulled at his lips — the kind he always gave when he knew he got under your skin.

“I’ll shut up when you make me…” he whispered, teasing, soft, but laced with the kind of ache that only came when you knew time was up.

And even with agony ripping through every inch of his body, he still leaned in — just a little closer. His breath was shallow, his lips trembling as he got near enough that your noses almost brushed. His forehead rested lightly against yours, the contact grounding him. Grounding you.

There was nothing but the two of you now — everything else had faded.

Your smile falters, trembling at the corners as the weight of his words hits you like another wound.

Your gaze drops to his lips — bruised, and stained red — and your chest tightens so violently it steals the breath from your lungs. Your heart aches in your ribcage, desperate and helpless.

Your breathing grows ragged.

Not because of the pain… not just the pain.

But because this is it.

This is the moment. The kind that only comes once. The kind that makes your soul scream.

You lean in, forehead still pressed against his, your hand ghosting over his cheek, fingers memorizing every inch like a final prayer.

His voice, though weak and ragged, still held that familiar teasing lilt — the one that always managed to cut through everything else and go straight to your heart.

“What are you looking at, nerd?…” he whispered, his smirk curling just slightly wider despite the pain etched into every inch of his face.

He noticed. Of course he did. Even now, he noticed everything about you.

His hand, trembling but still so warm, cupped the side of your face with more tenderness than you thought possible. His thumb brushed softly along your cheek, wiping away a stray tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen.

Your eyes stayed locked on his lips, helpless to look away, like they were a lifeline — a last chance at something real before it all slipped away.

Your voice cracked, barely above a whisper, trembling with every ounce of fear and longing tangled in your chest.

“P-please… I’ve always wanted to—”

You couldn’t finish.

The words caught in your throat like shards of glass, but the meaning hung in the air between you — heavy, desperate, undeniable.

You looked into his eyes, hoping he could see it all there: the love, the regret, the ache that had lived in you far too long. Your breath hitched as your fingers curled into the fabric of his torn uniform, grounding yourself in the only thing that felt real anymore — him.

His smirk faded into something softer — a gentle smile filled with warmth and longing — as his fingers reached up, delicately brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“Then do it, you idiot… what are you waiting for?”

His voice was barely above a whisper, breathless and raw, as he leaned in just a little more — close enough that you could feel the tremble in his breath, close enough that your heart stuttered.

You shakily pull him closer, fingers trembling as they curl around the fabric of his torn uniform. The pain, the blood, the chaos of the battlefield — it all dissolves into nothing.

The world shrinks until it’s just him. Just you. Just this moment.

Your forehead rests against his as your breaths mingle, uneven and fragile, but finally in sync. Everything else fades — every scream, every fear, every broken piece — leaving only the desperate thrum of your heart as it beats for him.

And nothing else matters.

He let himself be pulled closer, your breath ghosting over his lips — warm, shaky, alive. In that moment, he was drowning in you. The sounds of war faded into a distant hum; the only thing anchoring him to this world was the rapid, uneven rhythm of your heartbeat pressed against his own.

His eyes flicked down to your lips, gaze heavy with longing. He didn’t hesitate. Couldn’t.

Before the thought even fully formed, he leaned in — and finally, finally — his lips found yours.

The kiss was soft at first, trembling and uncertain. But then the urgency kicked in. Like he knew — deep down — that this might be his only chance. That time was slipping through his fingers like blood on the battlefield.

His hand found your waist, holding you as close as he could despite the pain. He poured everything into that kiss — the regret, the yearning, the love he’d buried too long. The metallic tang of blood lingered between you, but neither of you cared.

He deepened the kiss, trembling fingers gripping the back of your shirt, desperate to memorize the way you felt — the way you fit into him like you always had. He kissed you like a dying man — because he was one. And all he wanted… was to stay here. With you. Just a little longer.

“K-Kats—”

You gasp out, pulling away just enough to see his face, your hands instinctively moving to steady him.

“Easy… d-don’t waste your energy, okay?” you murmur, brushing your thumb over his cheek with a shaky smile. “Once we’re back home… we won’t have to stop. Not ever again, hm?”

He smirked at your words, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion and affection as his fingers lightly traced just beneath your ribs, leaving a trail of warmth on your skin.

“Who said I plan on stopping… even when we get home?” he murmured, voice rough but teasing, as if trying to hold onto every bit of strength he had left—just for you.

You chuckle, the sound barely louder than a breath, as your eyes soften and you nestle your head gently against his shoulder, finding solace in his warmth despite everything.

“Y-Your lips are soft…” you murmur, a faint smile tugging at your trembling lips, holding onto the moment like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

He chuckled again at the sound of your laugh, a quiet, strained sound that warmed his heart despite the pain. His hand moved up, fingers trembling slightly as he gently ran them through your hair, his touch as soft as he could manage.

“Yours are softer, dumbass…” he whispered, his voice thick with affection, as if that small moment was enough to make him forget the blood, the battle, the hurt. Just for a second.

You smile softly against him, your heart fluttering as your eyes slowly lift to meet his.

“…Katsuki?” you whisper, voice barely above a breath.

He blinked slowly, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet tenderness.

“Yeah…?” he murmured, his voice weaker now, but still holding onto every bit of strength just for you.

“We—…we won’t die, right?” you ask, voice trembling as doubt and fear creep into your words. “This is just a nightmare? You’ll be next to me when I wake up?”

He exhaled a trembling breath, his fingers weakly threading through your hair as if grounding himself in the moment.

“I promise… you’re not getting rid of me that easy. We’re… we’re both gonna make it out of this,” he murmured, even as the crack in his voice betrayed the fear he was trying so hard to hide.

You choke on your own breath, the weight of regret pressing hard against your chest.

“I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice cracking as the words tumble out. “I’m sorry I wasn’t b-better to you. Sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I let my ego get in the way… I let it ruin everything.”

Your throat burns, your heart splintering with every word. You’d give anything to turn back time—but all you can do now is hold onto him a little tighter, hoping it’s not too late.

A soft, broken chuckle slipped from his lips as he tightened his hold around you, as if anchoring you to the moment.

“Hey… stop that…” he murmured, his voice low, strained but warm.

He lifted your chin with trembling fingers, forcing your tear-filled eyes to meet his.

“Quit apologizing… you’re fine… I wasn’t exactly a saint to you either…” he whispered, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips—one that said he forgave you long before you even knew you needed to be forgiven.

“I-...I know, but—”

Your voice cracked under the weight of everything unsaid, the guilt, the fear, the aching truth that time was slipping through your fingers like sand.

You clung to him, your hand gripping his shirt like it could keep him tethered to you, like if you just held tight enough, he wouldn’t slip away.

He pressed his thumb softly against your trembling lips, silencing the words before they could fall.

“None of that matters now, okay?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper—raw, ragged, and filled with everything he no longer had the strength to say.

“I love you… and that’s all that matters…”

His eyes searched yours as if memorizing you was the last thing keeping him grounded.

Your eyes widen for a split second, the weight of his words hitting you like a wave.

You feel the burn behind your eyelids as tears rush up, blurring your vision. You manage a small nod—fragile, desperate—because it’s all you can do to keep from falling apart completely.

He pulls you in tighter, his grip trembling but firm, like he’s trying to merge your heartbeat with his—trying to make this moment last just a little longer.

“Say it back, dumbass…” he mutters, voice low and cracking, laced with a desperate edge.

You press yourself gently against him, arms wrapped around his trembling frame as if holding him together could somehow keep him here longer.

“I love you too… so much,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together as you shut your eyes tight—wanting nothing more than to freeze time, to burn this moment into your memory before it slips away forever.

His fingers found their way back into your hair, stroking gently, almost trembling. You could feel it—his strength fading, second by second, slipping through your grasp.

“Say it again…”

His voice was soft—barely a whisper—but laced with a desperation that cracked something deep inside you.

“I love you…”

The words fall from your lips again and again, fragile and trembling, like a prayer meant only for him. Your eyes grow heavier with each breath, your body sinking further into his hold as you repeat it—like it’s the only truth left in the world, like saying it enough times might keep him here.

Every time those three words slipped from your lips, it shattered something in him—in the most beautiful, unbearable way. It was the only thing grounding him, the only sound that still made the world feel a little less cruel. He clung to it like a lifeline, desperate, aching.

He dipped his head, pressing a trembling kiss to the crown of yours, voice barely more than a breath:

“Again.”

Your voice was barely a whisper now, trembling with exhaustion as each word fell from your lips like a final vow.

“I love you, Bakugou Katsuki.”

You could feel your chest tighten, breaths growing shallow, but you pushed through, because he needed to hear this—needed to know.

“No matter where you are… I’ll always love you.”

And with a soft, fading smile, you let your heavy eyes close, holding onto the feeling of his warmth one last time.

To him, it was heaven—each time the words left your lips, it was like breathing again in a world where everything was collapsing. He clung to it, to you, like a lifeline.

His trembling hand rose to your cheek, gently cupping it, thumb brushing against your skin as his voice cracked with urgency.

“Don’t close your eyes… I’m not done hearing you say it yet…”

His gaze pleaded with yours—desperate, breaking—as if sheer will could keep you here just a little longer.

“I’m tired…”

You whisper with a trembling smile, lips quivering as you force the words out. Your voice is barely more than a breath, thin and strained. Your body feels impossibly heavy, like the weight of the world is sinking into your bones. Every breath drags like fire through your chest, jagged and sharp. The warmth that once lingered in your limbs is slipping away, replaced by an aching cold that spreads fast—too fast.

Your eyes flutter half-lidded, the pain catching up to you in waves. Each throb in your chest is a cruel reminder that time is running out. It’s getting harder to tell where the ache ends and you begin. Every nerve screams for relief, for rest—but your heart aches more for him than your wounds ever could.

Still, you try to smile through the torment. Just for him. Just to keep him from falling apart.

He took in the sight of you—broken, bleeding, barely clinging to consciousness—and it shattered him. His throat tightened, eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall.

“Stay awake…”

His voice cracked under the weight of desperation. He knew—god, he knew—it was a losing battle. Your body was giving in, your breaths growing shallower with each passing second. But he couldn’t let go. Not yet. Not when you were still in his arms. Not when he hadn’t had enough of your voice, your warmth, your love.

So he begged, even if it was pointless. Even if the world was already slipping through his fingers.

“L-let’s sleep, okay? Just for a bit…”

Your voice is fragile—barely more than a breath—as it cracks under the weight of everything. You press yourself tighter against him, chasing the warmth that’s already starting to slip away. Your body aches, your chest burns with every shallow breath, and your limbs feel too heavy to move anymore.

Your eyes begin to close on their own, too tired to fight it, but you manage one last whisper, just loud enough for him to hear.

“You promised you’ll be here when I wake up… yeah?”

You don’t even wait for the answer—you just need to believe it.

You felt him nod against you, barely there—just enough to hold onto. His breath trembled as it left his lips, worn and slow, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he held you even closer, what little strength he had left pouring into the embrace.

“Yeah… I promise…”

His voice was faint, almost lost to the silence around you. And even though his arms still held you, you could feel the way his grip was faltering—like sand slipping through your fingers. But for now, that promise was enough.

You whisper the words, your voice barely audible, trembling like a fragile thread holding your heart together.

“I w-wish our children have your eyes…”

A soft, broken smile tugs at your lips as you gaze at him, even while your vision begins to blur at the edges. Your breaths come slower, shallower, as if your lungs are struggling to keep up with your aching heart. You reach up weakly, your fingers brushing his jaw, trying to memorize the shape of him—his warmth, the way his eyes still burned with so much love despite the fear swimming behind them.

“They’d… be so lucky,” you add, your voice catching in your throat, “to grow up looking at the world through eyes as fierce… and kind… as yours…”

He doesn’t speak. He just holds you tighter, his own tears falling silently now, landing warm against your skin. You don’t have to look to know he’s breaking inside. You can feel it in every trembling breath he exhales against your hair, every desperate squeeze of your hand.

And still… you smile. Because even if this was the end, you’d had this moment. You’d had him.

Even if only for a little while.

You felt his voice more than you heard it—low, cracked, strained beneath the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

“Yeah..? Well… I wish they have that pretty smile of yours…”

His words trembled, wrapped in a forced chuckle that barely masked the shatter in his chest. You felt the way his body shook, the uneven rhythm of his breathing against yours. He was trying to be strong—for you, for this—but his voice betrayed him.

His vision was swimming now, blurred by the tears he hadn’t let fall until now. You reached up, brushing your thumb beneath his eye as one slipped free, your heart squeezing at the sight of him breaking down piece by piece.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was loud with everything you both wanted, everything you’d never get to have.

He let out a trembling breath, the corners of his lips twitching into the ghost of a smile—fragile, fleeting.

“When we wake up…”

But the way his voice cracked near the end, the way he held you just a little tighter as if anchoring himself to the promise—it said everything the words didn’t.

Because deep down, you both knew.

That sleep might be the last thing you ever shared.

Your voice is barely a whisper, the syllables shaky as they leave your lips.

“S-Sweet dreams, Suki…”

You manage the words with what little strength you have left. Your trembling fingers reach up to press a soft, lingering kiss against the edge of his jaw—slow, tender, full of everything you never got the time to say. Then, you let yourself fall into the warmth of his neck, your body giving out as you take one last deep breath.

It’s heavy. Final.

And in that moment, the world goes quiet around you.

His breath hitched.

Your kiss—soft, warm, final—burned into his skin like a brand he never wanted to fade.

“Sweet dreams, nerd…”

His voice cracked on the last word as his arms clung to you with the last of his strength. He felt your weight grow heavier against him. Still. Quiet.

He buried his face in your hair, his body trembling.

“I’ll… see you when I wake up.”

But even as he whispered it, the silence that followed shattered something inside him.

The gaping wound on his chest throbbed with each slowing heartbeat, but it wasn’t the pain that stole his breath—it was yours, gone. Your stillness. Your final exhale. It broke him more than any injury ever could.

And in that moment, he knew.

You weren’t waking up. And neither was he.

His grip loosened as his forehead stayed pressed to yours, tears slipping down his cheeks.

If this was the end… at least it was with you.

Together. Always.

Even in the silence.

────────────────────────────────────────────

masterlist - anime masterlist

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[starlightwayfinder]

If your swan lake au is an actual ballet/performance, do the wayfinders get up to anything silly backstage or during practice? Maybe Terra and Aqua compete to see who can hold Ven up the longest lol

I hadn’t even thought about it, but they would definitely train- I mean, practice, together, so I’m sure there are some silly ‘behind the scenes’ things going on too. 

[trashytracktales]

Hey! Please do a lando x ex!reader. They break up after a lot of arguments due to being away from each other so much and then they meet a few months later and hook up. Like angst in the beginning then lots of smut.

If it’s meant to fall apart | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── I was actually planning to write something similar for so long. Thank you for the request and I hope you like it 🤍

💔 summary ──── Surprisingly, months apart haven’t dulled the connection between them. After a night of passion and honesty on both sides, maybe there is a future where they can make all the right decisions, after all.

💔 pairing ──── Lando Norris x ex!reader

💔 rating ──── explicit

💔 category ──── F/M

💔 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, lots of angst & back-and-forth, fluff & smut, teasing, praising, explicit language, unprotected sex, mention of alcohol and drinking, swearing, not the healthiest relationship I’ve ever written tbh (the toxicity is implicit though), overstimulation, pussy-drunk Lando, Max F. & Ethan aka FEEFA cameo.

💔 word count ──── 10.6k (Thank you to everyone who voted on this poll I posted the other day, I didn’t expect to see so many 🥺).

💔 date ──── Nov. 27, 2024

SHE'S NOT ENTIRELY sure how long they’ve been dancing, but she hasn't finished her drink yet. Time feels like an illusion, blurring the edges of her vision with every new rhythm of the night. For the first time in months, she feels a little lighter, her friends’ energy pulling her out of her own head — and apartment, where she locked herself in after the break-up.

The club is packed tonight, bodies pressed together in a sea of drunken, sweaty chaos. Neon lights bounce off every surface, painting the room in vivid purples, blues, and pinks. It's not usually her style — not anymore — but she figured it won't hurt to let lose for a couple of hours.

It’s only when she steps away from the dance floor, her feet hurting and her head buzzing, that she spots him.

Why tonight, of all nights?

Why here, of all places?

Why him, of all people?

He’s leaning casually against the bar, a glass in hand, chatting with a few familiar faces. Faces that she can't help but miss.

She stopped talking to Max — well, Max stopped talking to her after ending things with Lando, too upset that she toyed with his best friend's heart for ‘no apparent reason’. Their friendship dissolved under pressure, fragile as a cheap plastic cup in the grip of sulfuric acid. But Max wasn't the only one who took it personally. That's why she needed to cut ties with everyone from her past. She needed new friends — her own friends —, she needed a new place and new clothes, and to rebrand herself from scratch. Which she did.

She thought she had made it through, but the past has its twisted ways of coming back when you least expect it.

Now, the sight of him, so vivid and real, makes her chest tighten.

She stops in place, hoping he doesn’t notice her, but then his eyes flick in her direction and, for a brief moment, neither of them blinks, the noise around them fading into a dull murmur.

He straightens slightly, his relaxed posture gone as his brows knit together. There’s something unreadable in his body language — surprise? Excitement? Confusion? Pain? She doesn’t know, but it mirrors the knot twisting in her stomach.

Her friends call out to her, pulling her attention briefly, and when she looks back, he’s still staring. Except now, he’s moving, weaving his way through the crowd toward her.

Oh, hell no.

Her heart starts to race, a mix of adrenaline and something far more complicated than fear, as she rushes to walk away; she's fought for far too long, and now her instinct is to fly as soon as she senses danger.

Unfortunately, she's not quick enough.

“Hey,” says Lando when he gets closer, his voice low but audible over the music.

Hearing him gives her goosebumps, hating the way her body is betraying her. It’s been months since she’s heard his voice, but it still hits her the same way: sharp and unrelenting.

She turns around, forcing a smile, “Hi, Lando,” she manages, her voice steadier than she feels, thinking she should try acting if she makes it out alive from this encounter.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, his tone careful, yet extremely suggestive.

It makes her stomach twist again.

He used that line the very first night they met, his boyish grin lit by the dim, flickering lights of another club, in another city. Potentially another life, she's not sure. She remembers the way he had leaned in, so full of confidence and asked the same exact question with a mischievous glint in his eye.

It feels too deliberate now, too heavy with the weight of their past for her to ignore.

“All set,” she finally says, her voice quieter than she intended, as she raises her half-full glass in her hand. “Thanks.”

For a moment, it feels like they’re strangers meeting for the first time. Except they’re not, and their history is hanging heavily in the air between them.

Lando nods, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, “How about this, let me join you for that drink?”

She takes a look to where her friends are dancing, then she turns back to him, “I'm here with my friends.”

It's a pathetic excuse, she knows that. But she has no time to think of something else. Not when her brain is suddenly all scrambled and can't form a single coherent thought.

Lando frowns, disappointed, but not willing to give up that easy. “Come on, just a quick catch-up and then you can go back to your friends. Mine won't mind,” he shrugs, pointing at the bar, where the others are following their every move like a bunch of curious minions.

She catches Max lifting his glass in her direction, and Ethan, waving frantically.

Against her better judgment, she nods.

“Okay,” she murmurs, “Let's catch up,” she spits the words, sounding a bit too sarcastic. Still, it makes Lando smile.

His shoulders relax slightly, relief softening the tension in his body. He gestures toward a quieter corner of the club, away from the pounding bass and the sea of bodies. His first instinct was to take her hand in his, but since that's over the line, Lando keeps looking back, making sure she follows him. And she does. Like a naive, lost puppy that hasn't learned a single thing in the past five months, apparently.

The crowd surges around them, chaotic and loud, and before she can react, someone stumbles into her, their elbow catching her arm. As a result, she's thrown off balance, her feet slipping on the slick floor. Gasping, she's bracing for the inevitable fall that… never comes.

Lando’s hand shoots out, catching her waist and pulling her upright. His grip is firm, grounding, and suddenly she’s pressed against him, her chest brushing his.

“Careful,” says Lando, his lips close enough to her ear for the voice to cut through the noise.

The spot where he's touching her is burning her skin. She looks up, speaking with a hesitant smile, “Thanks, I'm good.”

The club around them fades away, and all she can feel is the warmth of his hand on her waist and the familiar scent of his cologne — a smell she used to know so well. It is almost intoxicating, and it makes her mouth water. She realizes that's what she was missing the most.

Lando smiles faintly, his hand slipping away as if he’s reluctant to let go. “Always got you.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, sensing the double meaning behind his affirmation. So, she nods and lets him guide her the rest of the way.

They find a small, semi-private booth near the exit, far enough from the main dance floor that the music dulls to a manageable volume. He gestures for her to sit first, then slides in across from her.

She fiddles with the edge of her glass, feeling his eyes on her.

“So,” she starts, leaning back against the booth, “You're here.”

Here, as in back home.

“For a week or so, yeah. Got a bit of a break between Brazil and Vegas.”

She nods, emptying the rest of her drink in one go, “How’ve you been?”

Lando shrugs slowly, “Alright. Busy with work and everything,” he trails off, his gaze dropping to her lips for a brief moment. “It’s not the same,” he continues, his smile fading away. “What about you, what have you been up to?”

She needs superhuman powers to stop herself from scoffing in his pretty face. It’s such a simple question, yet it feels loaded, heavy with all the things they haven’t said to each other in almost half a year.

“It's been… peaceful. I moved to another neighborhood. Kept busy, distracted.”

Lando hums, his expression unreadable for some reason. “Yeah, I get that. You look great, by the way,” he states it as a fact, his voice soft but unwavering.

She hesitates, then looks up at him, really looks at him. His face is the same and yet… not really. The boyishness is still there, but there’s a weariness in his eyes that's somehow new. Plus some facial hair she always begged him to try out. It tugs at something inside her, something she’s not sure she’s ready to face. Because it hurts. Because it annoys her. Because, after everything, she's still not over it.

“Cheers,” she replies, hoping he won't catch the blush in her cheeks. “I kind of hoped you would look like shit when I saw you again,” she admits. “You know, I'm talking no front teeth and severely balding. But, oh well. You too.”

Lando's smile widens, making everything infinitely worse for her.

He wears a black shirt that clings to his frame in a way that highlights the muscles in his arms. His black cap is pulled low, worn backwards in that signature way he always did, giving him that effortlessly cool vibe. His eyes are still the same, though. Dark, piercing, the same ones that could make her heart beat faster even after everything that’s happened.

“I thought about you a lot over these months, you know,” Lando finds himself saying, chewing on his lower lip.

She shoots him a surprised look.

As if, she thinks. His Instagram feed would say otherwise.

“You did?” she ends up asking, curiosity getting the best of her.

A hint of vulnerability creeps into his voice, “Of course. I've missed you.”

She laughs dryly, “But it's been good for us, right? We just established we both look great, no constant fighting, no slamming doors, no smashed phones…” she says, looking at him intently.

He can't sustain that for long, so he looks down at his shoes, slightly ashamed, remembering how bad it used to get when the distance between them felt too much to handle. He remembers the frustration, and the helplessness he felt when he couldn’t reach her, because he couldn’t make things right. He did smash his phone once, in a fit of anger, because he couldn’t get ahold of her for hours — not his proudest moment, that's for sure.

Lando swallows hard, “Yeah, it has been nice to have some distance. I guess it makes the heart grow fonder, right?”

“Hmm,” she hums, letting her eyes travel across the room, scanning random faces and wondering how life would be if she were someone else, “I don't know about that.”

She knows, in fact. But the words pause in her throat, too tangled up in memories. When he finally looks up, she's holding his gaze for just a beat longer than she should, and she wonders if he can feel it too — that familiar pull, like gravity, drawing them back together once again.

“I know—” Lando begins, not sure from which angle to approach. “I know it was the right choice at the time, but I can't help but wonder what things could have been if I'd fought harder for you.”

“Come on, Lando,” she laughs, unamused, giving her head a shake, “We would've ended up in another vicious circle, no matter what. It's always like that with us, isn't it?”

A part of him knows she's right. Still, “We'll never know.”

“Well, maybe it's better that way,” she manages, her voice lacking conviction.

“Or maybe it’s not,” he contradicts her, his words carrying a weight that presses on both of them. “You never think about us?”

Another sharp, dry laugh — it's either this, or she'll start crying. “I am actively trying not to,” she admits, her tone tinged with exasperation. “What’s the point, Lan? Thinking about what could’ve been won’t change what happened. You were always gone, and I couldn't spend my life following you around like a headless chicken. We had a good time, but it was never going to last,” she says the last part mostly as a reminder for herself. “Not in those circumstances.”

His jaw tightens. “You think it was easy for me? That it didn’t tear me up knowing I couldn’t be there for you the way you wanted me to?”

“I didn't say that,” her eyes snap to his, “We simply weren't working. We were too good at breaking each other.”

Lando leans back in his chair, frustration visible on his face. He hates that she's right, but it doesn’t stop the ache in his chest.

His jaw clenches, “I just… I don’t want to believe that’s all we were. Breaking each other.”

Her expression softens a little at his words, “Not all. But enough to make us miserable.”

For a while, the air between them feels heavier, the noise fading into the background. He wants to say something, anything, to counter her point, but all he can do is look at her and ask himself if they were, indeed, playing a losing game back then.

“Did you meet someone?” his question flies out of nowhere.

Lando looks at her with anticipation, sensing the hesitation.

“I did,” she replies, nodding slowly.

“And?”

She meets his eyes for a split second before looking away again, fixing her gaze somewhere on the table. “And we're happily married with twins on the way. What do you think? I just. Couldn’t.”

Lando's stomach drops, trying his best to remain calm, his hands clenching into fists. “You couldn’t what? Be with them?”

She shakes her head, her movements slow and deliberate, as if choosing her words carefully. “It was too soon.”

Her answer only leaves him with more questions. “So, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know what it means,” she rushes to say, her tone tinged with irritation. It’s clear she’s as unsure as he is, but that only makes it harder for Lando to process her reaction.

He runs a hand over his face, his exasperation bubbling to the surface. “I’m just trying to understand,” he says, his voice quieter but no less intense. “Because I've also tried.”

She looks directly at him now, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And?” she challenges in the same manner, her tone carrying just a hint of defiance.

“They weren't you,” says Lando, the truth of his statement hanging between them like a heavy anchor.

They remain silent after that.

She wants to ask him why — why he still cares, and why it hurts so much to be in the same space again after all they’ve been through. Nothing comes out, though; she already has the answer to that. They didn't break up because they stopped loving each other. They had both been too caught up in their own worlds to find any kind of balance. That broke them up.

He wants her to speak. He needs to hear her speak. To react. But when she says nothing in return, there is a brief second when he feels like giving up for good; he can't do anything if she's already made a decision. He knows how stubborn she is.

Lando nods to himself while getting up and start walking toward the exit, his thoughts all over the place.

The night air greets them with a quiet, cooling embrace as they step out of the club. Of course she follows, and she hates herself for that. But she can't help it — it's instinct. Like a magnetic force he's always had over her.

On the other hand, it's how they always communicated, through gestures and actions rather than words.

The soft click of her heels against the pavement gives Lando hope. He slows down so she can catch up, and then they walk side by side, without talking. The background noise of the city keeps them company, and by the time she decides to break the silence, he stops abruptly.

His voice sounds so small now, like a child asking his parents why can't he eat his chocolate bar before dinner.

“I know it feels so silly looking back,” says Lando, as though afraid to shatter the superficial peace between them. “We did so many things wrong, but I think we also did a lot of things right.”

She hesitates, her eyes dropping to the ground where a patch of light from a distant street light catches the edge of her shoe. Her arms fold tightly across her chest, while trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Yeah, breaking up was one of the right things,” she says thoughtfully, though her voice has a trace of bitterness behind it. “Before that, we tried so hard to make it work that we ended up burning each other alive.”

It's crazy how simple words can cause physical pain so quickly.

“Yet we're still here,” he reminds her. “Knowing what we know now, maybe we wouldn’t burn so fast this time. And isn’t it worth it, even if it only lasts for a little while? We were so happy at the start.”

That’s what he clings to. The laughter, the stolen moments, the way they fit together so effortlessly — she can’t argue with that. Their beginning was a beautiful dream, but it’s the nightmare that followed that keeps her guarded now, even though all she wants is to crack his ribcage open and slip inside him so they will never be apart again.

Her voice shakes as she tries her best to make him see her side, the memories spilling out like water breaking through a dam. “I had to put myself back together, Lando. Piece by piece. And I was all alone.” She forces herself to meet his gaze, finally, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Turns out, our friends were actually your friends, and I had to go through the worst breakup of my life with no one by my side. I had to move, I had to build an entire life from pretty much nothing. And I had to do everything alone, because I didn’t just lose you. I lost everything the moment I made you the center of my universe.”

Her words knock the air out of his lungs, guilt clawing at his insides. “Look, I know I should have been there,” says Lando, his voice barely steady. “Fuck me. I wasn’t supposed to let you go in the first place, alright? I should’ve been a better boyfriend, and I should’ve fought harder to make it work, using what we had then. But you did fuck with my head, and I thought being away would help.”

The first tear spills down her cheek, and she wipes it away hastily, as if she could erase the vulnerability altogether.

“It did help,” she agrees. “I know I can live without it now.”

Lando freezes for a split second, then stepping dangerously closer to her. “So, you’ll be fine if we stay broken up?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper.

She nods, but it’s shaky. And when she takes a step back, trying to put distance between them, Lando decides he gave her enough space. Fuck that. He's not thinking anymore, not with his brain, at least. He closes the distance again, his hands finding her waist and pulling her close in one swift motion.

It’s impulsive, desperate even. But he doesn’t care. The moment he feels her presence in his personal space, the fire he’s tried to smother for months, roars back to life, more powerful than ever. And just like that, everything it's right again. The way her body fits against his, the familiarity of it all, makes his heart race in his chest.

“Stop being so fucking stubborn, baby,” he murmurs into her hair, his voice cracking under the weight of his own desperation. “Why can’t we at least try, hm? You told me it was too soon for someone else. Maybe it’s because it’s supposed to be me.”

Her breath catches at the sudden closeness, at the rawness of his voice. She's unsure of what to do with her hands, until they hover awkwardly by his shoulders.

“You're not fair,” she whispers, her voice slightly trembling. “You can’t just accidentally waltz back into my life and say things like that.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about being fair,” he says, his voice firm. “I just want us back. Simple as that.”

Her tears blur the edges of Lando's face when she tries to push him away, but his grip won't let her. Not this time.

“It's not that simple, and you know it,” she says. “We’ll only end up hurting each other again.”

“Then we hurt, so what?” he counters, his voice soft but sure. “At least we’ll know we tried until there wasn't anything worth fighting for. I'm not done with you, baby. Are you?”

Her hands finally move, trembling as they brush against his cheeks. They're not as soft as they use to be, his little facial hair scratching slightly at the pads of her fingers. The connection sends a jolt through them both as her touch lingers, trailing up to his hair. She pulls at his cap with both hands, placing it on her own head with a weak smile.

“It’s longer than you used to wear it,” she notices, her tears catching the street lights.

Lando’s heart clenches, managing to shoot a small smile in return, “I thought maybe I’d try growing it out. Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she admits as she tries to messily style his hair with her fingers. “It suits you.”

For a little while, they’re trapped in their own bubble. Her touch feels like home, and all Lando can think of is that he can't lose it again.

“I’m not asking you to decide now,” he finally says, his thumbs tracing soft circles on her waist. “I just need to know I’m not the only one still holding on.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, they're stumbling into her apartment. She knows it's reckless, and she's basically throwing away five months of progress, but it wasn't going to last, anyway.

Addictions are very hard to keep under control, especially when they have curly, dark hair and give you bed eyes.

“This way,” she says, her lips swollen from kissing all the way to her door.

Lando doesn’t have time to adjust, his head already spinning with hundreds of scenarios that fly tirelessly through his mind. However, the only thing that captivates him at the moment is her, and the way her fingers curl into the waistband of his jeans. She tugs him closer, her lips crashing onto his once again, their breaths blending in a frantic exchange of need and uncertainty.

He watches her fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, her movements clumsy but determined. His heart reaches his throat, swallowing hard, as his hands move from her waist to his belt, blindly unbuckling it before tossing it carelessly aside. The sound of leather hitting the floor barely registers over the erratic, overlapping rhythm of them kissing.

Then, he sees it. The spark in her eyes she used to have when she looked at him — it catches him off guard, giving him hope. He follows her as she moves slowly, her back toward the bed, her movements precise, like a cat's. She lies down, propping herself up on her elbows, while he takes cautious steps closer, his shirt hanging open to reveal his chest and toned abs.

But just as he leans forward, her high heel presses lightly against his chest, stopping him.

Lando freezes, his hands bracing on either side of her foot, tracing his palm up and down her leg, as his eyes dart up to meet hers.

“You can look,” she says, catching a glimpse of confusion in his eyes. “But for now, no touching.”

He frowns, clenching his jaw at her request. It would make sense for her to bring him to her place only to torture him, but she can't be that heartless. Right? The sight of her, stretched out on the bed with her foot holding him at bay, is almost too much to handle already.

“You're not fair,” he mutters under his breath, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I don't give a flying fuck about being fair,” she repeats his words from earlier, her foot staying firm against his chest.

The power is in her hands, and she's planning on using them properly tonight.

“No touching,” she repeats, determined.

Lando's hands fall at his sides.

Slowly, she slides her foot down, letting it drag across his chest, making a quick stop on his lower abdomen before settling on the bed. Her gaze locks onto his, a daring glint in her eyes as she spreads her legs, revealing the black lace panties. The dress she's wearing lifts up her thighs of its own accord, leaving Lando chocking on air for a brief moment. His lips part as she trails her fingers down her own body, teasing herself the way she’s done countless nights before.

Nights when he wasn’t there.

Nights when she was alone, chasing a high only his touch could give her.

“Wanna see how I got through five months without you?” she asks, her hands traveling way down, hooking her fingers to pull at the soft material.

His breath hitches, the sight of her undressing before him so painfully slowly making his chest ache with longing and guilt.

“I thought of you,” she continues, letting a small whimper out when the soft lace peels off with a little resistance from her already soaked pussy. “Your hands, your mouth… the way you sound when you're turned on,” she discards the panties at the foot of the bed, her breath catching in her throat as she glances at him through her lashes. “Such a delicious combination between your sleepy voice and that low octave you hit when you're drunk.”

Lando’s mouth goes dry, his hands twitching at his sides, itching to lean over and collect the material off the floor to stuff it into his pocket as a souvenir. He’s never felt so powerless and yet so utterly consumed by someone before.

“Will you let me?” she asks, her lips curving into a smile that’s equally wicked and vulnerable, “Show you?”

Her name leaves Lando’s lips in a protest while he takes an instinctive step forward, but she stops him with her foot once again. It’s a punishment, and he knows it. She’s showing him exactly what he missed, and exactly how she wanted him for so long.

Lando's breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling as he watches her. Helpless. His every nerve is tuned to her, eyes following how her fingers slide so easily between her folds, spreading the wetness as she teases her hole. Of course she’s taking her time with it, only to make sure he registers every tiny detail, just in case he forgot.

Her head tilts to the side with a quiet gasp when she pushes slowly inside. The sound of her wet entrance is enough to make his knees weak, still, his body turns to stone.

On the other hand, his heart is a mess of pride and frustration — pride that she still feels comfortable to be this vulnerable and open in front of him, frustration that he has to see her like this, untouchable. That's why he's not even blinking, too afraid he'll miss a thing.

She starts to gently rock her hips against the bed, fucking her fingers in and out, her body trembling as her whimpers fill the room. It's too much for Lando, but luckily, she didn't say anything about moving. His legs finally give out, and he falls to his knees, the sound of his breath ragged and uneven as he gets closer to her.

Yes, she's in charge — for now, at least — but he can't stop his words slipping out. Quiet, yet demanding.

“Slower,” he says, fixing his eyes on the way her fingers slide over her clit. “Don't rush it, please. I want to see all of you.”

Her gaze meets his, and for a moment, neither of them says anything else. She sees the vulnerability etched into his features, the way his body betrays him, shaking with restraint, completely at her mercy.

He looks like a man unmoored, defeated. So beautiful.

“Lando…” she breaths heavily, her back arching against her own hand, that flattered slightly at his words, a blush creeping up her neck and cheeks.

She hates how much he still affects her, obeying him without questioning his ways. Like no time has passed whatsoever.

When they make eye contact again, it's like they silently agree to go with it; whatever tonight will bring.

“That's is,” says Lando with satisfaction as she resumes her movements. “You gorgeous little thing. So beautiful when you listen, yeah?”

She nods, feeling him leaning forward just slightly, close enough that she can feel his warmth on her skin, without him touching her in any way. The air feels electric, her breath stuttering as she keeps fucking up her fingers under Lando's careful guidance. He watches every motion, his jaw tightening, ignoring the ache in his boxers the moment she finds her sweet spot, crying at how good it feels. She tries to muffle the moan, but Lando catches the hesitation, his eyes narrowing in her direction.

“No, let me hear you. Please, let me hear you,” he implores, exhaling sharply. “God, you're perfect. I could watch you forever.”

Lando can't help but notice how receptive she becomes at his words, her body tightening at the way he's praising her. As a result, she presses her fingers harder onto her clit, feeling the pressure building inside.

“Mhm, Lan…”

“I'm with you, baby. Keep going,” he encourages her, his gaze fixating on the slickness dripping between her legs. “Fucking hell. You're already so close, aren't you?”

It's like every word gets caught in her throat, and the only way she can reply to him is with a pathetic, desperate whimper.

In hindsight, she's never came from her fingers so quickly before, but the wave that’s hitting her from every direction right now is too intense to process right away.

It happens too fast, and the next thing she's aware of is Lando's voice, bringing her back.

“Please,” she hears him beg, managing to give him a slight nod of her head in return.

In that moment, the lights go out. Even so, Lando wants to be patient, as his index finger lightly brushes against her warmth. She exhales, giving up control, her gaze locked on him as if he is the only one that ever knew her. Meticulous, Lando traces his long, rough finger through her wetness, causing a shock to run through her whole body as it moves up and down her clit.

She thought she already crossed her limit, but then he leans down to press his mouth on her — deliberately, unapologetically, thirsty.

Lando lets out a deep, guttural groan that reverberates against her, causing her hips to twitch slightly. His tongue is wet and warm on her pulsating clit, leaving her breathless while he tastes her like it's the last time.

“My sweet, sweet baby,” he whispers, his voice intimate and personal, the words enveloping her in layers and layers of honey.

Feeling his warm breath on her center causes a surge of tension within her, making her walls tighten as his tongue explores within. He can't help but smile just as she leans into him, her body responding naturally, and he grips her thighs, closing the remaining gap between them. At that, she instantly buries her fingers in his curls, her hips mimicking his head movements.

“Oh, fuck,” she exhales abruptly.

The rest is pure bliss — his tongue licking in deep strokes, his muffled moans between her thighs, and the way he can’t seem to let go of her, gripping her tightly because he’s been deprived of her taste for so long.

Just for a brief second, Lando raises his head and, as his gaze remains fixed on her eyes, his mouth sucks gently at her clit. She's never seen him so desperate before, the sight of him owning her like that covering her entire body in chills.

Gradually, his kisses become way too powerful, which forces her to quickly grab his messy curls and pull him closer, unable to control herself anymore.

Without any warning, she screams his name as her climax hits her like a tidal wave for the second time in a row.

His growling makes her thighs quiver in his grasp, the vibrations intensifying her pleasure as her body convulses with each new sensation, while Lando’s tongue continues licking her during every heartbeat and shiver.

Next time she looks at him, his lips shine, his cheeks are red, and his gaze so intense that it causes her heart to skip a beat, creating a connection that seems more profound than any physical sensation she's just experienced.

He didn’t try to give her the best she’s ever had, but attempt to remind her how well he knows her body — to show her she still belongs to him.

“You’re so pretty,” says Lando, keeping his eyes on her, while he presses one finger back inside her cunt to test how thight she is after her second orgasm.

“Lando,” she spits his name at the unexpected touch, still too sensitive, “What… are you doing?” she gasps softly, a mixture between a sigh and a moan, when Lando's finger pulls out and glides across her wet, delicate clit once again.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Lando murmurs against her thigh, his voice low and reverent.

He grins in her direction, while his thumb circles her clit with precise intention, like a wheel gripping the perfect racing line. Sure of himself, Lando continues his movements, realizing how overstimulated she is, as he gets up to hover above her. Her hips buck instinctively into his hand, a jolt of reaction she can’t control.

Seeing Lando on top makes her react on instinct, wrapping one arm around his neck, while the other hand travels down his chest. The heat pooling in her stomach rises fast, an apex she didn’t expect to reach so soon. It’s intoxicating, her body spiraling as her mind blanks out the world beyond him.

“Lan—” she gasps, her back arching as if trying to escape, though every fiber of her betrays that she wants more.

“Come on, baby,” he says, increasing the pace. “You can give me one more. You're doing so well, I know you can,” his voice is a blend of dominance and desire, while his fingers press into her, knowing exactly where to go and how to bend, “Like that, see? So easy for me to read you. I could fuck my fingers into your pretty hole all night long and you'd still come for me every single time, wouldn't you, baby?”

Shaking, she clings to his neck, crying out his name in spasms. He loops his free arm around her, gently kissing her cheek — a gesture so tender and innocent that makes her heart grow ten times in size.

She grips his shoulder with one hand, her eyes closing in pleasure. “I can’t—” she chokes, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths.

In an attempt to get her power back, she tries to push at his wrist, but his arm steadies her, determined.

“Of course you can, love,” says Lando, his voice a gentle command, the firmness in his tone like a driver refusing to lift his foot off the pedal, curious to see how far he can take it.

Her hand clenches around his arm as his thumb presses against her clit with ruthless precision. She reacts on instinct, muscles coiling tight as she bucks against his hand, not sure what controls her body anymore, since her brain got disconnected long ago. The slik rhythm of Lando's fingers becomes too much, and she knows she's close when he starts curling them inside at the perfect angle.

“La— Fuck, baby, that feels so good,” her voice is a high-pitched cry now, laced with desperation. “I’m going—”

“I know, baby. So pretty. Look at you, making such a mess for me,” he urges, leaning in to kiss her neck.

Her body tightens as pleasure explodes within her, blinding and all-consumming — a full-throttle sensation, unrelenting in its intensity. She sobs his name as liquid warmth spills from her pussy, coating Lando’s fingers. He doesn’t stop there, though, his hand continuing its pace, coaxing every last wave of her climax as his arm holds her securely against him.

“God, I've missed you.”

When her breathing slows down, he falls down on top of her, burying his head in the crook of her neck. Her legs shake slightly, and her fingers curl weakly into his bare chest as he cradles her close.

Lando presses a tender kiss against her temple, his voice filling the quiet. “It wasn’t acciedntal,” he confesses.

She blinks rapidly, tilting her head to look at him, confused, “What?”

“Earlier,” Lando clarifies, “You said I was accidentally waltzing back into your life — it wasn’t accidental,” he repeats.

“What do you mean?”

Lando places a few more kisses on the heated skin of her neck, sucking in a couple of bruises, the gesture meant to buy himself more time for the storm raging in his head to stop.

“Lando,” she pulls him out of it.

“Been trying to figure out how to do this for a while. I just… couldn’t stay away from you anymore,” he admits, looking up at her, his eyes pleading. “I had Max playing detective while I was away.”

She pushes him off her to sit up on the bed, pulling at the edges of her dress. “Seriously, what?” her tone is not defensive — at least not yet — but there’s a sharpness to it that cuts into him.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushes to explain, “Look, I didn’t stalk you or anything. Nor Max,” he continues, getting up to stand next to her. “I didn’t even know where you lived until you brought me here. I swear.”

She wraps her arms around her own body, needing something to ground herself, “What did you do, Lando?” the girl asks, her voice quieter now.

He swallows, “I just asked him to check in on you. To see if you were okay.”

“And how did he do that?”

“He saw you tagged in a pic on this girl's account, and then did some research on the people you were with, paid some dudes to find out if their records were clean—” he starts chuckling when her fist hits his shoulder, playfully, but still with intent.

“Don’t be a dick,” she warns, her smile giving away the fact that she’s still amused by his immature sense of humor.

“I just… didn’t want to simply appear out of nowhere if you were happy. If you’d moved on,” Lando continues, his tone more serious now. “But when he told me you seemed like you hadn’t, I couldn’t keep pretending like I was fine. I'm really not.”

His honesty was always a breath of fresh air, but now it's suffocating. Hearing him admitting he's not okay, implying that she's the reason why, is simply heartbreaking.

Her arms drop slowly to her sides, her fingers gripping the edge of the bed, “Why now, Lando? And why not text or call?”

He scoffs, “Can you look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you would have picked up if I called? Especially given how we left things?”

She cups Lando’s chin in the palm of her hand, forcing him to look at her, “I'll always pick up if it's you.”

The admission makes his chest tighten.

Lando shakes his head, “I promise I’ve tried,” he says, “God, I’ve fucking tried. I threw myself into everything, and nothing worked. Racing, training, sim sessions, going out with the guys — no matter what I did, I was constantly thinking of you. Every night out felt wrong because I wasn’t coming home to you. And I know home is such a vague word for me, because I’m mostly away, but you made every single place feel like home, and that's why it didn't matter where I was at the time. I just needed… need you in ways I can't nor want to explain.”

His confession makes her head spin. The breakup had been difficult for her, but she hadn’t considered how Lando had handled the past five months. All along, she had assumed he wouldn’t miss her — that his life, always on the road and consumed by his own pursuits, was too busy to notice the absence of one small, insignificant detail: her.

She's now realizing how wrong she had been to think that way.

“So…?” she finally asks. “Do you think a few orgasms later can mend what was broken five months ago?”

“What? No, of course not,” he says firmly, leaning forward, his elbows digging into his thighs. “I swear, all I wanted to do tonight was talking to you. I didn’t plan on getting to this point, but I can’t say I’m mad about it,” says Lando, taking her hand in his, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “You still want me,” she shoots Lando a rapid look, studying his face, “Just like I want you. I see it, I feel it. Baby, I know it.”

Her heart pounds in her chest, the sincerity in his voice cutting through her defenses like a hot knife through butter. She wants to be angry, to accuse him of being selfish, but the truth is, she isn’t. Maybe it’s foolish to believe him, but one thing Lando never did was lie to her. He did worse, yes, but he never lied.

“Lando...” she starts, but her voice trails off, wishing her head would stop spinning so she could think.

“I know I hurt you,” he continues, his voice softer now, “You hurt me. We hurt each other. But we're too good together not to find a way to make it work.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, her mind racing with memories of their past — the good, especially the bad, and everything else in between. Her fingers toy with the fabric of her dress, her eyes flickering between his face and the floor. The room is heavy with silence and, just for a moment, she lets herself believe that maybe, just maybe, they could find each other again.

Otherwise, if it's meant to fall apart, then let it happen with them gasping for air, tangled together, connected in every way imaginable.

THE MORNING SUN filters shyly through the curtains, soft and golden, spilling across the bed where Lando stirs awake. He’s all alone, the sheets around him rumpled from where she had slept. He blinks up at the ceiling, a little disoriented. Then, he hears the faint sound of running water and realizes she’s in the shower. It makes him feel like everything went back to normal, but he can't be sure of what's going to happen next. He can only speculate and hope, but nothing more than that.

The quiet is interrupted by the persistent buzz of his phone on the nightstand. He reaches for it, still groggy from sleep, scrolling through a handful of texts from last night — banter in the group chat, some Instagram notifications, a few missed calls; nothing too important to catch his eye. He places the phone back on the smooth surface carelessly, and his hand knocks over something solid in the process.

Frowning, he sits up to put it back in its place, and that’s when he sees it — a framed picture of them, taken during a rare quiet weekend in Monaco over a year ago, right at the beginning of their relationship. She looked so happy back then, caught mid-laugh as Lando was gazing at her with an expression so tender that it makes his chest ache now. The weight of the memory hits him harder than he expects, pulling him fully awake.

The sound of the bathroom door opening makes him turn, and he puts the frame back quickly. However, it's enough for her to catch his sudden movement, her eyes flicking to the photo and back to him.

Her cheeks flush a deep pink. “I meant to put that away,” she rushes to say, pulling the towel tighter around her body like it might shield her from the embarrassment.

“Carlos took this one,” his voice is soft, as his eyes shift back to the frame. He picks it up again, turning it in his hands. “You asked me why didn't I call, but… why didn't you call?”

She laughs dryly, crossing the space to take the frame from his hand and placing it face down on the nightstand. She sits down next to him, shrugging.

“And tell you what, Lando? That I couldn’t stop thinking about you even though you broke my heart?” she asks, shaking her head, the embarrassment turning into something closer to frustration. “It’s just a stupid picture, anyway. We barely knew each other when it was taken.”

“It’s not stupid,” he contradicts her vehemently. His hand reaches out tentatively, brushing against her soft forearm. “It's nice to know I wasn’t completely crazy for hoping you felt the same.”

Her lips part like she wants to say something, but no words come out. The towel slips slightly, and she clutches it tighter, her defenses crumbling under the weight of his hungry eyes.

“Lando…”

“Leave it there, yeah?” he says, pointing at the picture. “Facing your side of the bed, preferably.”

Seeing her suddenly deep in thought, Lando grabs her wrist and gently pulls her onto his lap, his thumb lightly brushing against her silky skin.

She looks at him, her emotions warring on her face. “If it makes me look less pathetic, it was face down most of the time.”

Lando laughs, his hands finding her waist, then her hips, steadying her on his lap, “I love you,” he says it casually, but it still freezing the blood in her veins.

Her fingers fly towards his mouth to cover his lips, “Don't,” she warns.

“You know I do. I was serious last night. You don't have to decide anything right now, but I'm not going anywhere. It sucks we needed to hurt for a while, we're both at fault, but I never stopped loving you,” he repeats.

“You're so unfair.”

“Don't care, say it back,” he teases, digging his fingers into her skin to tickle her sides.

She starts giggling, “Don't you dare.”

His grin widens, “Or what?” he asks playfully as her hands fly to his, trying to fend him off.

“Lando, I'm serious. Stop it,” her laughter blends with his while he leans in closer, his lips brushing her ear.

“I need to hear it, baby. Please. Just say it back.”

“It back,” she chuckles, feeling his fingers tickling her so mercilessly that tears form in her eyes. Their laughter bubbles over, loud and uninhibited, until she collapses against him. “Okay, fine. Fine,” her breathy voice stops him in place, catching his attention. “I love you, Lando.”

A simple confession; he asked for it. But none of them expected it to hang that heavily between them. It's not a lie — not in the slightest — and Lando knows it.

“Enough to give us a second chance?” he asks.

Her breath catches at the sudden shift in his tone, and before she can reply, his thumb traces her cheek gently.

“I'm so scared,” she admits, leaning into his touch.

Lando sighs, understanding too well where she's coming from, “I know, baby. But I'm even more afraid of losing us again. Losing this…”

His hand slides down her chest, tracing the curve of her breasts. With a gentle movement, he tugs at the corner of her towel, letting it drip smoothly down her body. Patiently, he runs his hands down her waist, moving back up to her chest as they leave goosebumps in their wake. Hungry, his hands rest on her breasts, squeezing them lightly until he feels her nipples in his palms, and she drops her head on his shoulder, whimpering softly.

Memories of last night make her body shudder, feeling the heat between her legs intensifying. Following his lead, her fingers start tugging at the waistband of his boxers, until they slip low on his hips.

Lando moves one hand around her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. He groans against her mouth, his breath hot and ragged, before breaking their connection long enough to kick the boxers aside.

Skin on skin, their bodies align like two puzzle pieces.

She hovers over him, his hands on either side of her, “I wanna take care of you,” he speaks softly, closing his eyes when her forehead rests against his. “Please, let me take care of you.”

There’s a vulnerability in his tone that twists something deep inside her. She's just learned how to be independent again. She can't throw all of it away. She can't let herself slip.

She can't.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her.

Her answer is all that Lando needs to hear. His lips crash back onto hers as he swaps their positions, lowering her onto the bed, his body pressing against hers, warm and solid. And so very real. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word feels like a promise, a vow that he won’t let her slip through his fingers again.

And then, Lando takes control — not the type of dominance he's used to when he steers his car. It's more like devotion; his hands map her body all over again, like a driver learning every twist and turn of a new circuit, his lips following the trail his fingers blaze.

She arches into his touch, responding to him in ways she thought she’d forgotten.

But the body remembers.

And the remembering is, oh, so good.

Last night was just the warm-up, she reckons — an act meant to remind both of them how well they fit together. Lando was gentle, kind, and patient. But now, she sees the shift in him.

His eyes are darker, filled with lust, his touch greedier. She can't help but smile when she realizes that the Lando she knows all too well — the one who’s needy, insatiable, and unrelenting in his desire for her — is still there, and so ready to show off.

Her skin tingles in anticipation as she watches him, knowing exactly what he wants. And for once, she wants it just as much. Maybe even more, considering how her body is acting independently from her brain.

She wants him to give her everything, to burn through her until she’s left gasping and wet and ruined, and she’s ready to meet his hunger with her own.

But before that, “We're not done talking,” she tells him, breathing heavily against his mouth.

“Yeah, we'll talk. Stay with me and we'll talk all you want, baby.”

She wants to protest, but her air gets knocked out of her lungs and her fingernails sink into his shoulders when Lando nudges the head of his cock up and down her slit to collect the wetness. With a gentle kiss on her jaw, she closes her eyes, tracing her fingers down his arms as he pushes inside.

They both exhale, relieved that they're back where they belong.

Talking can wait.

Lando's hands grip her waist just as he pulls out, only to push back in, all the way to the hilt in one slow, but hard thrust. The feeling is almost too much for her, which is ridiculous since he just started moving. But she feels so full, and the sounds he lets out only make her open up for him even more.

“Wait, wait,” she can barely recognize her own voice, stopping Lando when their hips touch together.

She can't explain it, but she needs it.

“What's wrong?”

She looks down between their bodies, confusing Lando even more. “I…,” she begins, but she's not sure how she's supposed to voice her need.

“It's okay, you can tell me,” he assures her, bringing his hand to cup her face in his palm, tracing his thumb over her cheek.

“I—need a second to feel you,” she explains, pushing his hand away only to trace her palms over her face.

Lando chuckles, “Baby, don't hide from me. You're driving me fucking mad when you're blushing.”

“I'm not blushing,” she contradicts him, raising her hips against his, her walls hugging him tighter with every move.

“No?” whispers Lando roughly as if he lost his voice. “God, you're perfect. So good, so fucking sweet and perfect around me, baby.”

Her legs tighten around his waist, keeping him inside, while one hand moves to his lower back to push him against her even more. There is no physical space left between them, but she still wants more. It only makes Lando's cock throb inside her pussy, giving her a few more seconds to adjust to his length before he pulls all the way out and slides back, searching for the perfect pace.

“Fuck, Lando,” she whines, burying her fingers into his hair, tugging at the roots.

“Yes, I know,” agrees Lando, his eyes flicking over her face. His insides tighten at the sight of her parting her lips in pleasure, her breathing hot and irregular. “You're so beautiful from this angle.”

“Shut up,” she cuts him off, which makes Lando chuckle again.

“Why would I?” he asks, leaning closer to her ear, while thrusting a couple more times before pausing. “You look like a fucking goddess taking my cock so well.”

She squeezes her eyes shut at the sound of his voice, low and raspy, rocking her hips to find that sweet friction against her walls again.

“Keep,” she whines, “Keep going, then. Let me have it.”

Lando presses his lips on hers at the same time he resumes his movements, his hands roaming all over her body.

“You can have my cock, baby,” he groans into her hair. “All yours.”

She nods, wrapping her fingers around his biceps, “Yeah?”

“Promise you,” says Lando.

After that, he picks up pace, both falling into an agonizing rhythm. All this time, she had thought that familiarity might dull the edge of being with Lando, that knowing his moves would make it predictable and boring, maybe even ordinary.

Somehow, it’s the exact opposite.

It’s because she knows him, and he knows her so well, that every touch feels ecstatic, every kiss charged with meaning. He doesn’t need to guess what she likes; he already knows how to unravel her, how to leave her trembling and breathless. And she knows exactly what will make his breath hitch, how to draw out that low, desperate groan that ignites her own fire.

In a way, every time feels like the first, but it's always much better, because they know how to make each other fall apart like no one else can.

“Please,” she gasps, breathing wetly in his shoulder. “Harder.”

One thing about Lando, he's always been good at listening. Without thinking twice, he tightens his grip on her hips, fucking his cock inside her harder and faster than before. In an instant, her ears are blessed with the way his moans sound.

“God, I've missed fucking my pretty girl like this,” says Lando, his hands moving on her thighs to spread her more so he can slide in faster. “It's never like this, baby, fuck.”

Being with Lando is chaos, the kind of beautiful, consuming chaos that leaves everything around them in shambles. They are loud and messy, and everything is sweaty and wet and sticky. He kisses her like he’s starving, touches her like he’s desperate to memorize every inch of her skin, and she matches his fervor, meeting him with the same wild energy that pulls them under. Together.

“Lando,” she spits his name out of her mouth in short spasms. “Lando, Lan… Lando.”

It's almost like a cry for help, but she doesn't need saving. Not when he's fucking her so good, slamming against her over and over again, until the outside world fades away and all she remembers is his name.

“Lando,” she whimpers again.

“Keep me in, love. Like that,” she can barely hear him over the sound of skin slapping on skin. “Fuck. You're taking me so well, I won't stop fucking you, baby. I won't—”

She sucks in a breath of air, her body buzzing with pleasure. Wrapping her arms around his torso, she can feel how hot and sweaty his chest is. She moves with him for a couple more thrusts before she lets go, the sound of Lando fucking in and out of her while she comes so obscene that it makes her eyes roll.

“I'll never get tired of seeing you coming like that,” says Lando, pinning her to the bed, his cock feeling so fucking good inside of her that it makes him see stars. “So fucking hot, baby.”

Her nails scratch the skin of his back as her pussy clenches around his length, forcing another hiss out of Lando's mouth.

“Don't stop,” she manages to say, even though she feels her throat raw.

“Ah, look at you, now. Being so good for me,” says Lando with a smirk, tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Letting me have my way with you when you're sore and spent. And so wet, baby, you're dripping all around my cock. Fucking hell.”

Lando's jaw clenches, a visible battle playing out in his face as his breath hitches. She feels him moving deeper, hitting the sweet spot inside her, sending ripples of pleasure through her body with every thrust.

“Yes—fuck. Don't stop,” she repeats.

His eyes widen as he tries to hold on for as long as he can, but it's hard when he flashes his eyes in her direction and catches her already looking. It doesn't take long for him to realize there's a replica to her first orgasm. He nods, without saying anything else, bringing his hand up to her neck. She places hers on top of his, not to push it away, but to let it rest there as a sign that it's fine to claim her if that's what Lando needs.

And that's enough for him to lose it.

“Baby,” he breaths out, fucking her slopply, any sense of order dissolving under the weight of their eye contact.

She arches into him, her fingers trembling as they rise to cup his face.

“Keep your eyes on me,” she demands, her voice a desperate need.

She pictured that face thousands of times in the past months, but nothing compares to this. Lando groans at the command, his hooded gaze staying on hers. The intensity of his expression nearly undoes her again — his pupils blown wide, lips parted as he lets out s string of cuss words.

“That's it, pretty boy,” she whispers, her thumb brushing over his cheek as he moves inside her, his pace faltering for just a moment before he snaps back into thay sloppy rhythm, chasing his release. “Want to see you when you let go.”

She barely finishes her sentence when his orgasm crashes over him like a tsunami; no one would be able to even tell where she begins and where he ends.

Lando looks so beautiful and wrecked, and she drinks in every second of his surrender.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

When his features soften, she sees how vulnerable he is, and it leaves her breathless.

Satisfied and content, her fingers still trace his face, wanting to remember the exact way he looks in this moment, when he is completely hers.

Unable to support his weight, Lando collapses on top of her, feeling his body as light as a feather, which is so far from the truth. But she doesn't mind; she loves the feeling, actually. She loves the heaviness, and the way he keeps his cock tucked deep inside her, wet and softening slowly, not allowing his cum to leak out of her.

Descending back down from their high, the only sounds in the room are their slowing breaths and the soft rustle of the sheets. It's hard not to notice the weight of reality when it begins to creep in around the edges.

She lies beneath him, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his back, but her mind is miles away.

“When are you leaving?” she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lando tenses for a moment, then shifts to lie beside her, propping his head on his hand to look at her. The vulnerability in her eyes twists something deep inside him.

She swallows hard, suddenly flooded by all the reasons they had fought, all the late nights filled with misunderstandings and misaligned priorities. She remembers all the reasons why they broke up, and thinking how bad of an idea this has been. Because, how can she let go of him again, without feeling like she'll be losing both her head and heart in the process.

“On Tuesday,” says Lando softly. “But not how you think.”

Her brow furrows in confusion as she turns to face him. “What do you mean?”

Lando leans over, his hand caressing her cheek as he gathers his thoughts.

“I’ve been thinking about us for months. Since you left, actually,” he begins, his voice low and deliberate. “I had a lot of time, and I managed to figure out why it didn’t work before, why I couldn’t give you what you deserved. So… I’ve talked to the team.”

She almost stops breathing, her eyes widening in his direction while she waits for him to continue. Months ago, she would've die to have this conversation, and now that it happens, she doesn't know how to behave.

“I'm working on a schedule. To have more time for us,” Lando explains.

Her heart skips a beat. “You’d do that?”

“For us,” he repeats, his voice firm. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay without you. I don't want to be okay without you, it's stupid. And I don’t want to keep coming back here, hoping for a second chance, only to mess it up again. I want to get it right this time.”

She stares at him, not knowing what to do with that information. This is not the Lando she knows. The recklessness and impulsivity got replaced by caution and planning the steps ahead. It's new, and exciting, and it makes her tear up.

“And what if it still doesn’t work?” she asks, her voice small.

He leans closer, his forehead touching hers. “It will.”

His tone is so definitive that she can't say anything else, letting the silence stretch between them as she searches Lando's face for any sign of hesitation.

There’s none.

“How... did you actually know where to find me last night?”

Lando smirks, studying her face with half-closed eyes, bringing his hand to her jaw. “That friend of yours posted on her story. Honestly, I didn’t know you were going to be there. But I hoped.”

She shakes her head, scoffing, “Stalker behavior.”

Lando shrugs nonchallantly, “I just happened to be nearby,” he chuckles.

“Lucky me,” she says, tracing the contour of his nose with her finger, stopping on his jaw.

“Lucky us,” he corrects, pulling her in for another kiss.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

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© trashy track tales, 2024

[daxisyzz]

Once Upon a Dream

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: In dreams, you danced with him beneath the glow of a 1940s jazz bar—Bucky Barnes, a stranger who felt like home. The world called it a vision; you knew it was a memory reborn. Drawn across lifetimes, you find him in Bucharest, where love awakens, and fate begins again.

Warnings and tags: post avengers-aou, no civil war in this universe, 40s!Bucky, Civil War!Bucky, the reader has powers like mind manipulation and dream walking, the reader has been reincarnated in the present, was alive in the 40s in her previous life, implied "death".

Lyrics for the song are in italics

Word count: 3.7k+

A/n: Happy birthday to me ✨️ it's my birthday today!! this is a special I've written for my birthday. Hope you all like it<3. divider creds: @strangergraphics

Your powers were slipping again.

You had always known how to tiptoe the line between dreams and waking, could soothe nightmares, slip into someone’s subconscious like dipping a hand into water. You had control. Precision. Boundaries.

But ever since Bucky Barnes had vanished gone off-grid without warning after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D. something inside you had begun to fray. You didn’t even know him. Not really. Just a face you’d seen in passing in the Smithsonian. A few mentions of him from Steve. Still, his absence clawed at you like a wound you didn’t remember receiving.

The rest of the team noticed. Wanda placed a hand on your shoulder more often. Steve asked you if you were sleeping enough. Sam hovered like he was waiting for you to crumble. You hated it. Hated the way your grip on reality was starting to blur at the edges. Your dreams bled into waking life, and your waking life kept warping into something unreal.

And then, one evening, everything shattered.

You had been meditating in your room, trying to ground yourself, when your vision went black.

No warning. No sound.

Just the sudden sense of falling into something deep and endless, like a void.

When your eyes opened, you were no longer in the compound.

The air smelled like smoke and perfume. Jazz music hummed through the floorboards beneath your shoes. The room swayed with movement, laughter, and golden light. You blinked at the wood bar, the soft glow of the lamps, the sway of dresses and the crisp cut of coats.

It was the 1940s.

Your mind tried to escape the illusion, but everything was too real, the warmth of the room, the scratch of your dress’s lace, the way your heels pinched slightly, under your toes. Your breath hitched.

You were dreaming, and you weren’t.

“Miss?”

You turned. A man stood near the bar, handsome in a pressed suit, tie loosened just enough to look charming. His smile was a little cocky, a little too familiar. Your heart stopped.

“Dance with me?” he asked, voice smooth, warm.

Your fingers twitched.

You knew that face. Younger, softer. Before the Winter Soldier. Before the war carved grief into his bones.

Bucky Barnes.

But he didn’t know you.

And yet—he looked at you like he did.

You took his hand.

The crowd faded. The band played a soft melody. He pulled you close, one hand at your waist, the other cradling your hand like it was something normal.

You moved together like you had done this before. Like your bodies remembered even if your minds didn’t.

You laid your head against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as warmth washed over you.

Your thoughts whispered like wind through trees:

I know you. I walked with you once upon a dream.

I know you. The gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.

A part of your soul clicked into place.

You swayed gently, chest to chest, the world shrinking down to just you, warm hands, and the kind of quiet that holds weight. Your cheek brushed against the lapel of his suit, the scent of him grounding you. You could feel his heartbeat through his shirt.

Then it all started dawning on you.

The music slowed, muffled, like it was coming from far away. The warm golden glow of the jazz bar dimmed. Your stomach turned. A faint pressure built behind your eyes. You blinked once, twice and the weight of everything crashed into you.

The dream faltered. No.

Not a dream.

A memory.

Your body stiffened in his arms.

Bucky felt it instantly. “Hey. What’s wrong, doll?”

You looked up at him with wide, wet eyes, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. “I remember you.”

His brow furrowed, in confusion. “What are you talking about, sweetheart? You feeling okay?”

You stared at him. Your fingers curled into his jacket, gripping tight. “This isn’t just a dream. You…”

You didn’t get to finish.

Your breath caught in your throat as the room began to wither around you. The warmth of Bucky’s embrace vanished, replaced by a suffocating emptiness. The music, the laughter, the lights—they all dimmed, dissolving into still hum.

You gasped, struggling to keep steady, but the world slipped through your fingers like sand. Your heartbeat sped up in your chest, faster and faster, and then, it was gone.

You blinked back into existence with a gasp not in the dim warmth of the bar, but into something colder, heavier.

An alley. Slick cobblestones beneath your shoes. The muted rumble of a city alive just beyond the shadows. Rain dripped from a fire escape. The scent of tobacco, engine smoke, and something faintly floral clung to the air.

You knew this place.

Your body remembered before your brain caught up.

You weren’t in the compound. You were in another dream.

You were back. In your body. In the 1940s.

And he was there.

“Hey,” came a low whisper from your back.

You turned just in time to see Bucky Barnes slip around the corner, hair slick, kakhi jacket hugging his shoulders like he’d walked out of an old movie. The way he looked at you half smile, half mischief, stole the air from your lungs.

“Thought I lost you in the crowd,” he said, voice barely above the rain.

You swallowed. “You didn’t.”

You meant it in more ways than one.

He stepped closer, close enough that his fingers brushed yours. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, brows drawing together.

“I’m fine,” you lied. You weren’t. Not even close.

Because you knew what was coming. You remembered this moment before it happened. You remembered how your heart had felt like it would shatter from how much you wanted him, how much you couldn’t tell him. And now you were living it again, with the weight of the future crushing your chest.

Bucky reached up, cupping your cheek like you were something fragile. “You sure?” he asked gently.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes. “No.”

“Talk to me.”

You looked up at him. Your Bucky. But not yet. Not quite. He didn’t know what would be stolen from him. He didn’t know he’d leave you.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

“Of what?” he asked, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“Of how much I already need you.”

That pulled something out of him. His breath hitched, and he tilted his head, eyes searching yours for any sign you didn’t mean it.

But you did.

You always had.

And then—it happened.

He leaned in.

So did you.

The kiss was soft. Hesitant, at first. Like the two of you were testing the shape of something you didn’t quite know how to hold.

Then it deepened.

Slowly, his hands found your waist, and yours tangled in the lapels of his jacket. He kissed you like you were a all thathe wished for, like he’d been dying to for weeks but had waited for this exact moment. The press of his lips was warm, sure, and achingly new.

And your heart broke a little.

Because this was the first time for him.

And you remembered the last.

But if I know you, I know what you'll do

You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream

When you finally pulled back, your breath caught. His forehead rested against yours.

“Wow,” Bucky murmured.

You laughed softly, dazed. “Yeah.”

“You okay?” he asked again, voice low.

You blinked, eyes glassy. “No. But this… this helps.”

He smiled, completely unaware of the storm behind your eyes. “I knew kissing you’d be good,” he teased.

You huffed a wet laugh and kissed him again before you could cry.

Because this was the beginning.

And you already knew the end.

You were still spinning, breathless, heart thudding with the ghost of his lips on yours. His hand had been warm on your waist, grounding you, and his eyes. God, those eyes—soft in a way that made you want to stay right there forever.

You barely had time to hold on to it. To even say a word.

And then the world snapped back.

The familiar tug pulled at you, stronger this time. The air thickened with the smell of smoke, the sharp scent of gunpowder in the air. Your shoes felt heavier, the weight of them an instant reminder of where you were, who you were.

The darkness around you closed in, and in an instant, the alley, the city, the moment you shared with Bucky all vanished, as if they were never real at all.

You blinked.

Screams echoed around you loud, painful, desperate. The air stung with the sharp smell of blood and antiseptic. People shouted over each other, voices rushed and panicked. You heard the hiss of bandages being pulled, the snap of needles, the clinking of metal tools. It was loud. It was messy. It was real. This was the battlefield. And you were right in the middle of it.

You were back in the war years. Or few months after the kiss had taken place.

Back where the world had crumbled. The weight of the memories hit you like a freight train.

You were in uniform, a nurse’s uniform, dust-streaked and bloodstained. The fabric was heavy against your chest, the worn apron crinkled at the edges. You had lived through this, survived it.

But this wasn’t your life anymore.

This life belonged to her—the woman who had tried to hold on to her humanity, who had tried to save as many as she could, even as she felt herself slowly breaking. She was the one who had run into the fire, who had patched up the wounded bodies, who had held their hands as they breathed their last breath.

You weren't her, and yet you were.

You were a nurse in the war, doing everything you could to hold it together in the middle of the chaos. But there was one thing—one person—that kept you tethered to this place.

Bucky.

He was there. His face still soft, but now tired, haunted. His eyes were harder now, his soul tarnished by the war, the loss. You could see it in the way he moved, the set of his jaw. The way he was trying so hard to keep it all together.

You remember seeing him more times than you could count back at camp, in the mess hall, during missions. And now, here he was again, coming through the swinging doors of the field hospital where you worked, his arms full of supplies.

You didn’t have time to process anything before chaos broke out.

A soldier had just come in, bleeding out, and you rushed to his side, pushing past Bucky, your hands already reaching for the tools you knew you’d need, as if it was second nature. You barely had a chance to look at him as you worked, stitching up the soldier’s wounds, trying to keep him alive.

It was only once you’d stabilized him that you met Bucky’s gaze across the room. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes a softness that betrayed the hardened soldier he had become.

It felt like everything stopped for just a second.

And then—An explosion.

The world around you shook violently, throwing you to the ground. The screams, the sounds of the explosion, the cries for help—they were all too much.

Before you could even move, Bucky was there. He grabbed you, pulling you to your feet, holding you close as the world spun around you. His arms were strong, steady, something to hold on to in the middle of all the noise and panic.

“We have to go!” he yelled, his voice barely cutting through the noise. “Now!”

You tried to focus, tried to keep your feet under you, but everything was loud and blurry. It was hard to breathe. Hard to think.

And then you saw her. A soldier who was caught in the crossfire. She was lying there, barely conscious, her leg shattered by the blast.

You ran toward her, but before you could reach her, a bullet tore into your side. The pain was instant—hot, sharp, and far too familiar. You gasped, your knees buckling, and everything around you tilted.

Bucky caught you before you hit the ground. His arms wrapped around you, holding you tight like he could keep you here just by not letting go.

“Stay with me,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please. Just stay with me.”

He pressed his hands to your side, trying to stop the bleeding, but you could feel it—you knew this was bad. Just like last time. Maybe worse.

Your vision started to fade. The sounds around you felt far away. You could still hear Bucky, but his voice was distant now, like he was underwater. And you couldn’t hold on much longer.

“Please, don’t go,” he whispered as you slipped, your body growing heavier in his arms.

“Bucky,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if he could hear you. You tried to smile, to tell him that it would be okay, but the pain was too much.

“I can’t lose you. You still haveto meet Steve. We have to get married, after the war, live together in our home,” Bucky cried, holding you tighter, his voice breaking, desperation in every syllable.

And then everything went silent.

The voices, the screams, the gunshots, the explosions, they all faded. There was only Bucky’s voice, lingering in the distance.

His final plea.

And then—nothing.

You woke up with a start, gasping for air, the harsh light of the compound blinding you. Sweat clung to your skin, your heart still pounding as though you had just run a long marathon.

But your mind wasn’t here. Your mind was back.

Back with him.

Back in that life.

The memories crashed into you like a storm, vivid and unrelenting: Another life. Another version of yourself. You saw it all—flashes, pieces falling into place like the final turn of a puzzle box. You had been lovers in another time. A hidden corner of Brooklyn. A shared laugh over coffee. The weight of his dog tags pressing into your chest when he held you. The sound of a gunshot. A goodbye that ripped something from your soul. It wasn’t just a dream. It was real.

Your body shook as you pressed your hands to your face, choking on a sob as the weight of it all crashed over you.

I remember you, you thought, tears flooding your eyes, the ache in your chest too sharp to ignore.

In that life, you had been together. In another time, another version of yourself had loved him completely—had been his, and he had been yours. But now… now, he was lost to you. The years, the distance, the life you had been reborn into, none of it mattered. You could still feel him. You could still feel it all.

A broken, choked cry slipped out of you before you could stop it. You folded in on yourself, arms wrapped tight around your body as the grief crashed over you, wave after wave. The dream had pulled you in so deep, it felt like a part of him was still inside you even now, awake, you couldn’t shake him. Couldn’t let him go.

“Why didn’t I remember?” you whispered into the quiet, your voice barely holding together. “Why didn’t I know sooner?”

Your hands curled into fists, nails biting into your skin, trying to ground yourself. But the ache in your chest only grew heavier, pressing down with the truth you could no longer ignore.

You had to find him.

You couldn’t just stay here, pretending nothing had changed. Because everything had. He was out there somewhere. Bucky Barnes, your Bucky, had disappeared, and you couldn’t let him go. Not when you had shared so much. Not when the threads of your past still bound you to him.

You wiped your eyes, the determination sparking to life behind your tears.

“I’ll find you,” you whispered, voice full of unshakable resolve. “I will find you, Bucky.”

And nothing—not the past, not the present—was going to keep you from bringing him back into your life.

The team had gathered, though they were all confused about why you called them. Steve, Natasha, Sam, Wanda… even Tony, arms crossed, looking skeptical.

Your heart was racing, like it wanted to jump out of your chest. The words stuck in your throat, but you made yourself speak anyway.

“I remembered him,” you said, voice shaking. “I remembered everything.”

Steve blinked. “Who?”

“Bucky,” you whispered. “I knew him. I loved him. Not here. Not in this life. In the one before.”

Silence.

Sam frowned, leaning forward. “You mean like… a past life?”

You nodded slowly, your hands trembling.

“There was a jazz bar. The 40s. I remembered the way he smiled at me like I was his whole damn world. We danced, and I—God, I felt it. Our shared times, the end of it all. It was real. All of it. I don’t know how or why I forgot, but when I woke up, it was like losing him all over again.”

Steve’s mouth parted, stunned. “He never… he never told me he was seeing anyone back then.”

"He wouldn’t have. She... I died young. Before hydra took him. But it was real. We were real." you said.

Wanda stepped closer, gently. “And you think we can find him out there?”

You nodded, suddenly fierce. “I don’t think. I know. And I’m going to find him.”

There was a pause. Then Tony let out a low whistle. “Well. That’s one hell of a love story.”

Steve’s expression had shifted—no longer confused, but grave. “Let's bring him home.”

Five Months Later – Bucharest

You’d gone through every old file, every false lead, every sleepless night with his voice in your head, his warmth on your skin like a ghost. But now, standing outside the apartment building, your hands balled into fists in your coat pockets, it was real. He was real.

Steve looked at you once, like he was checking in, and you nodded. The hallway was narrow and dim, peeling wallpaper, faded lightbulbs. You could hear the soft hum of life behind closed doors—someone cooking, a baby crying, a radio playing softly.

But you only heard your heartbeat.

The door creaked open under Steve’s hand. The apartment was dark, sparse. The door shut behind you. You stepped inside slowly, looking around at the almost empty unit. It had an old mattress on the ground, a small kitchen and some random trinkets here and there.

And then, footsteps on the stairs. The creak of the floorboards. Keys in the lock.

You froze.

The door opened.

Bucky walked in.

He was older now, harder, with shaggy hair and a scruff-lined jaw, but his eyes—those same eyes you saw in that dream—landed on you and stopped.

He dropped the grocery bag in his hand.

You didn’t move.

And then it happened—his body swayed, just a little, his eyes wide and distant, like something inside him snapped. You saw it, all of it the memories coming back, sharp and clear, like shattered glass reforming. Your laughter, your hand in his at the bar, the soft way you whispered his name as his lips met yours, the way he held you like he didn’t know how to let you go.

He remembered.

He remembered everything.

“No…” he breathed, stumbling back, shaking his head. “No, this isn’t real.”

“Bucky,” you whispered, your own tears rising fast. “It is.”

He turned like he was going to bolt.

“Don’t,” Steve said, stepping between him and the door. “Don’t run.”

“I can’t—I can’t—” Bucky’s voice cracked. “This isn’t supposed to happen. You were—you were gone.”

“I came back,” you said, stepping forward slowly, hands raised like you were approaching a wounded animal.

His breath hitched. His fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking all over.

“Do you remember?” you asked hesitantly. He looked at you, and in the dim light, you saw the truth break through. He had. And it hurt. It hurt.

His voice was raw. “You died in my arms. I held you while you—while you bled out.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks. “And now I’m here.”

“I can’t do that again,” he whispered.

“I’m not asking you to,” you said gently, voice cracking. “I’m asking you to come home. With me. Let’s remember it together.”

Steve placed a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, quiet and steady. “You don’t have to run anymore, Buck. We found you.”

And that’s when Bucky broke.

He dropped to his knees.

You caught him.

His arms wrapped around you so tightly it stole the air from your lungs. His face buried in your neck as he trembled, sobbing—not like a soldier, but like a man who had carried a century of grief with no place to put it.

“I missed you,” he choked. “I saw you. Every time they wiped me. Every time they dragged me back. I saw your face." He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his eyes swimming with tears.

"I forgot who I was—but I never forgot you."

You clung to him like you’d never let go again.

"I thought… maybe I imagined you so I’d have a reason not to die," he whispered. "But you were real. You’re real."

“I’m here now,” you whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

They held each other, the world outside fading into silence. There were no words between them—just the sound of their breathing. His was shaky, uneven, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Hers was steady, but you could feel the weight of everything they’d been through in each inhale, each exhale.

She wasn’t here by accident, not by fate, but by something deeper. Something that had always been there, hidden in the fabric of who they were. She hadn’t come back just to live again, she’d come back to find him, to remember everything they had, and to give it another shot.

And as they held each other, their hearts beating together in a way time couldn’t touch, they both knew something for sure: some loves are too strong to be torn apart by anything life, death, time itself. Their love had survived it all, and no matter what came next, it would always find its way back to them.

Together, they had become something that couldn’t be undone.

And this, this was their second chance. Their rebirth.

This was their beginning

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown- Neptune in The Signs

Neptune asks one thing of you: to surrender. But not to fantasy, not to illusion, to truth. Can you see clearly through the fog? Can you hold a dream without being consumed by it? When you learn to navigate Neptune’s tide, you discover the balance between vision and reality, between longing and belonging. And in that balance, you find not just dreams, but destiny.

🔥 Neptune in Aries

You chase the horizon, convinced it holds your name. The fire in your chest is real, but the victory you seek vanishes the moment you reach for it. Neptune blurs your battles, making it hard to tell if you are fighting for something true or just fighting to feel alive. There is beauty in your urgency, but not every war is worth the wounds. Your lesson? Pause. In the silence, you will hear what truly calls you.

🌿 Neptune in Taurus

You dream of hands that never let go, of a world that stays still long enough to be called yours. You seek safety in touch, in possession, in the familiar, but Neptune erodes the edges of what you think you own. Security slips through your fingers like sand, urging you to learn that nothing is ever truly yours except your own presence. Your lesson? Let go. What is meant for you cannot be held, only trusted.

💨 Neptune in Gemini

Your mind is a kaleidoscope, flickering between truths that never settle. You gather words like fireflies, believing they will guide you home, but Neptune shifts the meaning before you can hold it still. There is wisdom in your wandering, but beware the illusion that understanding alone will save you. Your lesson? Silence. In the absence of words, real knowing begins.

🌊 Neptune in Cancer

You dream in memories that never quite belonged to you, carrying the weight of love lost and love imagined. Neptune turns home into a feeling rather than a place, and you spend your life searching for an embrace that exists only in the past. You drown in nostalgia, believing the past was softer than it was. Your lesson? Open your hands. What has left will not return, but something new is waiting to take its place.

☀️ Neptune in Leo

You long to be seen, but Neptune makes you question whether you are looking into a mirror or a stage light. You create to be remembered, to be felt, to leave something behind that proves you were here. But Neptune distorts recognition, it cannot fill what is hollow. Your lesson? Love yourself when the applause fades. The truest stage is the one inside your heart.

🌾 Neptune in Virgo

You dream of a world where every piece fits, where effort creates certainty and order soothes the unknown. But Neptune makes the lines blur, the solutions dissolve, the work feel endless. You chase perfection, only to find it slipping further away. Your lesson? Rest. There is more divinity in imperfection than in anything you could fix.

⚖️ Neptune in Libra

You see beauty in everyone, believing love can heal all wounds. But Neptune makes it easy to mistake longing for love, attraction for destiny. You fall for ghosts, for projections, for the idea of a person rather than their reality. Your lesson? See clearly. Love is not about losing yourself in another, it is about finding someone who lets you be whole.

🦂 Neptune in Scorpio

You crave depth, but Neptune lures you into waters deeper than you were meant to swim. You believe that transformation must be painful, that love must consume you, that mystery is the same as truth. You stare into the abyss, hoping to find yourself, but Neptune reflects only what you want to see. Your lesson? Surface. Darkness is not the only way to find meaning.

🏹 Neptune in Sagittarius

You believe the answers lie somewhere beyond the horizon, that truth is waiting in distant lands or untold philosophies. Neptune feeds your wanderlust, making you believe that movement is progress. But the search never ends, because the thing you seek was never outside you. Your lesson? Stand still. The wisdom you long for is already within you.

🛠 Neptune in Capricorn

You dream of legacy, of achievement, of a life that stands the test of time. But Neptune makes success feel hollow the moment you reach it. You build empires only to wonder why they feel empty. You seek purpose in ambition, only to realize ambition cannot give you purpose. Your lesson? Redefine success. Build something that fulfills your soul, not just your reputation.

🌐 Neptune in Aquarius

You believe in a world that does not yet exist, seeing utopias where others see only limits. But Neptune turns ideals into illusions, making you fall in love with dreams rather than people. You crave connection, yet keep a distance, afraid that intimacy will dissolve the perfection you imagine. Your lesson? Come closer. The world is not perfect, but real love exists within the flaws.

🌊 Neptune in Pisces

You are the dream itself, drifting between worlds, dissolving boundaries between self and universe. You feel everything, sometimes too much, sometimes until it drowns you. Neptune is at home here, and so are your illusions, love that has no shape, faith that has no anchor, art that has no end. You see magic where others see mist, but beware of vanishing into the fog. Your lesson? Stay. The divine is not found in escape, but in presence. Let yourself be here, now, and watch how even the ordinary becomes sacred.

[ribbonedreverie]

Valentine’s Day Special – Love, in All Its Forms

Because love is never as simple as it seems.

──────────

💌 Osamu Dazai – “A Trick, A Promise, A Ghost”

Dazai hands you a small, velvet box.

It is light in your palm, deceptively so. Wrapped in silk ribbon, its elegance feels like an illusion—like him. A perfect thing. A careful thing. A thing that cannot possibly be real.

“A gift,” he says, voice laced with quiet amusement, with something lilting and unreadable. “For you, my love.”

His smile is dazzling, careless, but his eyes are dark—twin abysses, where laughter and sorrow tangle into something unsolvable. He is beautiful like this, beautiful in the way ghosts are, in the way things that do not belong to this world always are.

You hesitate.

“You don’t trust me?” His voice is light, teasing, but there is something beneath it—something sharp, something fragile, something waiting.

You exhale. “Should I?”

His grin widens, but he does not answer.

The ribbon falls away. The lid lifts without resistance.

Inside is—nothing.

Empty.

You blink. A trick. A joke. A riddle without a solution.

Dazai tilts his head, watching you. “Oh? You look disappointed.” His voice is gentle, curious, almost sincere. “Were you expecting something real?”

And there it is. The truth of it. The sleight of hand.

Because the box was never the gift. The nothingness inside it was never the joke.

This was never about a gift at all.

This was about him.

About whether you would look into that emptiness and see absence or offering. About whether you would expect something from him that he does not know how to give.

And so, you close the box with steady hands. You set it aside. You meet his gaze and say, quiet, certain, unshaken—

“I don’t need gifts from you, Osamu.”

For a moment, the air is still.

Then, he exhales. His shoulders ease, the sharp edges of his expression softening, fracturing into something tired, something relieved. He leans forward, his forehead resting against yours, and when he smiles, it is no longer a performance.

“You’re too smart for your own good,” he mutters, but the words are warm, affectionate, almost fond.

You say nothing.

But when your fingers weave into his hair, when you whisper, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Osamu,” with no demands, no expectations—

That is the moment he believes you.

That is the moment he allows himself to love you.

💌 Chuuya Nakahara – “A Love That Never Wavers, But Fears Losing”

Chuuya’s love is something tangible.

It is in the rich, crimson swirl of wine in crystal glasses, in the golden flicker of candlelight dancing across his sharp features. It is in the silk-wrapped box he presses into your hands—heavy, deliberate, a silent declaration. A promise, tied with a ribbon.

“You didn’t have to go all out, Chuuya.”

He scoffs, his eyes flashing with something unreadable. “Tch. Don’t be stupid. Of course I did.”

Because Chuuya does not love in half-measures. He does not believe in simplicity, in withholding, in doing anything by halves. Love is not a quiet thing to him; it is fierce, relentless, something he gives with his entire being.

And tonight, he wants you to know it.

Yet, beneath the warmth of your laughter, beneath the teasing remarks and the gentle clinking of glasses, something gnaws at the edges of his mind. A weight in his chest that refuses to settle.

It is a ghost of an old wound, an ache that time never truly dulled.

The knowledge that love is fragile. That the things he cherishes have a way of slipping through his fingers. That no matter how tightly he holds on, no matter how much he gives, nothing is ever promised to last.

He doesn’t say it aloud. But it lingers in the way he watches you when you aren’t looking, in the way his fingers twitch slightly against his glass, as if bracing for something inevitable.

Because he knows loss too well. He has worn it like a second skin, carried it in the quiet corners of his heart.

And so, when the evening fades into the hush of midnight, when the city hums softly beyond the window, when you settle into his arms and trace idle patterns against his wrist, the question slips out—raw, uncertain, too vulnerable for a man like him.

“You love me, right?”

It is quiet, rough, an unpolished edge of a confession.

You blink up at him, your fingers stilling. “Of course I do.”

But that is not what he means.

He means—will you stay?

Will you still love me when the fire turns to embers?

Will you choose me again and again, even when I falter, even when I break?

Will you hold onto me, even when the world turns cruel?

Because Chuuya has lost too many times. And every love he has known has come with an expiration date, with an ending written long before he ever had a chance to change the story.

And yet, as you lace your fingers through his, as you press your lips against his knuckles and whisper, “Always, Chuuya,”—

He lets himself believe you.

Even if it terrifies him.

💌 Ryunosuke Akutagawa – “A Love That Does Not Know Softness, But Tries”

Akutagawa does not celebrate Valentine’s Day.

Or rather—he does not see the point.

There is no logic in flowers, no necessity in chocolate. No reason to carve out a single day for affection when love, in its truest form, should be unshakable, unwavering, absolute. A thing not paraded but proven, written into the quiet spaces between battle and survival.

So when you place a small, wrapped box in front of him, he does not reach for it. Not immediately.

“What is this.”

Not quite a question. More like a demand.

“A gift, Akutagawa.”

His brows furrow slightly, suspicion flickering in the sharp cut of his gaze. And yet—his hands move before his mind can reason against it. A habit born from hunger, from a life spent knowing that the things given freely are often the most dangerous.

The paper unfolds in careful, precise movements. Not rushed, not careless—because things like this have always been fleeting for him. And when the lid of the box lifts, when he sees what rests inside—

He stills.

Tea.

Not just any tea, but fine blends—rarest leaves, carefully chosen, each labeled with delicate, handwritten notes.

One for quiet mornings.

One for sleepless nights.

One for when the cold settles too deeply into his chest.

Your notes are not grand declarations, not loud with sentiment, but they are something else. Something far more dangerous.

They are intimate.

Because you have seen him. Not just as a weapon, not just as a shadow against the world, but as something more. Someone who reaches for warmth in the smallest, quietest ways.

You shift slightly under his silence, fingers curling against your palm. Did you misstep? Did you give him something he would not want, something he could not understand?

But then—his fingers brush against the tea leaves. A ghost of a touch, reverent in its hesitance.

He knows these. He recognizes them. You must have noticed which ones he drinks the most, which ones he reaches for when he thinks no one is looking.

And yet—you have never asked. Never teased, never acted as though his small indulgences were something to be explained.

“…You noticed.” His voice is quieter than before, his expression unreadable.

“Of course,” you murmur, looking away. “I notice everything about you.”

His throat tightens.

This—this is unfamiliar.

Not devotion out of fear.

Not obligation disguised as care.

Not something he has to fight for, claw for, prove himself worthy of.

Just love, given freely.

A terrible, wonderful thing.

He exhales, slow and deep. And when he closes the box, he does not set it aside.

Instead, he pulls it toward him. Keeps it close. A choice made with intention.

Later, when he prepares his tea, he will reach for your gift before anything else. He will read your notes again and again, tracing the ink with the tip of his finger, as if memorizing the way you see him. As if trying to believe in it.

Because Akutagawa does not know how to accept love.

But for you, he is willing to try.

💌 Fyodor Dostoevsky – “A Love You Must Chase, But Never Quite Reach”

“You should stop looking at me like that, my love.”

Fyodor’s voice is smooth, the kind of smoothness that comes before a blade presses to your throat. A silk ribbon unraveling. A noose tightening.

“Like what?” you murmur.

A slow smirk. He knows. He always knows.

“Like I belong to you.”

The words settle between you like dust in an old cathedral, like scripture rewritten to suit the moment.

Because he does not.

You have always known this—Fyodor Dostoevsky belongs to no one but himself.

And yet, he lets you chase him.

Lets you press your fingertips to his wrist, feel the faint, steady pulse beneath porcelain skin. Lets you lean close enough to breathe in the scent of ink and candle smoke, of something fading, something fleeting. Lets you watch him, study him, search for something real beneath the layers of deceit, as if peeling them back will reveal a man instead of a ghost.

“I wonder,” he muses, tilting your chin up with the careless grace of a scholar dissecting a thought, “why you insist on following me, even when you know you will never catch up.”

Your breath shudders, but you hold his gaze. “Because I love you.” As if those words could be an offering. As if love could ever be enough for a man who has built his world upon something more divine, more tragic.

His smile is a quiet thing, hollow and knowing. It does not reach his eyes.

“Ah, such devotion.” His thumb grazes your lower lip, lingering, as if considering something. “And yet, you still expect something in return. How human of you.”

Because this is his game.

A love that pulls you in, then slips through your fingers.

A love that leaves you wandering through darkened hallways, chasing the echo of his laughter, the ghost of his touch.

A love that tests your faith, again and again, to see if you will break before he does.

And yet—when he kisses you, slow and deliberate, his hand ghosting over your pulse, lingering like a priest at the altar—

You wonder if this is what devotion is supposed to feel like.

If love is meant to be a hymn or a curse.

If you are kneeling at his feet, worshiping a god, or walking beside a demon who delights in leading you astray.

💌 Nikolai Gogol – “A Love That Makes You Question If It Was Ever Real”

“Close your eyes.”

You hesitate. “Nikolai—”

“Tsk, tsk. No trust?” His voice lilts, a mocking melody, amusement curling at the edges. Playful, yes—but beneath it, something lingers. Something fleeting, something just out of reach.

You sigh, letting your lashes flutter shut.

Silence. Then—a rush of air, the faintest shift in the atmosphere. The moment stretches, taut and uncertain. And then—

A breath against your skin. Warm. Lingering.

“You’re waiting for a trick, aren’t you?”

“Always.”

A sharp inhale. A pause that lasts just a second too long.

And then—a kiss.

Featherlight. A whisper of contact against your temple, so soft that for a moment, you wonder if you imagined it.

Your eyes fly open.

But Nikolai is already twirling away, spinning like the world itself is his stage, his laughter the soundtrack to a performance only he understands.

“See?” he sings, arms spreading wide, as if inviting applause. “You never know what to expect from me!”

And you don’t. That is the problem.

Because in the flicker of candlelight, in the way shadows play upon his features, you cannot tell where the performance ends and the man begins.

Because you do not know if that kiss was real, or just another illusion.

Because Nikolai is a mirage in the winter fog, a trick of the light, a specter draped in a coat too heavy for his frame. A man who slips through your grasp like paper caught in the wind, always just beyond reach.

And Nikolai?

He will never tell you.

Because what is love, if not a trick of the senses?

What is devotion, if not a cruel joke, a story that unravels the moment you believe in it?

What is he, if not a character in his own tale, spinning lies so intricate that even he forgets where the truth once lay?

And so, you stand there, heart caught between longing and doubt, watching him disappear into the snowfall.

Wondering if he was ever really there at all.

💌 Sigma – “A Love That Wonders If It Is Enough”

Sigma holds the gift in his hands as if it is made of something fragile—glass, gold, a dream too delicate to last.

“It’s… for me?”

His voice is unsteady, uncertain, like a man waking from a dream he was never meant to have.

“Of course it is,” you murmur, watching him carefully, as if the wrong word might shatter him.

His fingers tremble as he unwraps it—something small, something simple, but something chosen. Something meant for him, without expectation, without demand.

And that? That is everything.

Because Sigma has spent his entire existence defined by others. By necessity, by purpose, by hands that molded him into something useful but never something loved. He is an answer to a question no one remembers asking, a creation given life without being given a reason to keep living.

He does not remember ever being given something just because.

He does not remember ever being wanted simply for who he is.

So he stares at the gift, fingers tracing its edges, as if trying to commit the weight of it to memory. As if it might disappear the moment he looks away.

As if he does not trust it to be real.

“You don’t have to look so shocked, you know,” you tease, nudging him gently, grounding him back into the present. “You deserve nice things too.”

Sigma exhales, and the sound is unsteady, like wind through an empty corridor.

“Do I?”

His question is not dramatic, not self-pitying. It is quiet. Honest. A thought spoken aloud, unguarded, as if he truly does not know the answer.

You take his hand in yours, lacing your fingers through his, warm and steady. A reassurance.

“Yes.”

A simple thing. A truth. A thread of certainty in the shifting, uncertain fabric of his existence.

But truths are difficult things, and belief is a skill he has never learned.

Still—when you kiss him, soft and steady, when your lips press against his like a vow he does not yet have the words for—

He lets himself want to believe.

Even if just for tonight.

Even if only in this fleeting moment, where the world feels small enough for love to exist without condition.

──────────

Happy Valentine’s Day, loves.

May today be wrapped in warmth, painted in soft blush hues, and filled with the kind of love that lingers—whether in a whispered confession, a fleeting touch, or a gaze that holds just a second too long. Love isn’t always grand or dramatic; sometimes, it’s found in the way someone remembers your favorite book or saves the last piece of chocolate for you.

So whether you’re reveling in romance, cherishing friendship, or simply indulging in the beauty of your own heart, know this—you are adored, you are captivating, and the world is all the more enchanting with you in it.

Consider this a stolen glance, a lingering smile, a little love note just for you. Happy Valentine’s, darling. 💌✨

[fioiswriting]

Reunion | Sequel

[Part 1]

Summary : After the Battle Above the Gods Eye, Daemon returned victorious. Aemond was presumed dead, though his body was never found. Three years later, you've mourned your former husband and are ready to move on. But it seems that some ghosts from your past have come back to haunt you, and that the dead aren't really dead after all...

Rating : Explicit 18+, MDNI

Pairing : Aemond x Velaryon/Strong!niece!Reader

TW : unprotected sex, breeding kink, mention of characters death, angst, possessiveness, p in v sex, oral f receiving, dom/sub undertones, mention of war, AU where the Blacks won the war, anxiety, Reader has a child, grief, fluff, pregnancy, not proofread. 

Reader is Rhaenyra and Harwin’s daughter so I imagined her with dark hair like Jace, Luke and Joffrey but feel free to imagine her as you want of course <3

Words count : 9150

Author's note : Hello everyone!! Sorry for the wait, I've been very busy, but here's part two of Reunion (or at least the first part two, let's call it part 2.1 hehe). Thank you again for all you kind comments and the love you've given my fanfic omg!! Spoiler alert: this is the happy alternate ending! But I've got another bittersweet alternative ending planned 😈 If you think the first part was good enough on its own and the sequel may break the vibe, don't force yourself to read!! But if you need a happy ending, here it is <3 The plot still doesn't make any sense, but hey, we're here to have fun so enjoy ❤️

English is still not my first (or second) language, so sorry for the grammar mistakes <3

When you wake up, the first thing you feel is the reassuring embrace of his arms around you. You don't want to move, not even when the sunlight tickles your face through the opening between the wooden shutters, trying to make the moment last endlessly. But the growing anxiety in your stomach chases away the illusion of your fleeting happiness. 

You close your eyes a little tighter. Perhaps if you try again, perhaps if you try harder, the world around you can fade away.

Perhaps you can wake up again, in a different reality.

But it's inevitable. You know that now you're awake, it's only a matter of time before the two of you have to say goodbye forever. Your breathing becomes heavier, and you have to fight the tingling sensation at the corners of your eyes.

Why have the gods decided to be so cruel to you? They grant you one last taste of his skin on your lips before taking it from you, again. 

Haven't you given enough? 

Could they not show you mercy? 

You who had forgotten him, you who had begun to turn a new page, to seek comfort in the arms of the cold, far away from the fire and the ashes, why did you have to touch the poison that would once again stain your soul?

Behind you, Aemond buries his long nose in your hair. His hand absently caresses the skin of your thigh, just where the edge of the linen tunic you put on sometime during the night when you were cold ends. The fabric is pulled up, revealing the outline of your bottom, and you can already feel your uncle hardening between his thighs, but you don't move.

If you move, you'll make everything more real. Tangible.

You'll speed up the process of losing him, of him slipping through your fingers. 

How can you let him go, now that your heart is full again, now that you feel complete in a way you haven't felt for over three years?

How can you let him go, now that your body has retrieve the extension of itself in the arms of the man who was the cause of your torment, your moments of joy, your pain and, paradoxically, your happiness?

"I know you're awake."

You hold your breath and Aemond inhales into your hair. His hand moves down the inside of your thigh, along the hollow that joins it to your groin. He doesn't venture any further. 

His thumb rests there and brushes your skin, trying to arouse the desire in you with gentleness.

Subtly.

 He doesn't want to hurry, he doesn't want to rush you.

Not when he's been harbouring the impossible fantasy of waking up with you in his arms since the day he nearly died.

He presses harder against you, as if he doesn't want to let you go, as if he wants to be one with you again, and you feel him pulsing against your buttocks, under the linen cloth that has been pulled up a little higher. He says nothing, but he is pleading, needy, in his gestures, which is rare for him.

Something has changed, after all, and perhaps something has changed in him too. 

"I am awake, indeed, " you whisper in a voice that is still half asleep. The lump in your throat betrays the feeling of anxiety gradually creeping into your body, and Aemond seems to notice. Under your tunic, his hand moves up along your belly until it nestles against your chest, close to your heart. His thumb draws small circles, once again trying to bring you back to him.

Trying to calm your mind.

"Let us forget for a little longer," he whispers, his clenched jaw resting over your head. "Please." 

And you know he never begs. 

Aemond takes and doesn't ask.

Aemond believes he is owed everything and never gives in return.

Hearing him beg breaks something inside you, because this is the first time he does so.

Usually it was you, it was always you, begging for peace, begging for more, begging him not to leave you.

Part of him is as desperate as you are; part of him also dreads the moment when you will have to part again. Forever. It's comforting to know that his feelings are sincere, just like yours.

" Make me forget, then." You reply, moving your lower loins back against him, giving him tacit permission to explore your body once more. His fingers move down to your breasts, which he covers softly with his hand, his thumb skimming over a nipple to make it hard. You let out a gasp between your parted lips.

His hand slides lower, his palm flat against your lower belly, his fingertips brushing the light patch of hair at the top of your mound. You feel the familiar warmth growing between your thighs, in your core.

He sighs against the back of your skull, his head tilted forward. His lips search the skin at the nape of your neck, behind the long hair that has become tangled during the night, while his fingers intimately explore the secrets of your body that he knows all too well. The remnants of last night's lovemaking still smear the insides of your thighs and folds, but it doesn't matter; his fingers easily find the little bundle of nerves that they tease until you close your eyes, until your hand grips the damp, shabby sheet that covers the ragged mattress in the inn where you've spent the night.

Just the both of you, in the comfort of anonymity. 

"Let me taste you". His voice, still husky, tickles the back of your neck and you feel him shift behind you. When you feel the warmth of his bare chest, against which you're nestled, leave your back, your body automatically tries to move back against him. You still need him. You still need him to chase away the lump of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and the voices that keep reminding you that you're only postponing the fateful moment. Your hand slips under your white tunic and wraps around his wrist to force him to stay there, to hold his fingers against the source of heat spreading from your core. Your hips are demanding, grinding against his hand. "On your back," he insists, and stands up on his forearms.

With reluctance you turn over. You obey, lying on your back, your hair spilled around your head on the flat, uncomfortable pillow on which you slept badly. The white tunic that serves as your nightgown is pulled up, crumpled, just above your crotch, which it barely conceals. 

Aemond has swung over your body, silvery strands loosening from the braid that holds his hair behind his head and sliding down his shoulders, falling in loose loops on either side of his face, tickling your cheeks.

His lilac-tinted blue eye glows with a predatory gaze, a ray of light catching in the sapphire he hasn't removed from his socket. 

He captures your lips with his own, begging for access. Aemond marks your jaw and throat with light kisses, sucking at your collarbone to make the violets of possessiveness with which he likes to adorn your body bloom. His lips travel down your chest, playing with one of the two small nipples raised by the cool air and by desire, and continue their journey past your navel. 

Your heartbeat quickens as he settles between your legs, spreading your thighs to admire the part of you he covets so eagerly. At the same time you bend your legs, your gaze falling on him, on his unravelled hair, on his eye that locks with yours. He is so close to you, so close to your warm centre, and you know that between your folds the sweet nectar that your uncle longs to taste is already flowing.

But his lips trace the inside of your thighs instead, where the skin is soft and tender, and gradually they reach the hollow that connects them to your most intimate part. He takes a malicious pleasure in building up the tension, in savouring every millimetre of you like a fine delicacy, with only the tip of his lips brushing against your skin.

His thumbs spread the tender flesh of your womanhood and then he places a chaste kiss on the very centre of you. His tongue is shy at first, tracing the slit that connects your entrance to your little knob, collecting the evidence of your desire.

As his tongue wraps around your nub, your hands grip the sheets, knuckles white. 

Aemond drinks from your essence like a thirsty man, his nose buried between your folds, rubbing your pearl.

The tip of his tongue catches what drips from your opening, and then the flat of his tongue tastes your slit, working its way up to the little nub gorged with desire. 

He maintains the same rhythm, revelling in the moans that escape from your half-open lips. Soon his middle finger begins to draw circles against your entrance, the first knuckle sliding inside, then the whole finger. Your head is thrown back and immediately your hand buries itself in his silvery hair, gripping his braid in a messy bun behind the top of his head. Forcing his face against the most intimate part of your body, forcing his lips to work on your wet warmth, you seek more contact. 

Aemond adds a second finger. He can feel you tighten around him as he searches for that particular spot, as his tongue continues to play with your bundle of nerves.

As he devours what is his, utterly his.

His fingers, the ones that aren't buried inside you, close around the flesh of your hip in a possessive grip. "Come for me," he whispers against your womanhood, his eyes lifted to you. "I know you can do it."

Your breathing becomes more erratic, faster too. You tighten the grip of your fingers in his hair, your thighs pressing either side of his face, and he collects the sweet taste of your release on his tongue with a hum. 

You feel like you're floating. The waves of warmth still wash over you, less and less intense, your breast rising and falling as you catch your breath. 

Your hand tucks a lock of his hair back behind his ear as Aemond lifts his face towards you, and you rest your hand against his cheek. His parted lips still glisten with your desire smeared across the lower part of his face. He stares at you without moving, his deep, regular breathing the only sound to break the silence that has followed your release. You stay like that for a moment, his gaze burning into yours. At any moment he might pounce on you. At any moment he might close the tiny distance separating your mouths and press his lips against yours like the starving man he is.

It's you who makes the first move. You taste yourself on his lips and your tongue entwines with his in a fiery, demanding kiss.

Straightening up, Aemond creeps between your legs, his hand on the underside of your thighs, holding them apart. He is still completely naked from the night before, he has not bothered to get dressed after your lovemaking, so you can catch a glimpse of his erect manhood, slightly curved. He wraps his hand around to guide it towards your still sensitive wet entrance.

He slides into you easily, in one slow movement. The haste of the night before, the urgency of the reunion, has given way to the tenderness and laziness of the early morning, and Aemond rocks inside you slowly. His hips undulate, punctuated by long, deep thrusts, in an illusion of domesticity. 

But the damp sheets, rough against your skin, the discomfort of the hard mattress beneath your back, remind you that your lovemaking is anything but domestic.

For Aemond is still the enemy, for Aemond is supposed to be dead.

For your family is probably looking for you at this very moment, worried that you have not returned home for the night.

But you push those thoughts away. The weight of your uncle's body on top of yours soothes the knot that forms in the pit of your stomach at the thought of time slipping away, at the thought of having to leave him again, at the thought of this being the last time you will taste his lips, his skin.

Aemond is gentle, and that is rare enough to be worth mentioning. He has never been so gentle, so soft, in the limited time that you have been married.

Between you, there had been the devouring, consuming passion, the power play that in your submission had granted you dominance.

Between you it had been raw and devastating more than gentle and tender.

His fingers run the length of your body to your core, combining his slow, deep thrusts with the movement of his fingers against your clit.

There are only few words exchanged between you, as if you were both afraid to break the grace of the moment.

His panting, noisy breath echoes in the silence, skimming the skin of your throat, then mingling with yours as the shadow of his lips brushes against yours. He rests his forehead against yours, your hand cupping his cheek, sliding behind his neck, and you are transported into a cocoon of intimacy where nothing else exists around you.

There is only his body against yours, warm and reassuring.

There is only him inside you and the slow movement of his hips.

There is only your breathing, blending in the space that separates your mouths.

"Do you know how much I've missed you?" He whispers against your lips as you close your thighs around him. "How much I dreamed of this tight little cunt?" You swallow his words. Your hips meet his as he pushes against you. He is reaching deep inside you. Despite the intimacy of the moment, his body oozes power and darkness, and you can't help but be drawn to that side of him that complements yours so well. 

You can't stop your body from aching for him. 

"You could have been my queen," he says as his movements grow stronger. He won't last long, but neither will you. He's inside you, where you like to feel him, and your walls clench around his member. "And I would have set the whole world on fire for you." He thrusts. "Burned it to the ground" He thrusts again. "All for you." And again.

The old wood of the bed creaks with each of his movements.

You seek out his lips, just to brush them against yours. 

Without sealing the kiss.

"And I would have accepted," you answer with a whimper. "I would have been your queen, qybor." In another life, you think you would.

In another life, in another universe, you would have been his queen.

A grunt escapes his lips and lands in the hollow of your ear. Aemond straightens on his bent elbow, right next to your head, and he plunges into you one last time, with more power, more vigour, just as his new position allows.

You close your eyes. 

A second wave of warmth is about to engulf your body.

And you wait for it, you welcome it.

"Look at me when I come inside you," he growls hoarsely as his seed pours deep inside you, into the most intimate part of your body. "Look at me as I fill you up."

Your eyes lock with his, fiery as ever. A final moan escapes between your lips and you seal them to your uncle's in a feverish, wet kiss. You hold him in your arms for a moment longer, as if to allow yourself the luxury of illusion for a brief instant. 

You delay the fateful moment a little longer, fighting the minutes that inevitably slip through your fingers.

"Stay inside me just a little longer," you whisper, burying your head in the hollow of his neck where you can feel the rapid rhythm of his pulse. His arms close around you, holding you tight against him, and you hear him purr against the hair on the crown of your head. He rocks you gently.

The silence welcomes you both into its embrace and you savour it like a treasure. Your body aches in the sweetest way, your insides throbbing around his softening manhood. 

And around you, nothing exists anymore.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

"I've changed, you know." His hoarse voice vibrates against you, but you refuse to meet his eyes. You keep them closed. 

You're not sure if Aemond has really changed. Aemond is ruthless, cold, brutal, calculating, merciless. Cruel. You're not sure if Aemond can ever change, but he shows unusual tenderness, and maybe, just maybe, you allow yourself to doubt. You indulge in the illusion. 

Perhaps Vhagar's death has broken something in him. 

Perhaps it's true, perhaps he's not the same man anymore.

He's not sorry for what he has done. He never will be. He's too proud, even if you can catch the glimmer of remorse that colours his icy eyes when he is not looking at you.

Does he think of your little brother? Is he haunted by the memory of him, as you have been for so many years?

Does he think of the innocents he killed without flinching, the blood he spilled in the Riverlands that now stains the burned grass? 

Is his sanity slowly being eaten away by the atrocities he has committed with his own hands? 

He has changed. You are not sure if he's changed for the better or for the worse, but he has indeed.

Daemon has changed too. So has Rhaenyra. So has Jace.

You too have changed.

For war changes people, war makes them weary and wary, it shatters something in the body that will never be the same again. It hollows out the roundness of the cheeks, it deepens the dark circles under the eyes, it fades the sparkle of childhood that remains in the eyes.

Aemond seems to be waiting for an answer, but the words remain stuck in your throat. I know, you want to whisper, I know, but suddenly you've forgotten how to speak. His thumb draws the soft line of the underside of your breast.

The future terrifies you more than ever. You had made peace with your past, you had come to a conclusion that, even if it pained you, had given you some respite. 

Seeing your uncle alive had reawakened your demons. 

Spending the night in the embrace of his arms had revived everything you had buried deep, deep down. 

The past had returned, creeping towards you, gnawing at the corners of your heart and at what remained of your sense of stability and certainty. 

Now you are plunged into doubt. 

Just as you were a little over three years ago, when you were informed of his death, when you had to learn to live with the choice that had never really been given to you.

Just as three years ago, when you noticed a familiar lilac-tinged blue in Rhaegar's eyes.

Like when you had to live with the memories that haunted you, that were slowly eating away at what little sanity you had left.

Like when you finally decided to leave for the North.

Aemond seems to sense your anguish, because his fingers get lost in your hair. 

"What are we going to do now?" 

Finally, you dare to utter the inevitable words that have been hanging on the tip of your tongue since you woke up, words you've swallowed so many times this morning. You immediately blame yourself. 

Saying them only makes them more real.

They tear at something in the imaginary cocoon you've built for yourselves. You bury your face against his skin, breathe in his scent, as if you never want to forget him.

For you know how fleeting memories can be.

You remember how his face faded with each passing day.

You don't know if you'll ever be able to experience it a second time.

"We could leave," Aemond replies, as his fingers venture to your jaw, caressing the line of your cheeks with the back of his knuckles. 

He's so pragmatic, as always.

Even in this situation.

Even now.

It makes you want to shake him.

"We could run away," he says again. His gaze, fixed in the distance, falls on you at the same moment. "To Essos. Pentos. No one would know who we are." You close your eyes, and let his hoarse voice lull you into silence. "To start our own family, the three of us."

You know he is not serious. Even though he looks at you with such insistence, with that flame that flickers in the centre of his iris.

You relish his fantasy, this impossible dream. 

But you can't leave your family; Essos is not Winterfell. There, they knew where to find you. They knew you were safe. They knew you were sheltered between the walls of the northern castle, under the heavy furs, under the protection of Cregan Stark.

Essos is the unknown.

You cannot let your mother lose her only daughter, not after everything she has already lost. 

The itch is familiar, tickling at the corners of your eyes. There was a time when you thought you'd lost that sensitivity. When you thought the war had left you cold, incapable of feeling anything. Incapable of crying.

"You know I can't." Your nose rubs against his milky skin, made clammy by sweat. You keep your eyes closed because you feel the weight of his cold gaze on you, his furrowed eyebrows as he stares at you blankly, his lips pursed in a long, thin line. You don't have the courage to meet his accusing gaze, let alone the wounded look on his face as you crush all his illusory dreams into dust. 

When did you become the more pragmatic of the two? 

When did you become the one responsible for bringing Aemond back to reality?

It used to be you, the one who filled your mind with unrealistic dreams, the one who dreamed of stories and fairy tales, back when you could still dream. "They need me, you know that."

A sneer stretches across your uncle's lips as he swallows a chuckle that sounds more like an ironic growl. You feel his whole body tense against yours, a sign that he's holding back his annoyance. 

A sign that he has something to say, that he's upset, but doesn't quite know how to put it into words. 

"Like they needed you back then?" he replies scathingly, bitterness on the tip of his tongue. "When they used you as a bargaining chip to achieve their ends, hm?"  

Your red cheeks burn with shame, as if he'd slapped you. You don't move, merely swallow hard. You know there's something right about what he is saying, but you don't want to admit it. 

You've done your duty.

You've done what is expected of you as a daughter.

It was not a question of them using you. It never was. 

It was your duty, only your duty, what you were always meant to perform, wasn't it?

And yet a small voice in the back of your head had already given you a similar speech, a few years ago, but you had tried to silence it.

You refused to let Aemond admit it. You refuse to allow him to do it. He had no idea, no right to criticise your family when he'd acted like that.

When he has done what he has done.

He has no idea what it is like to be a daughter.

You don't answer, and silence falls between you again.

You wish so desperately that he could go home with you; that he could tell them that he's sorry.

You wish it were easier. 

There is no one left to wait for Aemond but you, but his son, you know that. His family has been decimated, as has yours in some ways, though you still have your parents and your older brother.

For your uncle, there's nothing left but the shadow of his existence, the shadow of who he once was, long ago.

You let your hand trace the side of his throat, your nose buried against it, your lips hovering over his skin. You lean against him, your body on top of his, pressed together as if you were afraid to let him go.

"You could come with me instead," you whisper, but you refuse to meet his gaze. There's something shameful in the words you've just spoken aloud, something naive, and your burning cheeks are proof of your embarrassment.

Almost imperceptibly, he clenches beneath you, holding his breath. This is a bad idea and you feel stupid. Naive to have dared to suggest something like this.

His voice purrs in a hm that vibrates against you. He's about to say something. He searches for words. "You know that -"

"I know." You cut him off sharply - a little more than you would have liked, your eyes raised to silence him.

You know what he thinks.

He thinks that Rhaenyra will never be his queen. He thinks he will never bend the knee to his eldest sister and her authority, which he doesn't recognise.

He thinks that with the death of Aegon, with the death of the children his brother fathered with Helaena, the throne belongs to him.

And you are aware of his ambitions. You know how perfectly the conqueror's crown fits his head. You know how it sets off the sapphire embedded in his eye socket. You remember the look of greed in his eyes every time he stared at the Iron Throne, you remember the look of pride on his face every time he scorned anyone who dared to question his decisions as Prince Regent.

You know how mercilessly he made the soldiers at Harrenhal kneel, forcing them to contemplate their impending deaths. You know the terror he has sown throughout the Riverlands.

Even in the Seven Hells you could have found more mercy than at the hands of Aemond Targaryen.

Aemond may have changed, but you're not sure he's changed enough to put aside the pride that is consuming him from within.

You take a deep breath. "You don't really have a choice, qybor." 

Fearing his reaction, you curl into a fetal position, your back to him, your knees drawn up to you. You close your eyes. You wait for his frustration.

You wait for his sentence.

You know that he is aware that he has no choice. 

He has only two options: swallow his pride or sink back into the abyss, disappear into the dark meanders of oblivion.

Rhaegar needed his father, of course, but you found him a father in Cregan Stark. 

That was a sacrifice you were willing to make.

There was no way you would give up what family you had left.

For Rhaegar needed his grandparents and his uncle even more.

Behind you, you feel your uncle's hand slip under your tunic and around your body, pulling you against him. He presses his bare chest against your back, tucking your head under his chin. His hand caresses your stomach, then his fingers brush the base of your breast.

"You know she will never be my queen. You know the throne belongs to -" But he lets the words drop without finishing the sentence, the knowledge of what he was about to say hanging in the air between you. 

As long as he remains alive, will the embers of war never truly be extinguished? 

You don't know, but you accept the risk. 

You close your eyes, as if you're about to jump into the icy depths with both feet.

"The rest is up to you, Aemond," you whisper, barely audible. "And if you have truly changed, then you will know how to make the right choice."

He says nothing. 

You savour the last few minutes of illusion you have left.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

The fear of making the wrong choice never really leaves you, but your mother chases your fears away, as she so often did when you were a child, tucking one of your dark curls behind your ear. She has her distinctive little smirk on her lips, the one that pulls the corner of her lips up towards her nose.  

The same one Lucerys had, you think sadly. 

You still miss him, even after all this time, and sometimes you wonder what kind of young man he would have become.

"You're a clever girl, my sweet clever girl," she whispers against your forehead as she cradles you in her arms. She's as beautiful as ever, as gentle with you as ever, despite the years, despite the wear and tear of war that has hardened her features and hollowed her cheeks. "And I know you have made the right decision." She lifts your chin with her forefinger to look into your eyes, and you feel like you're turning back into that shy, insecure girl who disappeared somewhere in the violence of the war all those years ago.

 "And if it should turn out that you were wrong... Daemon will be there to intervene. You know he is just waiting for that." You roll your eyes at her attempt at humour, and she plants a kiss on your forehead. 

For a split second, you truly are that carefree little girl again.

But behind your mother's humour lie fragments of reality that make your laughter bitter.

The news of your husband's survival remains a hazy blur in your mind. Sometimes you're not sure if this conversation really occurred or if you're dreaming.

You're not sure if what's around you, if the night you spent in Aemond's arms, is real or an invention of your sick mind.

Sometimes you're not really conscious of the events or how long they lasted, the lump in your stomach grows back, and once again you're destined to carve half-moons marks in the palms of your hands to soothe the tension in your body.

You told your mother first because you knew she'd be more understanding. As a mother, as a woman, she knows the meaning behind certain silences, the weight of words, the unspoken words that float between sentences. 

You know she can understand your pain and your doubts, but also your love and your compassion.

She was shocked when you told her that her younger brother was still alive. She smoothed her dress, paced back and forth, then took the time to sit down, her eyebrows furrowed, her eyes riveted to your face, looking for clues that would betray what you were thinking, what you might be hiding. She was afraid that he had hurt you. She was afraid that he would rip you away from her, just as he had once ripped your little brother away from her.

Her fingers had gently taken your hand and her thumb had drawn little circles on the back of your hand to comfort you. She listened to you first as you confessed everything. 

Where you were that night when you didn't come home. 

Who you were with.

And then she took you in her arms. She reassured you. Soothed you. 

You had been so afraid of disappointing her, of disappointing all of them, that the tension paralysing your body had finally loosened and you burst into tears.

Things had proved more complicated with Daemon. When he learned that his nephew was alive, that he wasn't forgotten forever in the deep waters of the lake near Harrenhal, he refused to believe you. He was furious. He said he had seen him fall, that he was the one who had taken his life, tearing the sky apart.

You didn't know where to look, and it was in your mother's eyes that you sought support, comfort, anything in the face of your stepfather's rage. You could feel on you the look of disappointment of your brother, Jace, as he held his shoulders up and his chin high. He wanted to prove that one day he would be a good king. With his jaw clenched, he said nothing, looking at you as if you were suddenly so foreign to him. He probably didn't know what to say, for fear of being clumsy, for fear of unintentionally hurting you, even more than by his lack of support. 

You know it wasn't his fault. 

He simply couldn't understand.

The words stuck in your throat and you found yourself unable to speak, pearls glittering in the corners of your eyes while you waited impatiently for the final blow.

The final death knell that would seal your disgrace in everyone's eyes.

After all you'd endured.

Daemon stood before you, his eyebrows furrowed, his eyes hard. He was staring at you as if you'd committed the ultimate treason, and you knew he was controlling himself to keep his anger from exploding. "You're going to bring him to me," he had hissed, his hand closing over your shoulder. 

" You will lure him here and he will be put to the sword." His tone left no room for argument. With the tension growing in your stomach, you sought your mother's compassionate look to calm you. You could see the fury in your stepfather's eyes, and also a mixture of fear and feelings of betrayal. You knew that, deep down, he was afraid for you because he considers you his daughter. Because Baela and Rhaena are like sisters to you. 

It was his reaction you feared most, not your mother's. His fingers dug into your skin, the floor slipping out from under you, the room swaying dangerously, and your mother had come to your rescue, trying to calm things down with her usual diplomacy.

You can't quite remember the words your stepfather said; in anger he muttered something that sounded like are you really thinking of becoming his whore again? and the words hurt like hell, but you tried to swallow the pain.

 Endure, hold your head high. That was what you had learned.

Your mother had suggested you go back to your room or spend some time with Rhaegar, her fingers gently stroking your dark locks, and as soon as you left the throne room you could hear their voices echoing through the door. 

They were arguing.

Over you.

Because of you, again.

You took a deep breath and returned to the gardens, where your two stepsisters were making your son laugh by playing with him. They had fun running around in the damp grass to the applause of Baela's little daughter, who clapped her little hands in delight.

Your fingers were still trembling when you joined them.

In the end a solution was found, for your mother feared losing you a second time. 

She remembered what had happened to Laenor, your father, when he had grown tired of the court.

She remembered what had happened to Helaena, your sweet aunt, when she could no longer bear to suffer.

It was her worst nightmare to see you torn from her again, now that she had the chance to hold you in her arms every day, to protect you again, to see you grow again.

It was her worst nightmare to see her only daughter, her only daughter and the second of her only surviving children, taken from her. 

You and Jace were all she had left of her own blood.

After long negotiations with Daemon, you had managed to bargain for your husband's life in exchange for strict conditions; increased surveillance, no bonding with a new dragon, no carrying of weapons, and the assurance that he would be executed if there was the slightest doubt about him. You proposed that you and he leave the capital, with your son as well. To return to Dragonstone. To start over on a new, blank page in a book that was already too damaged.

For you, it was also a way to ease the tensions between your family and Aemond, and perhaps find a more intimate life with your husband and son.

Rhaenyra had declared that this was the best solution: a guarantee for her to have you by her side again, a guarantee for her that you would be there.

You had been afraid of Aemond's reaction, afraid that his ego would not bear it; that he would refuse, that he would rather sentence himself to his own death than to an existence as a prisoner within his own family, condemned to live as a shadow of the man he had once been in exchange for seeing his son grow up. 

But in the end, wasn't he doomed to live as a shadow of the man he had once been, anyway?

He would never be the rider of Vhagar again.

He would never be the ruthless Prince Regent again.

He would never again be the second in line to the throne, the second son greedily waiting for fate to turn in his favour.

He hadn't been all of that for a good three years, lurking in the cold, gloomy corridors of Harrenhal like a lonely monster.

And if he went back, if he rejected your proposal, he would have condemned himself to eternal solitude at the side of a witch you would rather forget.

He had no choice, for he would never be that Aemond again. 

When you joined your husband at the meeting place, you were relieved to see him swallow his pride and accept. It was difficult, but you convinced him. 

For Rhaegar, for his son.

Aemond had suggested that you run away, far away from everything, and you almost hesitated. Running away would have allowed you to forget, of course. 

But your deepest wounds had begun to heal. You had begun to be able to face the ghosts that haunted King's Landing, the ghosts that haunted Dragonstone.

To stop there was tempting, and yet so frightening at the same time. 

The unknown terrified you. You needed familiarity now, something to fall back on, for you were so tired. 

Now you can't help bringing your thumb to your lips, nibbling the skin at the corner of your fingernail with the tip of your teeth as you walk away from Rhaenyra. A handmaiden brings you Rhaegar, and you struggle to breathe. 

You inhale.

You exhale.

The thick tuft of brown hair makes you smile. The sight of your son is enough to give you the courage to walk with a more confident stride. It's as if you were filled with new strength, for you know that he needs you more than anyone else. And for him, you've promised yourself to stay strong.

As soon as you reach him, you kneel and plant a kiss on his plump cheeks. 

He's growing up so fast that sometimes you wish you could stop time.

"There's someone who'd like to meet you, sweet boy," you explain, and you can recognise your mother's inflection in your own voice. Sweet boy. Rhaegar looks at you with big, round, questioning eyes, and you wonder if he senses your anxiety, because he takes your hand between his tiny fingers.

"Who, muña ?" he babbles, striding down the cobbled path in the middle of the gardens, hopping on his clumsy little legs, and you smile at his carefree attitude. He stops to watch the bees foraging, bends down to pick up a flower and gives it to you. He's always so curious, so full of life. He's a ray of sunshine that brightens your dull days. You finally understand your mother, the agonising fear she has of losing you. You finally understand the horror she experienced when she lost her four other children.

You also finally understand why Helena threw herself from Maegor's Holdfast.

The thought of what Daemon did still revolts you, and you can't imagine anyone hurting your boy like that.

You turn around. Rhaenyra is still there, in the distance, her crown on her head, her hands crossed in front of her on the heavy fabric of her dress, watching over you. She won't move, a comforting, discreet presence.

A stone bench awaits you by the fountain, on which two cushions have been arranged. A dessert buffet has been set up under the gazebo and you immediately spot your favourite cakes, the strawberry one, the blackberry jam one, and you look down at your son. He hasn't noticed them yet, or he would have already run over, dipped his finger in the whipped cream and stolen a blueberry from one of the tarts, his innocent expression on his face. 

He is definitely a lot like you. Mischievous and clever. An angelic air. He is an easy-going child who never throws a tantrum.

Who understands quickly, too. 

"I love you. I love you more than anything, you know that, don't you, young boy?" your tone is soft, and you kneel down in front of him, your hands on his small shoulders to emphasise the seriousness of your discussion. You search for your words, hesitating. How do you tell a three-year-old that his father, his dead father, is back from the dead and about to meet him?

Of course, Rhaegar knows that his birthfather was valiant, that his birthfather rode the greatest dragon in the world, that his birthfather died in battle.

But there is so much he doesn't know, so much he will inevitably learn as he grows up, and it is precisely that future that frightens you. You hug him as if you're afraid of losing him.

"Princess."

The deep voice of your sworn protector echoes behind you, and you straighten your skirt. 

You know he is there. 

You know you will see him the moment you turn around.

Your heartbeat quickens.

Aemond Targaryen stands behind your sworn protector, surrounded by two guards. His hands are bound in front of him. 

It is so strange to see your uncle in this vulnerable position. He who for so long has been on the other side, he who for so long has been the one who bent others to his will. He looks at you harshly, and you almost feel the need to apologise.

But you know it is a matter of caution.

You know that Daemon, you know that Jace and even your mother would never have agreed to bring him in if such precautions hadn't been taken.

You admire his resilience, his determination. You admire his ability to hold his head high, to be confident, despite the fact that he is being treated like a common prisoner, about to be sentenced to death.

You struggle to swallow the lump that has formed in your throat. 

"Who's that, muña?" Aemond's eyes leave you and immediately drop to the small figure that has appeared beside you, reaching for your hand, huddling against your leg, shy and worried. 

Immediately, your husband's icy gaze, his lilac-coloured eyes, soften.

"Thank you, Sir Rowan. You may leave us."

Despite the worry on his face, your sworn protector nods, unties his prisoner's hands and walks back to your mother, accompanied by the other two guards. You watch them leave, and a strange silence fills the space between you and your uncle.

He doesn't look at you; his eyes are riveted to your son, whom he observes with wonder. He looks as if he is admiring the most beautiful and fascinating discovery he has ever seen. You look down to see Rhaegar's reaction, and he seems as intimidated as he is hypnotised by that gaze, by that blue and purple eye so similar to his owns, by this man looking at him as if he were one of the most marvellous things in the world. 

"Gods, he's perfect," Aemond murmurs as he looks up at you, emerging from his trance. He comes closer to embrace you. And for once, there is something other than his usual brutal possessiveness and ferocity when his arms close around you.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Aemond is shy at first. Awkward. 

He's shy and amazed as he follows your son's every move with his good eye. From time to time, his gaze rests on you, as if to make sure he's not dreaming. As if to make sure he is doing right, seeking your approval.

Rhaegar is shy too, at first.

When he sits on your lap, he snuggles up to you, buries his face in your neck, one of your locks curled in his chubby little hand and he rubs it against his nose. From time to time, he turns to give his father a curious look, recognising his own eyes in the unfamiliar face before him. 

Aemond's expression grows gentler, a softness never seen in his features before.

Once he has tamed the stranger, the little boy pecks at the blueberries in the tart in front of him. He shakes his legs, hitting your knees in painful little jabs, and your arm wraps around his body to hold him down.

Rhaegar loves cake, and the sugar may be coaxing him, for he's regaining his appetite for talking.

"He really does have my eyes," Aemond whispers incredulously, and his voice, still foreign to his son's ears, causes the little boy to lift his head.

" It is definitely the only thing he has inherited from you," you reply, teasing him with a small smile at the corner of your lips.

Soon Rhaegar finishes the blueberry tart, the cream smeared over the bottom of his face and the tip of his nose.

"He inherited that from you, that is certain." Aemond grins, pointing with his long chin at the boy's voracious appetite for cakes and pastries.

You have to pinch yourself to make sure you're not dreaming. That your husband is really standing in front of you, with your son, like a normal family. 

That he was truly trying to tell a joke.

This form of domesticity is so alien to your relationship, and yet so pleasant, that you find yourself thinking that perhaps you have made the right decision, indeed, if every day can be like this. 

"Your muña deserves some cake too, what do you say, little one?"

Rhaegar giggles. Aemond cuts a slice of your favourite cake, the one with the strawberries, and puts it on your plate. 

You blush. After all these years, he hasn't forgotten which one is your favourite.

You can't even really whisper a thank you because this apparent domesticity, this feeling of completeness, this interlude of happiness makes you uneasy. Anxious.

You have the feeling that at any moment you'll be plunged back into the horror of what you went through all those years ago. 

You have the feeling that at any moment the Gods will be cruel and snatch away this happiness that you've barely been able to taste, leaving only the memory of its sweet taste on your lips.

You breathe in and out, as you often do when you feel your palpitations rising in your chest.

"Do you... do you want to take him on your lap?" you ask your uncle with shyness, your hand stroking Rhaegar's thick brown curls. Aemond looks at you as if you have spoken in a foreign language. Lips parted, he is about to say something, but not a sound escapes his lips. His lonely eye travels from you to your son, from your son to you, in silence.

"I don't know if -"

You can hear the doubt in his voice, and it's almost touching to see him lose his confidence in front of his own son, to see him so nervous and unsure of himself.

You let out a little laugh, not in mockery, obviously, just full of tenderness.

You know what he's thinking.

He's afraid of frightening him.

He's afraid of harming him.

"You won't hurt him, Aemond."

He answers nothing. He still doesn't like to look vulnerable, unsure, and you know it has to do with his childhood. With all he has kept bottled up inside him all these years. He will need time.

Your eyes fall back to the little boy sitting in your lap, and you draw his attention to yourself by stroking the curls on his forehead.

"Do you want to go to Aemond for a while? To kepus?" 

you correct yourself immediately, and Rhaegar nods in agreement.

You are amazed at how easily he slips off your legs to run to his father, to pull himself onto his lap, when only a few hours ago he was so intimidated by the presence of this stranger with the eyepatch.

Your uncle automatically puts his arm around his waist to make him feel comfortable, his new role taking root in him. His fingers reach for the cloth on the table, and he wipes Rhaegar's face, who can't help but burst out laughing at his father's clumsy gestures.

For a split second you are lost in contemplating the horizon, the stillness of the sea. You taste the sea breeze on your face.

And then you turn your head towards the cobbled path where the guards and your sworn protector are still stationed. 

Your mother is no longer there, and you notice that you have not at any time felt the need to seek comfort in her presence. 

You smile, for in the end you know you've made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** 

Dragonstone, 6 months later.

When you walk the corridors of the place that saw you grow up, you are no longer haunted by the ghosts and their incessant cries. A kind of peace has settled over you, a return to the pleasant familiarity you've waited so long for.

You still think of Luke, of course. Of Luke and Joff and little Aegon and Viserys, your brothers you will never see grow old. 

But you no longer feel their disapproving glances at every step you take. You are no longer kept awake by their cries, by their tears, by the remorse that twists your stomach. 

You no longer blame yourself. 

Perhaps you've finally learnt to make peace with yourself.

The heavy door of the bedroom you share with Aemond is half open, and you slip your head into the doorway, piqued by curiosity.

Snuggled on your husband's lap, Rhaegar is staring at the pages of a large book, the corners of which you can guess are horned, the cover worn, from being carried everywhere. You can imagine the jam stains that mark the paper with children's fingerprints. You know exactly which page is missing, the one you and Aemond accidentally tore out and hid so the Septa wouldn't notice, so many years ago. 

It is a book about dragons, the very one the two of you used to read hidden under the table when you were so young and innocent, long before the torment of war.

Without a sound, you lean against the doorframe and contemplate for a moment the perfect vision before you.

You don't have the cruelty to disturb them.

 "This one is Vhaegar!" shouts Rhaegar, and you hold your breath, searching Aemond's face for any hint that might betray his reaction. The mention of his former dragon is still a sensitive subject for him, you know it.

"Yes, that's Vhagar." he pauses. "She was brave."

From the corner of his eye, Aemond spots your silhouette in the faint glow of the corridor, and his attention lingers on you for a moment. He's almost embarrassed to be caught in such a vulnerable, intimate moment, but you smile tenderly to encourage him.

"And big!" the little boy adds, energetically raising his arms to the sky to emphasise his words.

"Yes, and big." There's a suspended moment of silence where the words hang in the air, and then your husband gently ruffles his son's hair. It's a tender sight to see them bond like this, and your heart fills with happiness.

Taking a step forward, you step into the light of the room and Rhaegar expresses his joy at seeing you. You smile back at him and approach the chair where Aemond sits, your son on his lap.

Your uncle's hand instantly rests on the curve of your belly, which he still stares at with the same protective instinct, the same fascination, as the day you told him the news. His eyes sparkle.

"Your daughter is restless today."

He looks up at you, not without lingering for a moment on your breasts and their new shape.

"My daughter?" he asks, one eyebrow raised inquisitively.

"I'm convinced it's a girl. You reply, smiling wryly, and take a seat in the armchair next to the one where Aemond and your son are sitting, facing the fireplace. "And she took after her father, given her temper," you tease him, your hand on the top of your rounded belly to soothe the baby growing there. 

Rhaegar's eyes close slowly. Nestled against the chest of the man who, just a few months ago, was still a stranger, he fights sleep, he fights to stay awake, but tiredness quickly overcomes him. And then he falls asleep, his mouth half open, the movements of his breath making his chest rise and fall rhythmically.

Aemond finally gets up. You follow his movements with your eyes as he approaches you, the child in his arms, and he plants a kiss on the top of his head.

"I'm going to put him to bed. I'll be right back." He straightens and lowers his voice.

"I wouldn't fail in my duty and neglect my wife." The heat rises to your cheeks, turning them red at the implication of what awaits you tonight. You're already wet between your thighs at the thought. 

But you nod in agreement and watch him walk away. 

You are left alone in the silence of the room. The only sound around you is the steady crackling of the fire.

It's strange, you think, to be back on Dragonstone, in the familiarity of the stones you've spent most of your life between, after getting used to the idea of not surviving the war.

To the idea of dying from a broken heart.

To the idea of dying, the umpteenth victim of the vicious spiral of conflict that has torn your family apart.

And yet here you are.

With your own family.

For once you have hope for the future. You hear the cries of your little brother, lost in the storm so long ago, but they are quickly replaced by the laughter of a happy memory. 

And finally, you have the absolute confirmation that you have made the right decision.

*** *** *** *** ***

Thank you so much for reading!! <3

Tag list : @minttea07 @queenofshinigamis (I'm tagging you since you asked for it ❤️)

[oswildin]

Fate (Loki x Witch!Reader)

Summary: You’re a witch who has been visiting Loki, but he doesn’t know your intentions, nor whether you are even real… But talk about fate and his place in the universe, leaves him with more questions than answers. Set around the time of Thor The Dark World, before Frigga’s death and references the events of Disney+ Loki series.

Rating: PG/All Ages

A/N: Reader has GN pronouns/no descriptors or name, but is described as a witch. Inspired by my pov on TikTok, which is inspired by Alys & Daemon from HOTD.

LOKI MASTERLIST

The crowd cheered and clapped, utterly delighted and enthused by their new King. He was their leader, their ruler, their light in the darkness… And they adored him. They saw him as worthy of his place upon the throne, accepted him completely without resistance… He basked in the golden light that was shining on him, arms spread wide in pride and acceptance of their adoration.

It was everything—

“—you have always wanted… isn’t it?”

The voice broke him from his celebration, his glory… His arms lowered, the royal rouge cape around his neck suddenly feeling weightier. His shoulders sagged, the victorious smile that he had been moments ago fading from his face.

“I see Sif… The Warriors Three…” The voice continued, light yet holding a weight which only seemed to make the cape draped around him feel heavier somehow. “Faces of those you do not know the names of…”

He let out a breath, his back remaining to the one had interrupted his glorious moment.

“And yet… I see no one of great importance to you.”

Green shimmer fell over the crowd that had been cheering before him, each nameless face disappearing, each voice ceasing as the illusion faded. The weight of the illusionary cape also dissipated as it shimmered away from his shoulders, the golden hue of the throne room returning to his reality.

A cell.

Loki’s jaw tightened, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out of the golden barrier that kept him from the outside world, more inmates entering Odin’s prison to be locked away.

“Don’t you find it strange?” The voice continued, a feigned curiosity in their tone. Loki slowly turned on his heel, his cyan eyes finally landing on the figure of the voice… The figure who had been visiting him as of late. He did not know who they were, or why they were there… He didn’t even know if they were real or merely another illusion.

Your eyes held Loki’s, unwavering, standing in the middle of his white walled cell. A faint smirk tugged at your lip, almost indiscernible as you took a small step closer. He had yet to say a word.

“How those who you regard as family are no where to be seen?” You pressed, probed, watching his reaction closely. Loki paced leisurely towards the chair in his cell before coming to a stop behind it, his hands moving to rest upon the back of the chair. His body leaned forwards, the chair supporting some of his weight as he narrowed his eyes, tilting his head faintly.

“It’s your illusion, is it not?” You asked, raising a brow, a slight shrug. “And yet you did not conjure them in it.”

“They do not matter.” He finally spoke, voice low yet holding an edge of lightness in it to match the dismissal of his words.

“No?”

“No.”

You hummed thoughtfully, letting out a breath, turning away from him to let your eyes wander over what items he was permitted in his cell - books, a small ornate table, a cot… You moved to the table, finding a book on its surface as you reached to gently pick it up, eyeing it.

Tangible.

Loki’s brows twitched slightly, lips pursing. Pushing himself from the chair, he once more began slowly pacing, not from restlessness but intrigue.

“You are a liar.” You stated simply, making Loki let out a huff of sardonic laughter.

“Am I supposed to be impressed by that observation?” He raised a brow, a hint of wryness to his words. “It’s a statement that quite a few have expressed about me.”

“I mean, you are lying to yourself.”

You let the book drop back to the table with a slight thud, Loki’s amusement quickly turning into irritation, observing as you glanced at him over your shoulder. A breathy laugh left your lips at the spark of anger in his eyes.

“Your anger blinds you.” You stated, making Loki shake his head slightly. “You let it control you.”

“It guides me.” He argued.

“Your actions say otherwise…” You sighed, moving to the chair he had just been stood by, lowering yourself to take a seat.

“My actions?” Loki repeated, a hint of disbelief. “I was merely giving truth-“ He continued lowly, his steps changing direction to stalk towards you. “-to the lie I have been fed my entire life…” He stopped before you, his sharp gaze boring into your unfazed eyes. “That I was born to be a King.”

You leaned back in the chair, elbows resting on its arms, casual - leisurely almost. It made Loki’s jaw twitch. “Perhaps those who strive for the crown are the least suited to wear it-“

“Do not lecture me.” Loki’s sharp tone cut you off, a dangerous edge to his voice. It was a warning. Maybe even a plea. You remained unbothered, looking up at him as his tall figure cast a long shadow over you. Silence fell between you, the faint hum of the golden barrier filling the space as you held one another’s gazes, almost daring the other to look away first.

“It is not a prize to be won…” You murmured. “But a burden to bear.” A pause. “You know this.”

Loki made a sound of frustration, eyes fluttering as his head snapped away, turning sharply on his heel to pace once again. You straightened in the chair, leaning forwards slightly as you watched him.

“I love Thor more dearly than any of you, but you know what he is.”

Loki’s steps halted, his posture tensing as he heard his own voice fill the space, words he had once spoken. His back remained turned towards you, his hands clenching at his sides.

“He's arrogant, he's reckless, he's dangerous! You saw how he was today. Is that what Asgard needs from its King?”

The question Loki had once uttered echoed slightly around the cell, almost taunting him. It was then he slowly, almost reluctantly, turned to look at you, seeing you now stood. You were approaching him, your expression unreadable. “Dangerous…” You breathed out, furrowing your brows. “And yet, that is what you sought to be during your time on Midgard…” Loki released an audible breath, his chest heaving slightly. “All because you desired a throne… Correct?”

Loki’s eyes searched yours, hearing the doubt in your voice. It was like you could see right through him, and he disliked it. He loathed it. It unsettled him in a way he hadn’t felt before. And the worst part was… You were right. You knew it was more than his so-called desire for a throne… It was about him wanting to be seen as worthy, to step out from the shadow he had been shrouded in, to avoid the consequences of failing Thanos…

“All your life… you have sought to command your own fate…” You spoke, almost softly, barely above a whisper, now stood right before him. Loki remained silent again. “But you… you are piece on the board…” Your hand slowly raised, tentative. Loki watched it cautiously, a faint sheen in his eyes as he blinked. “As am I…” Your fingers made contact with the skin of his cheek, light but…

Tangible.

Real.

Loki released a breath, unable to understand your reasons, your intent.

“There are things in this universe that are older than you or I…” You continued quietly, your eyes flickering over his features. “Stories and roles at play that we are not able to see or fathom.”

“And what is my place in all of it?” The words left Loki in a whisper, the touch of your fingers on his cheek somehow comforting. He had been alone for nearly a year, besides his mother’s illusionary visits… Unable to touch, to be held. A small, almost solemn smile tugged at your lips.

“Your place…” You raised your chin faintly. “Is not now, but in the past.” Loki’s brows furrowed at your words, they didn’t make much sense. They felt deliberately cryptic and vague, but… truthful. “And that past is the present… And the future.”

Loki’s hand moved quick, his fingers wrapping around your wrist of the hand that was touching his face, his grip firm but gentle. You took a breath, eyes flickering to his hand around your wrist.

“Speak plainly.” He demanded, his tone softer than he had intended.

“I do.” You whispered. Loki’s grip tightened ever so slightly, not to cause fear or pain, but almost in desperation to understand.

“Your birthright… was to die!”

Loki’s grip faltered as Odin’s words echoed in the cell, words his father had spoken to him so coldly and cruelly… Right before he was thrown in his cell… Alone.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

It was his voice. But not words he could recount ever saying. At least… not aloud. His breath caught, his hand pulling away from your wrist as if you had scalded him, the tears now evident in his gaze as he took a stumbling step back. His lips were parted, brows creasing in a mix of anger and confusion.

“Witch.” He breathed out, but unlike most who uttered the word, there was no malice. Your hand remained in the air a second longer before dropping to your side, blinking.

“I’m afraid so.” You smirked faintly, wry.

Loki shook his head, hand moving to run through his raven hair, willing his composure to return. “They do not see you.” He stated, glancing out towards the passing Einherjar who were doing their patrol.

“They do not.” You confirmed, nodding once. “You are no stranger to magic.” You raised a brow. “You know it’s a simple spell.”

Loki huffed out a wry sound, closing his eyes as he turned away from you again. “Your path is set.” You spoke again, voice resolute yet holding a hint of sympathy. “And I am sorry.” You whispered, making Loki frown. “But all paths must come to an end.”

Your words hung in the air between you, Loki processing its cryptic nature, a shiver going down his spine. It sounded like a promise. But one that you seemed to be regretting having to make.

No.

Loki spun on his heel, lips parted as he went to reply, to deny his fate, but as his gaze fell to the spot you had been stood in, he found it empty. You were gone. Without a trace. Or so he thought. His eyes dropped to the book you had picked up earlier on the ornate table, brows furrowing as he noticed the cover had changed. Tentatively, he approached it, eyes fixed on the book. Leaning down, his slender fingers grasped the book, picking it up as he took in the cover.

Yggdrasil.

He let out a breath, unsure of what it meant, eyes flickering around his cell to search for any sign of you. But nothing. Questions. He had so many. But he felt he knew you wouldn’t give them so easily anyway. And so, all he could do… was wait. Let his mind go over your words. As he looked back down at the book, he found it had returned to its original state, the leather no longer holding a carving of Yggdrasil.

Witch, indeed.

[shadyfestivalperfection]

Love, Lies And Loki~12

Summery: Loki proposes to Y/n on their anniversary.

Characters: Loki x girlfriend!reader

Note: All characters except Loki are mine!

||Master List||

13. Union Of Realms And Heart (P-2 Of Four Years Of Forever )

💍Four Years Of Forever 💍

The sky was soaked in hues of violet and rose, the last embers of the sunset flickering across the horizon. A soft breeze teased the edge of the lake, rustling the tall grass as evening stretched its arms across the forest clearing. The tiny log cabin tucked in between the trees stood like a well-kept secret — charming, warm, and silent — save for the soft music drifting from its windows.

Inside, Y/N twirled around the open living room, barefoot, holding a glass of wine, a peaceful smile on her face. The fire crackled, its glow casting warm shadows over the floorboards, and fairy lights Loki had conjured — small floating stars — danced gently near the ceiling.

She turned toward the kitchen, voice light, “You’re being suspiciously quiet, Mischief King. Plotting something?”

Loki chuckled from behind the stove where he stood in a black shirt rolled up at the sleeves, stirring something fragrant. “Plotting? Me? Darling, I am but a humble chef this evening.”

Y/N leaned on the counter, eyes twinkling. “You haven’t cooked in weeks.”

“I’m celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

He tilted his head, his expression unreadable — but his eyes, sea-glass green and filled with affection, gave him away. “Us.”

That made her chest warm. “Four years,” she whispered.

“Four years,” he repeated softly. “Of tolerating your terribly mortal jokes, your strange addiction to tea, and your insistence on sleeping diagonally on the bed.”

“Oh please,” she scoffed, “you love all of that.”

“I do,” he said simply, stirring the sauce. “More than you’ll ever know.”

⸻

Dinner was perfection. Loki had prepared a creamy truffle pasta, paired with warm garlic bread and a sparkling rosé. They ate on the deck under the stars, a floating illusion of constellations swirling overhead — a personal gift from him to her.

Y/N rested her head on his shoulder when she was full, and they sat in silence, watching the sky paint itself anew.

“Remember the first time you took me to Asgard?” she murmured.

Loki smiled against her hair. “You almost punched Thor.”

“He told me mortals were like kittens.”

“You are, sometimes.”

She elbowed him, and he laughed.

“I remember the first time I saw you,” Loki said, his voice suddenly lower. “You were at that café, typing on your laptop, looking like you could murder your to-do list with a glance.”

Y/N chuckled. “I was writing a report on ancient Norse mythology. You walked up and told me it was all wrong.”

“Because it was,” he said smugly. “I lived it.”

“You were so cocky.”

“You were so skeptical.”

“I still am,” she teased, reaching for his hand. “You’re full of mischief and mystery. But… I’ve loved every version of you I’ve seen.”

Loki’s gaze lingered on her, thoughtful. The soft lines of his face were almost solemn now.

“Y/N,” he said, carefully. “I’ve lived thousands of years. I’ve seen realms burn, stars fade, people rise and fall. And yet…” He paused, fingers gently brushing over hers. “None of it compares to what I’ve felt these past four years with you.”

The air shifted. Something tender, fragile. Real.

“You see me — not as a prince or a villain or a god. Just… me. And that is rarer than you know.”

Y/N reached up and cradled his cheek. “I love all of you. Even the parts you try to hide.”

He turned his face slightly, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“I’ve been carrying something with me,” he said softly. Then, he stood. “Come.”

⸻

They walked down to the edge of the lake. The stars reflected off the still water like glass, and the moon hovered like a sentinel. Loki snapped his fingers, and a floating walkway of silver light stretched across the surface.

Y/N’s eyes widened. “Show-off.”

He winked, holding out a hand. “Wouldn’t be me otherwise.”

They walked hand in hand over the glowing path, silence sitting comfortably between them. At the center of the lake, Loki waved his fingers — and a small platform rose from the water, solid and warm, like polished stone. On it sat a low table, two candles, and a familiar leather-bound book.

Y/N blinked. “That’s… my journal?”

“The one you left open on the counter last week,” he said. “I may have peeked.”

“You peeked? Loki!”

“Only at one entry,” he defended quickly, lips twitching. “The one about our third anniversary. You wrote…” He cleared his throat. “‘I could see myself marrying him. God or not, chaos or not. He’s my safe place.’”

Y/N froze, breath catching.

Loki reached into his coat and pulled out a small velvet box.

“I know I’m not easy to love,” he said quietly. “I’ve hurt people. I’ve lied, fought, and fallen. But with you… I’m better. I want to be better. And not just for you — for us.”

He dropped to one knee.

Y/N’s hands flew to her mouth.

“Y/N,” Loki said, his voice steady but laced with emotion, “will you make the next thousand years less unbearable by marrying me?”

She blinked, already crying. “You didn’t even let me put on mascara today, you absolute jerk.”

He grinned. “Is that a yes?”

She tackled him to the ground with a hug, laughing and crying all at once. “Of course it’s a yes!”

The box tumbled open, revealing a ring unlike any other — a sleek band made of stardust-forged metal, with a glowing green gem at its heart. The light pulsed like magic, like something alive.

Loki slid it onto her finger, then leaned in and kissed her — slow, reverent, like it meant something holy.

Because it did.

⸻

Back in the cabin, after hours of kisses, slow dancing, and giggling over how Nyx the cat had pawed at the ring in awe, Y/N lay in bed with Loki’s arm around her.

“I can’t believe you read my journal,” she whispered, half-amused, half-exasperated.

“I was going to propose anyway,” Loki said. “That just… confirmed it.”

Y/N turned to face him. “You were scared.”

“Terrified,” he admitted. “I kept thinking — what if I’m still too broken? What if she deserves better?”

She brushed her nose against his. “You’re not broken, Loki. You’re healing. You’re trying. That’s what matters.”

He kissed her forehead, his hold tightening.

“I promise,” he whispered, “to never give you a reason to doubt that again.”

She smiled. “Then I guess I’ll have to plan a wedding.”

“I’ve already started,” he said smugly. “Thor’s banned from toasts. And we’re not having roses. Too cliché.”

“Gods help me,” she groaned.

“You chose this,” he said proudly. “You chose me.”

And Y/N, nestled in the arms of the God of Mischief, engagement ring glowing softly in the moonlight, could only think one thing:

She’d choose him again — in every lifetime.

The morning after the proposal, Y/N woke up tangled in linen sheets, with Loki’s arm draped possessively over her waist and his face buried in the crook of her neck. The soft rise and fall of his breath against her skin was enough to make her want to stay like that forever.

But the glint of her ring caught the light, and a little spark of joy ignited in her chest all over again.

She smiled, twisting around carefully to face him. “Morning, fiancé.”

Loki stirred, eyes still closed. “Hmm. Say it again.”

She leaned in, brushing her nose against his. “Good morning, my ridiculously attractive, absurdly dramatic fiancé.”

His lips curled up lazily. “Much better.”

⸻

By the time they’d eaten and packed their bags, Y/N had one goal in mind: tell Thor and Brunnhilde. They were some of the few people in Loki’s life who mattered in that deeply tangled, unspoken family way.

Thor had been like a golden retriever of an older brother — loud, proud, and nosy. Brunnhilde was more like that sarcastic, wine-loving aunt you didn’t see often but loved dearly.

And Y/N? She wanted them to be part of the beginning of this next chapter.

Loki, on the other hand, looked like someone was dragging him toward trial by combat.

“They’re going to be insufferable,” he muttered as the bifrost shimmered and brought them into New Asgard.

Y/N took his hand, the wind ruffling her coat. “You mean they’re going to be happy.”

“Loudly.”

She grinned. “That’s the best kind of happy.”

⸻

(New Asgard)

Thor was the first to spot them, striding across the town square with a barrel of mead hoisted over one shoulder. He nearly dropped it when he saw the two of them.

“Brother!” he bellowed. “What a surprise! And Y/N! Did you come to escape Loki’s brooding nonsense and seek real entertainment?”

“Hello to you too, Thor,” Loki muttered with an eye-roll.

But Y/N stepped forward and hugged Thor tightly. “It’s good to see you.”

“Even better now,” Thor said with a hearty grin. “Come, come! We must drink! Celebrate your arrival!”

Loki exchanged a look with her as they followed Thor toward the longhouse.

“You ready for this?” she whispered.

“I’m more nervous than I was proposing,” he deadpanned.

⸻

Inside, Brunnhilde was lounging near the fireplace with her boots on the table and a half-empty bottle of wine beside her. Her braid was undone, and she looked up when the trio entered.

“Well, well,” she drawled. “Look who decided to grace us with their high-and-mighty presence.”

Loki raised an eyebrow. “You’re still drunk from last night, aren’t you?”

“Probably.”

Y/N stepped forward, squeezing Loki’s hand. “Actually… we have some news.”

“Oh gods,” Thor said immediately. “Are you pregnant?”

“What?!” both Loki and Y/N shouted in unison.

Brunnhilde snorted wine out of her nose.

“NO,” Y/N clarified, waving her hands. “Definitely not.”

Loki groaned. “Honestly, what is it with assuming any announcement must involve offspring?”

“I was just guessing!” Thor laughed. “Fine, what is it then?”

Y/N took a deep breath, then held out her left hand.

The green gem shimmered.

Brunnhilde blinked. “Is that what I think it is?”

Loki wrapped an arm around Y/N’s waist and pulled her close. “We’re engaged.”

Thor’s jaw dropped.

Brunnhilde stood, crossing the room in a few strides. “Wait, wait, wait — are you serious?”

“Yes,” Y/N said, beaming.

Brunnhilde looked at Loki. “You? You proposed?”

“I am capable of sentiment,” Loki said, indignant.

Thor, now beaming like the sun, barreled forward and wrapped both of them in a hug so tight Y/N actually squeaked.

“This is WONDERFUL!” he cried. “Brother, finally! You’ve done something that makes sense!”

“Can’t breathe,” Loki muttered.

Brunnhilde leaned against the table, watching them with something almost soft in her expression. “Took you long enough, Mischief.”

Loki looked flustered. “Yes, well. She said yes, didn’t she?”

Y/N slipped her hand into his. “I said yes the moment I fell in love with you.”

Thor raised his glass. “Then let’s drink to it!”

⸻

They sat around a roaring fire in the longhouse’s great hall, plates of food scattered and mead mugs nearly empty.

“So,” Brunnhilde asked, legs stretched across a bench, “when’s the big day?”

“We haven’t picked a date yet,” Y/N said. “But… soon. We don’t want to wait too long.”

“Summer weddings are beautiful,” Thor offered. “Sunlight over the fjords, feasting under the stars, epic dancing…”

“Thor,” Loki interjected dryly, “this isn’t your wedding.”

“But it could be a spectacle!”

Brunnhilde leaned over. “Are we doing Asgardian or Midgardian style?”

Y/N looked to Loki. “Honestly? A mix.”

“I want your traditions in there too,” she said.

Loki softened, his eyes thoughtful. “Then I’ll make sure the ceremony includes a blessing from Frigga’s rites — she would have adored you.”

Thor’s smile faltered briefly at the mention of their mother, but he nodded with

warmth. “She would’ve been proud.”

⸻

The next day, Brunnhilde took Y/N to the town tailor while Loki and Thor sparred outside. Or rather, argued with swords in hand.

“You’re not wearing black for your own wedding, are you?” Thor asked between parries.

Loki sidestepped. “It’s elegant.”

“It’s depressing.”

“It’s classic.”

Y/N, meanwhile, was twirling in front of a mirror in a stunning gown that shimmered between cream and moonlight depending on the angle.

Brunnhilde sipped her flask. “You’re going to make him faint.”

Y/N turned. “You think so?”

“Oh yeah. He’ll pretend to be composed, but his eyes will give him away.”

⸻

Loki and Y/N curled up together under the covers, maps and scraps of paper with guest lists and flower choices spread around them.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she whispered.

Loki turned to her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Does it feel too fast?”

“No. It feels… right.”

He kissed her knuckles, right over the ring. “I’m going to marry you, Y/N. No tricks. No illusions.”

She smiled. “And I get to say ‘Loki Laufeyson, my husband.’ That has a nice ring to it.”

“Better than ‘Mischief King’?”

She laughed. “That’s a close second.”

⸻

Wedding Planning Highlights (over the next few days):

• Thor volunteers to give a toast. Loki vetoes it immediately. Thor pouts. Y/N negotiates that Thor can speak after the ceremony, but only if he promises no embarrassing stories. Thor solemnly swears — which means absolutely nothing.

• Brunnhilde helps choose the venue: a seaside cliff with open skies and wildflowers. “It’s chaos-proof,” she tells Loki. “You’ll thank me when the fireworks start.”

• Loki insists on a magical wardrobe change mid-ceremony for dramatic effect. Y/N agrees… on the condition he doesn’t disappear and reappear halfway through.

• They both write their vows separately. Loki locks his away with a spell. Y/N hides hers in her sock drawer. They make a pact not to peek.

⸻

Their last night in New Asgard, the four of them sat around a bonfire.

Y/N looked around the circle — Thor, tipsy and glowing; Brunnhilde, quiet but content; and Loki, her Loki, holding her hand.

“I never imagined this,” she said. “Not in a thousand dreams.”

Loki turned to her. “And yet, here you are.”

Brunnhilde raised her drink. “To love.”

Thor added, “To family.”

Loki looked at Y/N.

“To forever,” he said.

And she believed him.

-to be continued

[lunarwritesthings]

: ̗̀➛ The Unfortunate Move

➥ Paring: Edge x Gn!Reader

➥ Requested: No

➥ Summary: When a move in the match goes wrong, but no one realizes until you haven't moved since being pinned. What happens when your tag team partner and friend realizes and drops everything for you?

➥ A/N: This doesn't exactly take place in a certain year, besides being after Edge got his neck injury.....I also may have left the ending open incase people want a second part. 👀

Life can change all too quickly, one minute you can be in the match of your career the next minute you can be unmoving on the mat. The next thing you know you're waking up in the hospital with a broken neck. However, let's start from the beginning.

The title at stake, the crowd at their feet, and the moment to take home the crown. The sign you've made it to the top. It's one of the most important matches in a wrestler's career.

The match was going well, I had the upper hand and I was so close to winning. My tag team partner and good friend Edge was standing ringside, watching in a mix of awe and excitement. He had been helping keep control, by cheating a little...hey we're heels! Cheating is one of many ways we win.

Out of nowhere, it all went wrong and the match was falling apart. After a misstep by my unlucky opponent, I was thrown off balance and landed awkwardly on my neck. A collective gasp could be heard from the fans at the sight of my landing.

The world looked fuzzy to me, I was trying to process what happened. Once I started to piece together what happened, I started to freak out. I couldn't move, my body felt like it was made out of bricks.

It's hard to focus on the sounds around me, however i could faintly made out someone's theme music then Edge talking but I couldn't understand what he was saying.

The fans watched in horror as they realized something wasn't right. I failed to move from where I had been pinned. I was going in and out of consciousness. The silence from the fans finally got to Edge. He looked around until his eyes landed on me. The mic he was holding was thrown to the side.

After a few seconds, my vision cleared up a little bit. I could now make out the face of someone a few inches away from mine. At first, I thought it was just an illusion. But then I looked at Edge.

He had a confused and concerned look on his face. His eyes were wide open, and his eyebrows were raised slightly. “Are you alright?” His voice was gentle yet full of concern. As the adrenaline faded from my body, the real pain from my neck finally hit.

It was becoming more difficult to think straight, and my vision was becoming blurry. My breathing was becoming more shallow, and it felt like I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer.

I could tell that Edge was looking at me with genuine concern, and my head started to feel like it was spinning. The pain from my injury was almost too much to handle. Before I knew it my vision had gone black.

As I slowly come to, realizing that I'm in a hospital bed. my vision is still blurry, but I can see Edge sitting beside me, a small smile on his face. He looks relieved to see that I've woken up.

"Thank god you're awake," Edge says softly. I tried to speak, but my throat is still extremely sore and dry from my injury, making it difficult to talk. Edge leans in closer, his voice full of concern, "How are you feeling?"

I try to sit up, but Edge gently pushes me back down. "Take it easy," he says. "You've been through a lot." I notice that he's still smiling, but I can tell there's more he wants to say.

"I need to explain what happened," Edge continues. He looks over at me, his eyes filled with concern once more. This couldn't be good. Edge takes a deep breath and looks back at you, his eyes still full of concern.

"Your injury is similar to the one I got." he says. I remember that incident and the matches that sent Edge into the hospital after suffering a broken neck.

"It's a serious injury, and it needs to be treated carefully," Edge continues. "I need to make sure you're ok. I'm not leaving your side until I absolutely have to." I was heartbroken. Just as I was about to reach the top, my career was over. My dream was shattered.

Edge stares at me, his eyes full of understanding and sympathy. "I know this is hard, but it's important that we take good care of this injury. We can't rush this process. There will be ups and downs, but we'll get through this together."

Edge offers a comforting smile, and I find myself smiling back. The atmosphere is becoming lighter and more optimistic.

Me and Edge continue to have a discussion about my injury and how to properly manage it. Edge encourages me to rest and take it easy, and I nod in agreement. As I'm talking, Edge's face softens and he smiles gently.

"We'll get through this," Edge reassures me. "I'm right here, and I'm not going anywhere." I smile back, feeling more and more reassured by Edge's presence.

Maybe my future holds a return to the ring, but for now, I'll focus on healing and having Edge by my side to help.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

The Old Gods and the New - Chapter 5

There You Are | Loki x Reader

After your time in the medical wing you begin to explore the compoud again, as well as your powers. Thor and Loki do their best to make you feel at home, and Tony tries to make friends the only way he knows how.

Warnings: reader is still shaken, Loki is horny, suggestions of sex, making out.

Green divider by @firefly-graphics

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

Loki was true to his word, using his silvertongue to dodge any question about your burgeoning powers and weaving a tale of your attempts to recreate any of the fires or feelings that had scared the team so badly before. According to Loki you were capable of warming a room and making sparks, that was all. And that you could adjust your appearance and keep it stable enough to avoid their fear of the uncanny. There was no talk of your ability to conjure objects, stable objects at that. 

The truth about your past he kept buried even deeper. He’d seen so much when you opened your mind to him, and yet so many of the memories were gray and hazy, with the details either missing or running together. Like a watercolour the images were blurred and he wasn’t sure whether it was because they were false, and badly done at that, or because something had been removed and meddled with. He was at a loss, trying to decide between whether someone would want to plant false memories, or meddle with old ones. But he had been able to establish, from his limited knowledge of Midgardian history, that you had managed to attend events some three or four hundred years before. 

He was pondering it still, lounging in his rooms, while he fiddled with his new ring, his long fingers curling around the cold metal, his perfectly manicured nail tapped on the gem, the pad of his thumb rubbed over the delicate indent made in the silver, allowing the sapphire to lay almost flush to the surface. He marvelled in its simple intricacy, you had made this for him and he’d expected it to vanish, but it hadn’t. Even when you’d both slept, sadly in your separate beds, he had expected your magic to reset when your consciousness was resting, but he’d opened his eyes that morning to the sapphire glowing back at him. 

“I thought about a real ring, I thought about drawing the metal from it and making it for you,” you’d explained, as you made your fourth lap of the building together, strolling in the mid afternoon sun while Loki pretended he couldn’t see the junior Agents that had been tailing you both for the last hour.

“That’s incredible. You understand how that’s different from, say, me making you a mirror to use once?”

“Well one is a mere illusion, I assume. The other, the ring, I thought about the metal, how it would move as I fashioned it. I thought it would fade too.” You swept a hand along the top of the neat privet hedges that lined the walkway, rustling each leaf experimentally and delighting in the way they seemed to become an even richer shade of green with each pass of your fingers. 

“The mirror is an illusion, that’s correct. The other is more elemental, summoning the metal, smelting it with your magic until it’s real - that’s a lot more advanced. I’m impressed.” 

Loki revelled in the way you became bashful  under his praise. Smiling and ducking your head away while nodding in understanding and then turning to place a soft kiss on his cheek. 

“Thank you, Loki.” You whispered, and then pulled away, leaving the path to pick a few of the errant daisies appearing around the edges of the lawn. 

You should be proud, he thought, he was so proud. It welled in him, blurring into an easy affection that had been blossoming between you both. Loki had to restrain himself from holding his hand out to you when you rejoined him, had to fight the urge to kiss the soft apples of your cheeks and the fullness of your lips. He clasped his hands behind his back.  

He wasn’t sure what dance you were both engaged in, where you could kiss his cheek with abandon but you never expected more from him and, in his confusion, he became irrationally angry at this new desire for closeness, for more than lust and satisfaction. 

Somehow you’d turned the tables on him and he wondered if this was the feeling that had been reported to him when he arrived. A drive to adore and love and consume. 

“Loki? Let’s go to the lake and practice.” You suggested, turning away from the compound and towards the glassy expanse of water on the edge of the grounds.

These lessons did not seem to quench his desire for closeness. 

During the day you would walk together in the grounds and talk about theories, practising some shape shifting skills and, when there was no one else around, attempting to summon and create other objects. 

In the evenings you were often away in your rooms, preferring isolation to observation even more since your time in the medical wing. But if the common areas were free Loki was able to coax you out and, together, you pulled on the threads of your memory. 

At night the memories morphed into dreams, wars, suffering, pain but also happiness, faces smiling at you from behind ever changing styles and locations. You would wake, sweating, as if you’d spent your night falling forever down a spiralling rabbit hole of recollections both real and imagined. 

In the mornings Loki invited you to breakfast in his rooms before your walks, allowing you a change of scenery from your much smaller bedroom. Given the chance you would spend every moment with him there. Your room felt cramped and claustrophobic, even your window was restricted from opening. But here with Loki, with his rooms full of light and air, the sun shining on you while you shared croissants, you felt alive and free for the first time. 

“I don’t like this.” Tony slammed his phone onto the table after reviewing the latest surveillance footage of Loki and - prisoner felt too cruel, but he’d yet to persuade you to join the Avengers or even engage with any of them since your time in the medical wing. 

“We can’t stop them from talking, Stark, what are you so afraid of?” Natasha sat across from him in his vast office, her boots propped on the table in front of her as she inspected her nails.

“Afraid? She sets fire to things, she’s supposed to be out protege, not the Prodigy. I have nice things here -” he paused to lean across the desk and push the assassins heel with a pen, “boots - down.” 

“She hasn’t done that since London, and besides Loki and Thor are both keeping an eye on her, she’ll come round in time. Let him mess up.” She shrugged, pulling a piece of chewing gum from the pocket of her skin tight combat trousers. 

“What if he doesn’t?” 

“Then we deal with it.” 

Tony picked up his phone again, scrolling through the corridor footage of Loki knocking on your door every morning and escorting you across the hall into his own rooms, of you both laughing together in the grounds and of no magic, no training. “What’s he even doing with her all day?” 

Natasha snorted a laugh, “who fucking cares? Seducing her? She’s a big girl, Stark, and you’re starting to sound jealous.” 

“We have Steve God Damn Rogers in this building and she’s following Shakespeare around like he’s -” 

“A god?” She snapped her gum and then left her mouth open, eyebrows raised. 

“Shut up.” 

“If you don’t stop I’m going to start assuming you’re jealous.” Natasha raised a neat eyebrow, put one foot on the table and lent back in her seat. 

“I’m not jealous we just need her back on side, maybe a gift or something, what do you think?” 

“Gifts are nice, what’re you thinking?” 

Tony strode across the office to a large cabinet built into the wall and opened the middle draw pulling out a Stark industries gift bag, “have someone rewrap these, no Stark logos, just a gift, to help with her research or something. Just make it look nice.” 

Natasha looked inside the gift bag, rummaging through the contents, she forwent the phone, socks, pens and mouse mat before settling on the tablet. “Just this, it’s flashy enough but not overally personal, and we can restrict her access - no calls, just google.” 

“Great, thanks,” Tony looked at Natasha expectantly, “do you need money for wrapping paper or something?” 

“I’m not your assistant.” Natasha smirked, handing the box back over and sauntering out of the room, “if you want to top up my account I wouldn’t say no though!” She called over her shoulder as the door slammed shut. 

You found the elegantly wrapped parcel resting on the console table next to your bedroom door when you returned from your walk with Loki. The god stood behind you, eyeing the shiny paper from over your shoulder.

“Is it your birthday, darling?” He asked, concerned he’d wasted a special day training instead of celebrating. 

“No, it’s not my birthday.”

If Loki had been suspicious it was nothing to the way you behaved, as if the parcel might jump up and bite you. Loki kept on hand on your waist, holding you close while he reached around to look at the tag, “hmm, it’s from Stark. A peace offering, perhaps. I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.” He handed it to you and encouraged you to open it. 

Inside was a sleek black box with a picture of an electronic device on, Loki was bemused but you were excited, “oh my god, a tablet!” You tore the rest of the wrapping off and, bouncing on your heels, dragged Loki back into his room so you could set it up together.  

Tony’s peace offering did nothing to help your feelings towards the team, you were still cautious, refusing to engage in conversation. But you were finally able to leave the compound, in a way, using your new tablet. You walked down streets, viewing places your memory revealed to you and searching for information on everything you saw. 

It helped your research as well, dating the dreams and memories that Loki helped you to uncover, so that you could recount the stories to him in the hopes that he might remember a detail as well. 

The farthest back you’d been able to date so far had been somewhere in the 1800s, though you were sure Loki had seen further and had kept it from you. In your dream you’d seen yourself in spring, happy and dancing, the sun rising high and warm above you as you let the dew drops of the morning wet your bare feet. 

You had told Loki, in excruciating detail, about a woman in one of these dreams. That they had been at a party with you, billowing dresses surrounding you both, suffocating you both until you found respite in the darkness of a maze in the gardens. There, you had hidden under the woman’s dress to pleasure her. 

Loki had choked on his tea as you casually recounted the story, as if you were merely describing a walk around the park with a friend, and he had excused himself to relieve the growing pressure in his trousers. 

When he returned you were talking to Thor, who was amused but otherwise unaffected by your stories, one arm thrown over the back of the couch you were sharing. A flare of jealous rose within him, but there was also something so familiar and comforting about the scene. Thor, in his half regal dress, sprawling in the pillows with you curled up next to him, your skirt a wash of colour and fabric around your knees. Between you Thor had set out a tray with his favourite Midgardian snacks, awful pastry items with sickly icing on top, as well as your beloved croissants and steaming cups of tea. 

He had flashes of other times spent in such casual and easy intimacy, summer afternoons similarly spent lounging amongst silk pillows, laughing and sharing stories together with no other care in the Nine Realms. 

You both looked up, seeing him trapped by his thoughts in the doorway, and Thor held out his hand, “come, brother, the little one was telling me about her memories, this one is particularly amusing.” You smiled at him too, shifting in your seat to create a space between you both and Loki’s heart sang, filled with that rare feeling of contentment that had eluded him for so long. 

Yet Loki wasn’t the only one affected by your presence. Bucky and Natasha continued to feel uncomfortable around you, despite your generally genial nature. Thoughts both soft and wanton swirled and eddied around the minds of the Avengers, causing chaos in their work and interpersonal lives until the common areas were almost always empty, each inhabitant choosing to spend their time alone instead.

They brushed past each other in the corridors, blushing furiously and stammering like children. 

That was okay with you, it suited you to be mostly alone, especially as you only really liked to talk to Thor and Loki anyway. It had taken you longer to warm to Thor, but he was kind, if not a little too loud, and he never looked at you with fear, only intrigue. You felt safe in his presence, familial and calm. With Loki there was always a draw, a fire that pulled the oxygen from the room when he entered and you craved the sensation of his presence, the way it tingled on your skin. 

To the Avengers you said very little and, where possible, referred all your answers or conversation through the two Gods. Thor was quick to take your side, his booming voice a protection from whatever anxiety gripped you when questions were directed your way, and Loki was as fierce as a viper, waiting to strike quickly and with clean, cutting, precision, leaving the other party stinging from his words. 

Thor found himself enamoured with your presence too, mostly because Loki seemed to be behaving himself for once, too afraid of being removed from the compound to do more than snap viciously. Focused and confident without the brash, over reaching aggression that was often his downfall. It was good to see him happy and well, and Thor enjoyed teasing him about his obviously deeper feelings. But he was pleased because there seemed to be a natural understanding between the three of you, something setting you all apart from the others, and though he knew Loki was keeping something from him, he was sure it wouldn’t be long before the two of you let slip your secrets. 

It was how you’d found yourself standing in the dry grass at the centre of the compound, the pattern still burnt into the sod from Thor and Loki’s arrival, with both Gods flanking you.

“See how I can use the magic to call my battle armour.” Thor’s voice echoed from the flat surfaces of the buildings surrounding them. With a flash of lightning Thor summoned  the red cape and metal plate armour that was his battle dress. 

Loki was next, his familiar magic glowing around him as his black shirt and trousers changed into fine, forest green leather, his gold headpiece in his hand. He flipped it and winked, “your turn.” Before balancing the towering horns atop his head. 

It was one thing to witness their Asgardian dress on the television, but quite another to see it in real life. Thor was larger than life, bright and bold, every bit the Prince of Asgard, his hammer swinging at his side. But Loki - Loki had taken your breath away. It was as if the horns and cape had made him taller somehow, impossibly imposing in a way that had you curling your toes in your trainers to stop your legs from pressing together. Every piece of golden armour curled around him like a lover's embrace, showing his broad shoulders and lean body off to advantage. In the brisk early summer wind his cape caught the breeze, billowing behind him and framing him in deep, forest green and revealing the tight fit of his leather trousers. You swallowed and snapped your eyes back to his, not missing the playful smirk that crossed his lips. 

“Oh, I don’t think I could do anything like that, how do you know I even have any of this -” you waved at them both - “in me?” The idea seemed crazy, there was no way you could bring out anything even close to the regal majesty of the Asgardians. 

“Call it an inkling, mere mortals couldn’t - but then, you are no mere mortal.” Loki stepped towards you.

“We have no idea what I am.” 

“Exactly, it’ll be fun.” Thor clapped a meaty hand on your shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze, “what’s the worst that could happen!?” 

You thought back to the car burning outside of your flat, of the people you’d scared and the ability to even change the colour of your fingernails fizzled away in fear. 

Sensing your distress Loki brushed Thor aside and cupped your face in his long, dexterous fingers. Gently he angled your head up until all you could see was his beautiful face, framed with whips of jet black hair. He looked every bit a God as he commanded your attention. 

“Just try,” he murmured, and you followed his lips as they opened and closed, mesmerised by the movement. 

“Okay.” You nodded.

Loki watched as you concentrated, your hands clenched and eyes closed as always, your clothes shimmered and then, from the depths of nowhere, they changed. It wasn’t quite the same bold and majestic outfits as the Gods, but you had managed to summon a tight, dark blue jumpsuit and black cloak, a silver headband held your hair away from your face and pinched just behind your ears. Far from a perfect fit, but a lot more than you’d anticipated being able to produce. 

“Very stylish!” Thor boomed, a wide smile on his face. But you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. You had secretly hoped to discover a weapon, a crown like they wore, even some armour. It was an impressive outfit to create from nothing, but that’s all it was, an outfit, not the warrior armour of a God. 

Sensing your distress Loki held you once more, his long fingers touching the soft velvet of your cloak, “it is all practice. These things will come in time.” He murmured and, throwing caution to the wind still tugging on his hair, he kissed the top of your head.

When Thor left the next day he took the temperate weather with him, leaving behind a solid week of rain. 

Instead of taking turns around the garden you confined yourself to the compound, finally brave enough to stake a claim to the large sofa in the common room while the Avengers were home. You had thankfully found a new app with crosswords on your tablet and, listening to the rain fall against the large glass windows, you’d allowed yourself to become lost in your puzzle until Loki sat down across from you. 

“You know how you can see my memories,” you asked, eyes still fixed on the black and white pattern in front of you. 

“Yes?” Loki answered but didn’t look up from his book either. Out of the corner of your eye you saw him lick his finger to turn the page. 

“Do you think I could see yours?”

Loki put the book in his lap to look over at you, studying you closely. Curled into the corner of the sofa, feet drawn up under you. Since your attempt at summoning armour you’d managed to create your own clothes every day this week and you were rightly proud of it. 

You had told him you were never allowed to shop when you lived with your grandfather, the man, whoever he was. You had three of four basic items that were brought in for you periodically. But now you had found fashion blogs online the limits seemed endless, you spent your mornings recreating the outfits gleefully. 

Today was a simple day, just little black shorts and an oversized knit jumper that fell below your wrists and to Loki you looked so…Midgardian. He hated himself for enjoying it but, as he looked down at his own black jeans and the heavy knit of his sweater, he hated himself all over again for not realising what an influence you had over him.

Silence filled the room and Loki became aware that he had taken too long to answer and if he didn’t say something soon you were sure to come up with an even worse idea. 

“Oh! Or, better, if we can see each other’s memories, do you think we could hear each other's thoughts? Imagine. And we could play tricks on people. That’d be so funny!” You were grinning to yourself now, still tapping at the screen and chewing on your thumb, but with a wide smile on your face.

The last thing he needed was you in his head. Not when his head was so consumed with thoughts of you. Just the night before you’d worn tight black jeans and a sage green translucent silk blouse to dinner and he had almost turned round and walked back out to hide his pink cheeks and filthy thoughts, if you could hear the depraved things that cycled through his mind you’d never want to come near him again. 

And that would never do. 

Not when you were more than happy to climb into his lap while he opened your memories, not when you kissed his cheek so softly, so chastly that he wanted to hold you there against him. 

“Nevermind,” you mumbled, poking at the screen of your tablet and pulling the sleeves of your sweater down over your hands, “we don’t have to. I’m sure there’s lots of other things to learn.” 

“No - no, we can try, if you’d like? Perhaps it will help us both understand the memories better.” 

Loki thought his heart might beat out of his chest, he would have to be so careful, one wrong thought, one wrong step and he could spoil everything that you’d been building together. His every hand so far had been well played, but he still felt you were gaining on him with every memory returned, whether you knew it or not. 

“Great!” You tossed the tablet onto the sofa cushions and shuffled closer to him. He stayed where he was, legs on the table in front of him. “Come on,” you tugged his arm until you were both crossed legged on the sofa, facing each other. 

“Go on then,” Loki’s mouth twitched upwards into a teasing smirk.

“Well, I can’t just do it! You’re supposed to help me!”

“Put your hands on my face,” he brought your palms up to his cheeks, fingers on his temples and applied the smallest amount of pressure.

“Okay,” you closed your eyes and Loki felt the tickling feeling of your prying at the edges of his mind, like the picking of a label from a glass bottle and he allowed his mind to open just a little. 

“I can do it - stop cheating.” You made a frustrated noise and shuffled in your seat. “Stop moving!

“I’m not moving,” Loki laughed, “that’s you!”

“Your brain is.”

Loki’s laugh deepened and he bent forwards into your hands. “How is that possible?”

“Stay. Still.”

With another grunt of annoyance you climbed into his lap, maintaining contact with his face, as you wriggled into position Loki took in a deep breath, willing his body to stay calm while your entire being pressed against him, not just your hands and your body, but your mind too. Clinging and clawing at his own. And there, in his panic, you peeled away a corner and slipped into his thoughts. 

“There you are.” You whispered, reverently. 

Loki fumbled for a thought that he could share with you, but all he could see, feel, think about was the way your bare thighs were pressed against his hips. 

About the way you would slip your hand into his and squeeze it when you were nervous at the dinner table. 

About the way you kissed his cheek and wished him goodnight like you truly cared for him.

They had warned him, The Captain and the Iron one and the others, they had all warned him to be careful of you. Yet here he was, mind and body open to you. 

Your eyes darkened, fingers digging into his temples and an image appeared in return. It was almost the same as Loki’s, except as the thought appeared, your clothes melted away revealing only soft flesh, curves and dimples, pebbled nipples and the hard length of him sinking into the warmth of you.

Loki opened his eyes slowly, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. Well, that was interesting.

“Hmm,” you moaned, somewhere between pensive and lustful and for the first time Loki doubted whether your guileless touches were real or faked, “I’m sure we can think of some fun things to do with that skill,” and you climbed off his lap leaving him confused again.

Loki stood abruptly and grabbed at your wrist, yanking you close, his nose brushed yours as he held you to him.

“Of all your tricks, you must not tell them you can do that,” he insisted, his nose traced yours and then he kissed you, his tongue sliding against your own, tasting, owning, his teeth biting and  filling your mind with thoughts of him again. 

“Do what?” Natasha asked and you broke apart, throwing yourself backwards across the cushions to get as far away from Loki as possible. 

You panicked, “uhm -”

“She can shapeshift better now, but I don’t want you using her, she’s not ready. So don’t tell the others.” Loki snapped, smile gone and stern, blank face secured. 

Natasha looked pleased nevertheless. “Good we can use that - eventually” she placated, before Loki could react. “We have a mission, but it’s not for a while.”

Loki looked over at you, eyes on your crossword again. He did not want you going on missions and bonding with the super friends, he wanted you out of her, with him, safe and secure..

What was that?!

Did you not like it?

That’s not what I said ásynja

You smiled and flicked yours eyes at him. Then at Natasha.

Ask her how Bucky is

The thought floated towards him.

Why?

For fun

Well, he did like fun.

“Agent Romanoff, how is Sergeant Barnes today?” Natasha whipped her head around, glaring.

“I have no idea.” She snapped.

“Oh, nevermind then,” Loki went back to his book, turning the page slowly.

Ask her if the bruise has gone down

Darling, let’s not play with fire - 

The bruise! On her neck!

The thought was as clear as a bell ringing in his mind. Would you always be connected this closely? He should have considered how he’d lock you back out again. 

“I do hope his bruise is healing well,” Loki looked from his book to the window and then back at Natasha, the picture of nonchalance. “It’s such a nuisance to have such a thing upon one’s neck.”

“Right” Natasha put her hands on her knees and stood up, “I’m out of here.”

You looked at Natasha again, really looked, and images of Natasha and Bucky pressed against the kitchen counter bubbled to the surface. You bit the tip of your tongue to stop from saying anything to hinder their progress. You’d felt it as soon as they were in a room together, like air pressure before a storm, building and sparking. Hopefully they were finally figuring things out and you’d be able to breathe again. 

Natasha left the room, banging her bedroom door as she went.

“That was fun, you were right.” 

“I know, but I do really hope things work out for her. I can’t explain it, I get this feeling to match people up and they so obviously like each other.” You sighed, dreamily. 

“Lots of people like matchmaking, you just need more hobbies.” Loki did not consider matchmaking to be an interesting hobby, but he wouldn’t say quite that much.

“It’s more than that, it’s like I really can’t help it. That’s why they don’t like me, I made them dream about each other.” 

Loki put his book down again. 

“Does it feel like it comes from somewhere deep inside, like when you use your magic?” He asked, seriously, “or is it because you are naturally very vexing?” He grinned.

You threw a cushion at him, “I’m not vexing, other people are just boring.”

That was certainly true, he smiled.

“See, glad you agree with me.” Damn he was going to have to be careful with his thoughts now.

<<Part 4

Part 6 >>

[onyourowndaisymae]

when leviathan falls in love

content + warnings: fluff, canon-typical insecure levi, gn!mc is always there to cheer up their fav boy, maybe some improper aquarium knowledge lol // [masterlist]

word count: ~1.3k

the sunlight, once harsh and overbearing, is now a delightful amber melting over the horizon. clear blue lingers at the top of the sky, a reminder of the long day now disappearing in the rearview of time, fading slowly into the fiery oranges that announce dusk's impending arrival. puffy clouds dotted the wide expanse above. though the illusion wasn’t real, watching the sun set over the steady waves was a sight to behold. 

diavolo’s private beach had been loud all day, full of laughter and chaos as they enjoyed the vacation day to the fullest. now, as demons and angels alike watched a phenomenon only visible from the human world and its recreations in other realms, the beach was quiet. 

“do you see this often where you’re from?” leviathan asks you.  

“every day. and it never gets old.”

the two of you sit at the ocean’s edge, small waves lapping over your legs in a steady rhythm. his tail shifts unconsciously through the water, creating little ripples and splashes by your feet. the water always feels good on his scales– it’s rare that he gets to visit the ocean like this, but it feels like home when he does. 

you wiggle your fingers in the water, almost as if you’re trying to coax his tail closer like some marine animal. his face flushes. are you teasing him? part of him assumes that this is all in good fun– you’re always so nice to him, after all– but he can’t help but feel that something bad will happen. he’s always willing to give you a chance, though, despite his anxieties. his tail slithers through the water and you grin. your fingers brush against the scales softly. it’s nice. 

“it’s like petting a fish,” you say, looking over at him.

“that’s embarrassing.”

“is it? sorry, i didn’t mean it like that. i just– it reminds me of when i’d go to the aquarium as a kid.”

“you got to touch the fish there?”

“yeah!” your fingers stroke his tail with two fingers. he shudders– it feels pleasant, and he looks away before his cheeks flush further. 

“okay i lied. sort of. i didn’t get to pet the fish like that. it was the little sharks and stingrays that i got to pet at the aquarium.”

“is that safe?”

you chuckle a little. levi thinks he’s right to be worried– sharks are dangerous– but you shake your head and explain further. 

“sharks in the human world are a lot more docile than in the devildom. and smaller, too. they have, like, baby sharks in the public tanks. they’re young and comfortable with being touched.”

levi can’t really imagine an equivalent with devildom animals– they’re all far too vicious to be stroked so casually. but he’s seen enough anime to know what you’re describing. in the human realm, aquariums are painted in calming blues, with winding halls and glass walls all giving you peaks into their tanks. that’s where all the dates took place– two protagonists watching the fish, leaning in closer until their shoulders brush and they look away. then one would reach out a pinky and take the others hand, shaking a little in fear of rejection, but it never comes because fate is always so kind to friends turned lovers– 

your giggling breaks him from his trance. to say levi is embarrassed would be an understatement. he’s horrified. upon tuning back into the real world, he finds that his tail has wrapped itself around your wrist, ensnaring you in his grasp as the tip flickers against your arm. 

“sorry!” he cries sharply. 

scrambling forward through choppy waves, he uses both hands to forcibly yank his wandering tail from your wrist. it’s enough to pull you from a seated position up on your knees. you laugh, stumbling forward to catch yourself on your palms before you’re face down, ass up in the shallow waves. 

“it’s fine! it’s fine!”

your reassurances do little to ease his mind. he pulls the heavy appendage into his lap almost defensively– it seems he can’t trust himself not around you for a single moment!

“s-sorry, that was r-rude and probably r-r-really gross, i can l-leave–”

“relax,” you say, grabbing his arm as he starts to make his great escape. you ease him back into his spot– actually, you scoot a little closer, making the situation all the more mortifying– and settle back into a seated position. “i don’t bite. i promise. besides, that was kind of funny.”

“that was horrible–”

“it’s fine, levi. really. if i had a tail, it would probably grab you too!”

that makes him stop for a moment. his tail writhes a little in his grasp, but he holds it tightly against his chest to prevent it from embarrassing him again. 

“huh?”

“yeah! if i was a demon with a tail, mine would probably reach for you too! y’know, ‘cuz i like being around you so much, even my tail wouldn’t want you to leave.”

his face and ears are scorched, but your sentiment makes him feel a bit less embarrassed for his theatrics. 

“you mean that?”

“of course i do!”

part of him still wants to squirm, to dash off and hide under a rock and forget this whole mess even happened. but he takes a look back at the sun setting in the sky, then back at your smile, now looking out over the waves. maybe this is okay. 

“the human realm sounds pretty cool… y’know. sometimes.”

“it is. there’s a lot to love about it.”

suddenly he feels bad for bringing it up. did he strike a nerve? but your smile doesn’t falter, so maybe it’s okay to continue. 

“... do you miss it?”

“the human realm?”

“yeah.”

“sometimes,” you admit softly. “it’s the little things. it’s… it’s the sunsets and aquariums, y’know? little things you don’t think about until you don’t see them anymore.”

he nods. “i think i’d miss sunsets and aquariums, too.”

“you should come see them with me sometime.”

“what?”

“in the human realm. maybe we can spend a day together. appreciate the little things, y’know? if you wanted to.”

“that sounds nice.”

leviathan doesn’t realize what’s happening. it’s not exactly his fault– he’s always had trouble untangling complex emotions from each other, always struggled to express why he was feeling a certain way. all he knows is that he’s warm all of a sudden. his fingers tremble with something, something he can’t place, and he scrunches in on himself to hide from your prying eyes. you know him better than anyone. usually, that’s okay, but today something about that feels extra vulnerable. 

because levi, in that moment, falls head over heels in love with you. 

and it’s okay that he doesn’t realize that’s what’s happening. he has other ways to describe the feelings he holds towards you. you’re his number two, his henry, his favorite human– the most important person in his life.

what he knows now, staring out at the sunset, is that you make his knees wobble and his heart flutter unlike any cheesy romance manga he’s ever read. he rests his head in the crook of his elbow and stares out at the ocean, mind racing. you begin to tell the story of an aquarium trip you took as a child, mindlessly waggling your fingertips in the water again. levi wants to hear you talk about that. 

and maybe, just maybe, when the tip of his tail slithers from his lap and winds between your aimless fingers, he wants that to happen, too.

taglist for this series: @deepseafragments // @darkflowerav // @annoying-and-upset // @katerinaval // @lurkingsnails // @chirikoheina // @all-mights-wife // @notareum // @ollieoven

[scarletwritesshit]

⭐ Sunday x Stelle ⭐ Ruler Of My Dreams

All evil that dared stood in the path of Stelle were doomed to be conquered by the very might of her baseball bat. One thing she wasn’t, however, was a blind killer without reason. Giant freakishly mutated space bugs had a reason to be squashed beneath her boot. And mara-struck Luofu soldiers too – those were long dead anyways.

But a man misguided onto the wrong path? He retained no reason for her to kill. In fact, she would argue that it was a part of her duty as a Nameless to save his life and lead him onto the path of salvation. Making it even worse for her, his worlds held some ounce of truth to them, albeit twisted in favor of his tyrannical desire. He had a noble heart, if only he could’ve seen eye to eye with Stelle a moment sooner.

When the Astral Express landed the final strike against The Great Septimus, its body, or rather Sunday’s, collapsed into the abyss, and Stelle could not bring herself to simply stand by idly. As it fell backwards, its lifeless eyes shone with glint of desperation, expression unchanging yet pleading for help all the same. Through the void he would fall, then meet the tragic death of his dream if Stelle didn’t take swift action.

Dying in the resting world was hardly a step up from experiencing it in reality. The sensations felt just as real, only what awaited on the other side was the comfort of one’s bed, and neither heaven nor hell. For him to experience it regardless was a thought most unpleasant, and Stelle couldn’t bear to imagine him falling victim to the illusion of passing on. They were on opposite sides, but he was not the enemy.

Desperation overcame rationality. Stelle charged headfirst towards the end of the stage, where the shell of a god once looked down upon the Express Crew. The calls of Himeko and Welt were futile, and March and Dan Heng could only watch speechless. She paid no mind to their concerns, not even looking back with an ounce of doubt. Once she reached the edge, Stelle flung herself off of the stage and dived down towards the disintegrating false Aeon.

As she was falling, the pieces breaking off of The Great Septimus disintegrated like comets on their last breath of life. The stardust glazing by her skin caused her no harm; it was more like a gentle kiss of heavenly light rather than the final gambit of a dying star. And as the false Aeon faded away, it slowly revealed the limp body of a Havlovian deprived of any will to carry on.

The bird didn’t bother to flap his wings. His eyes were closed, content with the death that awaited him at the bottom. Even if this world were a mere illusion of the mind, he was welcoming of death all the same.

Stelle angled herself downwards to hopefully gain some momentum. The faster she could catch him, the better, though not having any way of lifting him up herself, she could still break his fall and soothe the brutality of his awakening.

Sunday paid no mind to her.

With a heartfelt cry, Stelle reached her hand out to him.

Sunday still paid no mind to her.

Only after one final dive with the assistance of the Stellaron did Sunday at last acknowledge Stelle’s efforts. When her fingers caught ahold of his clothing, she pulled him closer and embraced him in a hug, knocking what little breath he still had out of him. At that very instant, the flow of time seemed to have slowed down around them. The two of them were drifting downwards as gently as a soft dove’s feather. As Stelle held him close, Sunday’s body felt limp, collapsing into her arms.

He opened his eyes and smiled.

“And here I was under the assumption that you were adamant about standing against me,” Sunday said.

“I never truly stood against you,” Stelle said. “I only wanted you to see just how badly you were overextending your reach.”

“Well, how was I to bring about change? I had to give the people a little nudge, as initial support was not unanimous.”

“That was far more than a little nudge. And you know it. You took things too far.”

“Not far enough,” Sunday said with a weak cough. “You managed to fell me. Your ideals triumphed over mine simply because in the end, none of what I had done was enough.”

“It wasn’t a matter of being weak, or one’s ideas being superior to another’s. There’s nothing wrong with trying to get others on board for change. But there is a fine line between convincing and manipulation.”

Sunday furiously coughed once more. “Tell me, Stelle. Why do you think people dream?”

“…Why do people dream? Doesn’t Penacony’s Dreamscape act as a respite from reality’s troubles?”

“Ah…but dreams in the waking world function in the same way, do they not? Yet those dreams don’t always play out in the most favorable way. Penacony was different, in the way it was supposed to offer an escape from all that ails one both physically and mentally. While our fragile bodies rest safely, we can life out our lives oblivious to any and all burden.”

“Isn’t that just a detrimental delusion?”

“Is a delusion truly harmful when all have been granted peace of mind?” Sunday asked.

“I guess not, but we can’t just ignore reality should we dislike how the timeline unfolds before us.”

“And why should we live worrying ourselves with factors beyond our control? No planet is without its treachery and misfortune. It’s an unavoidable fact. Why allow such to weigh heavily on your mind? Penacony offered an escape from factors as benign as the less fortunate and short lived to acting sanctuary for entire societies that have collapsed. Nobody would have the burden of the unfortunate and undeserved circumstances bestowed upon them.”

Stelle found his points difficult to argue. He spoke of precisely what she wanted; the freedom of the people from Stellaron disasters, IPC genocides, intersocietal conflicts…

“Surely, there could’ve been a much easier way of approaching things,” Stelle said.

“Not everything is meant to be easy. If it were, then the problem would have been rectified in the past. Ascending was a great difficulty that I had managed to overcome, but I have ultimately failed to live up to such a position. I was so close. So close to making everyone happy.”

A tear fell from his eyes.

“So close to being a god, but without worshippers, what good am I?”

“…You truthfully just wanted to make everyone happy, didn’t you?” Stelle asked.

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Take the burden of the people upon myself. Be the one that countless people thank every day for their sanctuary and protection.”

“You’re simply misguided,” Stelle said. “Your heart is in the right place, but there are superior ways to leading a revolution for the people.”

“Why should it matter now, anyways? We’re both slowly falling to our deaths.”

“And when we ‘die’ here, we simply wake in reality. Then, you can turn over a new leaf.”

“And change our future with what firepower? I have nothing left to my name.”

“But you have me. All it takes is a single follower to be a god to someone. You don’t need to have a mass following behind you to enact change,” Stelle said, holding Sunday as close as she possibly could against the force of them plummeting.

“Despite everything, you truthfully still hold faith in me?” he asked

With her face still shoved in his shoulder, Stelle nodded her head. A most delightful reaction, he thought to himself. One person who was still willing to believe in him…to carry on with the ideals he failed to make a reality the first time.

His eyes narrowed and a smile crept across his face.

“Then how about an agreement between us? Make me your god. I can give you everything.”

Their intertwined bodies hit the ground, and the golden starlight in their eyes shone no longer.

A short time later, on the Astral Express…

“You’re really going to trust that freak to stay out of trouble?” Dan Heng inquired.

“Like you’re any better!” March said. “Besides, this lets us keep him under our watchful eyes and we can make sure he doesn’t go trying to take over any more planets, or whatever. Nothing to worry about as long as the conductor is fine with it.”

“Invite whoever you want at this point. You’ve allowed prisoners, mementic entities, war criminals, and more to board. Who am I to care? At this point, invite Nanook,” Pom Pom said, sulking in a corner.

“See? Completely fine.”

“I shall be on my utmost best behavior,” Sunday said with a polite bow. “Stelle here has volunteered to watch over me for the time being, so I assure you that I cannot cause any problems even if I wanted to.”

“I’m the designated chicken wrangler,” Stelle said proudly.

“I suppose that is… certainly one way to put it,” Sunday said, his wings twitching. “Nevertheless, trailblazing is about forging our own paths, no? Order is no more. From here on out, I remain loyal to the path of the Trailblaze.”

Himeko was still understandably apprehensive. “Stelle, do keep an eye on him,” she cautioned. “Show him around the Express or something to keep him occupied.”

Some time away from the other Express members, with only Stelle at his side? Sunday smiled inconspicuously, most pleased by the opportunity before him.

“You got it boss!” she said with a salute.

Stelle gestured for Sunday to come follow her through the door leading to the parlor car. With a gentle nod, Sunday made haste in following her through the door and down the corridor.

“It looks so humble from the outside, yet the interior is certainly most grand,” Sunday commented as he looked around.

“It’s Pom Pom you should be praising for this vessel, not me,” Stelle said.

“You’re a key part of the team, are you not? I still feel as if I should deliver my utmost praise and thanks to you,” Sunday said.

“Regardless, it’s not as big of a deal you think it is,” Stelle said, stopping in front of one of the doors. “You said that there was something you wanted to talk to me about once you boarded, right?”

Sunday nodded his head. Stelle placed the palm of her hand on the door in front of her, opening it. It led into her room, which wasn’t necessarily prepared for guests, but it was the most suitable place for them to have a quiet talk nonetheless.

“Make yourself comfortable. I wasn’t expecting visitors, but I hope this will do.”

A smirk appeared across Sunday’s face. “It is most acceptable.”

“I apologize if it isn’t up to your standards,” Stelle said, walking him into her room. “Would I have known, I would’ve straightened my room up for you a bit.”

“No need for apologies. I am most thankful for the invitation to the Express.”

Stelle sat down on her bed, leaving Sunday room should he chose to join her. However, he chose to stand by the window rather than rest his legs. He held his arms behind his back as he looked out at the passing cosmos.

“So, in a way, this… ‘trailblazing’ thing of yours is a form of redemption?”

“More or less, for some of us. Take Dan Heng, for example. He found himself in a somewhat similar position to you right now, falling from grace and atoning for his sins by joining us.”

“Guided on the same path, yet all following your own destinies. It’s most fascinating how your little group operates.”

“I guess we’re all fascinating in our own way.”

Sunday turned away from the window and walked towards Stelle. He stood tall and proud over her, surprisingly majestic for a man who had just fallen from grace. His eyes had the most gentle yet focused gaze, looking down at her as she remained seated on the edge of the bed.

“If I am not mistaken, you are a Stellaron without a purpose, so you have declared your chosen path as one who saves those in most desperate need?” Sunday asked with a smile.

“For now, I guess. Always finding myself roped into conflict after conflict to quell Stellaron disasters at seemingly every corner of the galaxy.”

“Enough of this small talk,” Sunday said. “You wanted a future where the people could forgo experiencing such conflicts, no? I still retain the power promised to put an end to all of this blasphemy in an instant.”

“…Something along those lines, I suppose,” Stelle said, scratching her chin in thought.

Sunday tilted his head, perhaps out of curiosity, or a twisted sense of pity.

“And you’re the key to me bringing about these sweet dreams to those who reside in Penacony and beyond,” he said.

“The key to bringing about sweet dreams?”

He reached out his hand to gently caress the side of her face. He nudged back her hair with precise movements of his fingers, allowing for her golden eyes to shine brightly with a luminous glow almost identical to that of Sunday’s. Four vibrant stars glistening like the Southern Cross in Penacony’s night sky remained fixated on the other’s gaze, connected even if for a moment.

“The Stellaron that outshines even the brightest sun is the key, my star. Your worship. Your power. Combining our powers for the greater utopia…neither nightmare nor reality would pose an obstacle to total salvation of the peoples’ souls.”

Stelle remained silent and on guard as Sunday stroked the side of her face with his thumb. His wings were outstretched and proud, yet fluttering subtly with a hint of anticipation and excitement.

“Lend me your strength to once more fuel the dreams of Penacony, no, the entire cosmos for as long as the dates on the calendar pass.”

“I don’t believe these lies you spout,” Stelle said.

Sunday leaned in closer, his devious smirk only growing in size. “And why is that, darling? You were so enthusiastic about coming to my aid mere moments ago, but what has caused you to have a change of heart in such a short period of time? Dedicate yourself as a worshiper of mine. And in return, I can give you everything and anything you desire in our dream.”

“I thought that the entire purpose of you joining the Express was to keep you from creating another mass hysteria,” Stelle said, leaning back in response to Sunday’s advances.

“But the path of the Trailblaze allows for us to follow our own paths, does it not? I merely wish to return to my plans to free the people of suffering as a result of this cruel, cruel world forced upon us.”

He slid his hand down her neck and shoulder, grabbing onto her arm and pulling her closer.

“Everything. Everything you can desire. Everything your friends can desire. Everything the world could desire. Think about it. Only a fool would pass up such an opportunity.”

“I quite like having my head screwed on right and living in the real world, thank you very much.”

“I like the pretty little face I see in this reality.”

He yanked her even close.

“My star…my savior… lend me your strength,” Sunday said.

“I’ll throw you back into the void of the Dreamscape if you don’t back off,” Stelle threatened.

Sunday sighed, his wings drooping and grip on her arm loosening. “I’ll never understand you or your eccentric companions, my dear.”

“Maybe you’re not meant to.”

He walked away from her and held his hands behind his back. “Alas, if you wish to surrender the favor of a god and everything that you could possibly have, then who am I to stop you? In the meantime, I will be waiting patiently if you change your mind.”

[tiger-in-the-flightdeck]

Trick please! Tim and the Joker (not romantic I’m just curious about the dynamic soon after Jason’s death) or Tim and Bruce?

(I’m excited! I missed last year :D)

Welcome! I love your costume! Let me just drop this little Trick ficlet in your pumpkin pail.

Read on below, or on AO3

Broken Little Birds

“Daddy didn’t come for your big brother. He’s not gonna come for you, little nestling.” 

Tim shifted in place, drawing his legs in closer to his torso, making himself smaller. His arms were bound behind his back at an extreme angle that was pulling at his shoulders. Another inch and they might dislocate. One of his ribs was broken, probably two. His vision was swimming and blood was matting his hair into clumps. 

But in his position on the warehouse floor, huddled up and looking pitiful, he was protecting his belly and throat. The swings of the baseball bat landed harsh blows on his already injured body, but mostly to the padding in his uniform that gave him the illusion of muscle, or to his neck where they glanced off the metal ring he wore in his gorget. His cape couldn’t prevent the impacts but it could spread them out. 

He could withstand this until Batman arrived. 

Because he would. 

Tim told himself that. Had been telling himself that for the last hour since he hit his emergency beacon. 

Batman would make it in time. Tim wouldn’t allow himself to be the reason Bruce had to bury another Robin. He knew his mentor wouldn’t be able to cope a second time and he would snap entirely. If he wanted to keep Batman back from the edge of the darkness, he had to survive the night. It was the only reason he was in this uniform. He was Batman’s light. His guiding star. 

He’ll come for you, little brother. He tried to be there for me. He’ll be here for you. 

Wiping blood from his mouth on his knee, Tim nodded. “I know,” 

Joker cackled and twirled the bat over his head then brought it down onto the concrete floor next to Tim’s head. The laughter grew shrill and rasping when the boy flinched away from it. “Ohh, it’s so good you agree with me. It took the itty bitty black and blue Jay a lot longer. You’re much smarter than him, aren’t you?” He pushed the end of the bat under Tim’s chin, forcing him to raise his head to look up at him. “I like brains! They look so pretty splattered on a wall!” 

He’s got like. Three jokes. Oooooh, I’m gonna say a thing, then make it creepy. So original.

Jason sneered at Joker as he drifted from one side of him to the other. 

Tim had been seeing him more and more lately. The visits had terrified him at first, making him think he was cracking under the pressure. But in the time since donning the cape, they had become a comfort. Jason assured him that he was proud to have him take on the mantle, and stood beside him when he was alone. 

With one bare foot, his cape in tatters, and blood on his face, Jason didn’t leave Tim’s side as Joker swung the bat again. He whispered against his ear that Batman would be there for him. That he was strong enough to get through this. 

That they wouldn’t be meeting for real for a long time yet. 

A crash of broken glass. A flash of light and a bang, followed by the burnt sugar scent of one of the smoke bombs. Fists on flesh and broken bones as Batman roared wordlessly and beat Joker until he was squalling for mercy. 

Through the smoke, Jason approached and knelt in front of Tim. He touched his head, and the pain crept back sullenly. We’re not gonna see each other for a while, little brother. Something’s about to happen. But you’ll be okay without me. You’re gonna do great, I know it. 

He faded back as Batman dropped Joker’s shackled body and sprinted to Tim’s side. His hands were shaking as he checked him for spinal injuries before yanking free the bindings around his arms. 

“I’m here,” he whispered, stroking Tim’s hair with deceptively gentle fingers. “I made it. I’m here, Robin. You’re safe, son.” 

Tim could never be entirely sure that he was the one Batman was seeing as he made those soft promises, but it didn’t matter. He was alive. 

Bruce wouldn’t have to bury another broken little bird. 

[treasureboxmylove]

Echoes Of The Unseen

The dream wasn’t unusual at first. Eclipse stood beneath a sky too bright, too endless, the sun frozen in place as if waiting for something. A soft breeze whispered through unseen trees, carrying the faint scent of something familiar—candle wax, faintly burnt cloth, a trace of old, old memories.

He turned, and she was there.

Puppet stood just a few steps away, her form caught between shadow and light, her white mask stark against the shifting dreamscape. Her long hair flowed as if moved by a nonexistent wind. She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her painted-on features.

Eclipse did not freeze. He did not stutter. His mind immediately began to dissect the situation, breaking it down into probabilities, rationalizing the impossible. But something deeper, something unspoken, made his fingers curl into a fist.

“…Puppet.”

She hummed in response, stepping closer. “You’re dreaming, you know.” There was no sadness in her voice, no sorrow—just that same quiet, knowing lilt she always had.

Eclipse narrowed his eyes. “Then why does it feel real?”

Puppet reached out, brushing her fingers over his arm. It was a ghost of a touch, barely there. “Because I was real, and you remember.”

His jaw tightened. He despised dreams. They were nothing but tricks of the mind, illusions meant to mock him with things he could not change. And yet, despite himself, his fingers twitched toward the fading sensation of her touch.

“You always try to control everything, Eclipse.” Puppet’s voice was light, teasing, but her gaze held something deeper. “Even your grief.”

His vents let out a quiet hum, something unreadable flashing across his lenses. “Grief is a waste of time.”

Puppet’s head tilted. “And yet, here you are.”

Silence stretched between them. Eclipse’s mind worked, calculating responses, mapping outcomes, but none of it mattered. Not here. Not in this place where logic faltered and she stood before him like a paradox he could not solve.

“I should have done more.” His voice was steady, but the weight behind it was not.

Puppet smiled, the edges of her form flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. “You did enough.”

His fingers twitched again, but he did not reach for her. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. To reach for something that wasn’t real would be to acknowledge what he had lost, and that was a truth he refused to let dictate him.

Puppet watched him, her expression unreadable. Then, quietly, she said, “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

A sharp laugh escaped him, dry and mirthless. “I don’t carry anything.”

Her gaze softened. “You do. Even now.” She gestured faintly, and the dream shifted around them. Faint echoes of the past flickered like mirages—glimpses of arguments, of quiet moments, of a bond unspoken but understood. The weight of what was left unsaid pressed against him, heavy, suffocating.

His jaw clenched. “That’s over.”

Puppet simply smiled. “And yet, here you are.”

She was fading now, dissolving into the shifting dreamscape, her presence slipping like sand through his fingers. Eclipse did not move to stop it. He merely watched, lenses dim, expression unreadable.

But this time, when she turned to leave, he spoke first.

“Will I see you again?” The words left him before he could stop them.

Puppet paused. A faint echo of her voice lingered, playful even as it faded. “Maybe. But not yet.”

“Not yet…” he echoed under his breath, staring at the spot where she had stood. The dream wavered, the colors smearing together like paint left in the rain, and he felt something deep within his chest tighten—an unfamiliar sensation, something he refused to name.

And then he was awake.

The cold silence of reality pressed down around him. He sat up slowly, fingers flexing, calculating the probability of dream phenomena repeating in similar patterns. It was irrelevant.

He sat there, staring at the empty space where, for a fleeting moment, something had almost felt real. His hands, steady as ever, rested on his knees, but there was a lingering phantom weight to them, as if something had once been there, something just beyond his reach.

He exhaled, long and slow, his systems recalibrating, sorting through the data of the dream. He would not dwell on it. He would not let it take root. And yet, somewhere deep within his mind, the faint trace of Puppet’s voice echoed once more.

“You don’t have to carry it alone.”

He stood, shaking off the remnants of the dream as if it were nothing more than dust. But as he moved toward the door, he hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.

And then, without a word, Eclipse stepped into the waking world, leaving the dream behind.

Or so he told himself.

[an-established-butt-dent]

To sleep, to dream, to forget

AO3

Author: DazeChroma (that is me)

Cover art: an-established-butt-dent (also me)

Fandom: Dragon Age, Pairing: Solas x Lavellan, Words: 4,841, Tags: Post Trespasser, Angst, Lavellan deals with the emotional aftermath.

Notes: see end for notes!

There are a million ways to say goodbye, but they have yet to learn of a way that is final. After the Crossroads, Allana leaves everything behind and travels. She is alone, but for a wolf that keeps visiting her dreams.

To sleep, to dream, to forget

Lavellan knew the wolf haunting her dreams.

Perhaps she should fear the shadow lurking on the edge of her peripheral vision, but this was the Fade and she was in control of her dreams. She wore an enchanted amulet, beautiful, with the added benefit of preventing others from intruding on her dreamscape. A parting gift from Dorian.

Even one as skilled and powerful as the Dreadwolf would not be able to reach her, unless she let him.

But that was precisely it. She would never admit it out loud, but somehow had yet to force his presence away. To banish him from her subconscious. Instead, she had left a window open at a crack. 

Maybe it was confusion after their confrontation in the Crossroads. Maybe it was her anger, demanding more explanations from him.

Maybe she missed him.

Solas.

Mentally she scolded herself. She shouldn't use that name. The quiet apostate she had come to know, come to love, was not the same man planning the downfall of the world. Her heart was broken and Solas was dead, as much as he could be for having never truly existed.

But the Dreadwolf, Fen'harel, lived.

Ancient trickster god indeed.

Sometimes she tried to think of the elf from her memories as someone different altogether. A quiet mage lost in dreams who perhaps had planned to return to her. To explain why he left without goodbye after Corypheus' defeat. To bring reason to the many questions left unanswered and wounds left unmended. 

The Solas in this imagined life might have helped her shed the Inquisitor’s cloak. Might have held her in comfort throughout the emotional aftermath. 

Somehow it made the feeling of betrayal slightly easier to bear.

'-What we had was real'

The words left a bitter taste in her mouth still. 

Perhaps it had all been real to him. But to her it was an illusion.  

The wolf in sheeps’ clothing had not been the lover in her arms. The Dread Wolf had not been her companion, her advisor, mentor, friend, Vhenan- 

Denial was not a good look on her, but it gave her peace and quiet. 

And this chasm in her chest, this aching void pumping blood through numb limbs… It propelled her  forward. Yet, she felt devoid of the passion and perseverance that moved her before. 

Well.

You can't break what's already broken. Can't lose what you don't have.

-

After the Inquisition disbanded, she had felt lost. Alone.

She needed time to process everything: the loss of her arm, the long years fighting to end Corypheus and then building the world back up again only to be followed by the upheaval of the exalted council, the pain in her chest. Again there was a moment where the world spun on its axis, throwing everything she knew off-balance. Again.

She had come undone, the only thing keeping her together was the feeling of Revas’ long strides over the open plains. 

Only a Dalish would pick that name for a hart, but he earned his name, spirited and wild as he was before he accepted Allana as his rider. He was her only companion.

Her eyes scanned the horizon, but there was no silhouette following her. No shadow in the waking world.

She stayed clear of civilization, only stopping for provisions. She kept to herself, used her voice so little she almost forgot what it sounded like. 

She traveled for weeks like this, a strong pace forward. Needing to get away. Always away. Every moment spent in one place too long and her chest would constrict, a panic building that could only be relieved by the comfort of changing landscapes.

'You lied to me!'

She wanted to escape. To forget. 

She wanted to be wild like her hart. Wanted to be free.

Revas: her freedom.

Revas, revas, revas!

-

She drifted weightlessly through the fade. Time seemed to stand still as she floated through the pleasant warmth of her early memories.

No terror haunted her. No fear demon pulled threads of horrible memories across her vision. Nothing clawed at her. She was safe.

Only one shadow she could not shake. 

She could admit it, now. When the storms of her doubts and fears had quieted down, and she was not drowning, on the brink of being pulled under-

No.

Not now.

She breathed in, and out. At peace, you're safe, she told herself.

The storm calmed down.

He never truly showed himself at first. But she expected him to know that she could sense him.

It had been him, chasing the despair demons away in the nights before she had Dorian’s amulet. She had seen the flash of teeth and six red eyes prowling on the edge of her peripheral vision. Hungry, angry, but not for her. A lonely howl, a loud screech and a wolf had dragged the dark shadows away until she was alone once again.

The terror had melted away with the echo of the wolf's cry.

Curious spirits were discouraged from approaching her afterwards, and she could finally breathe with relief, knowing to expect a night of rest without waking in cold sweat from nightmares.

She scoffed, wondering what keeper Deshanna would say if she knew the presence of the Dreadwolf gave her some measure of comfort.

She would probably call upon all the ancient gods for guidance. To protect her lonely runaway Da'len from the Dreadwolf’s treachery.

But he has your scent.

And you have his heart.

-

She was almost at the coast now, where she would book passage for a ship to Starkhaven. She planned to cross the waking sea at Jader and travel to Antiva after a short stop in Kirkwall. Other than that she hadn’t decided on her plans for the future.

She had set up camp at a clearing near an old ruin. Then, she took her time to make dinner, enjoying her quiet surroundings and knowing this might be her last night sleeping peacefully under the stars for the coming week.

Revas would surely not be happy on a ship.

She looked regretfully at her hart, wishing there was another way to cross safely, without needing a ship or an Eluvian.

As she only had access to one of those options, her choice was made swiftly.

She climbed into her sleeping roll, twisting and turning until she lay comfortably on her side. Listening to her hart grazing nearby, she drifted off to sleep.

-

He had become bolder after she started wearing the amulet. 

Perhaps he wondered how she had found peace in her dreams? Perhaps her aura, pleasantly free of fear and despair, had pulled him in?

Could he sense the enchantment? Could he see she now had more control over the Fade? 

He had tried to teach her many times, but never had she managed this level of lucidity.

Did he observe curiously what strings she pulled, and which memories she traversed?

She always made sure not to dive into memories of their time as lovers. Those memories were locked away deeply, only to be revealed during waking moments of weakness where she allowed herself the time to wallow in her misery.

A slight change in the air alerted her to his presence.

Soundlessly, a shadow big as a hill moved over the horizon until she made out the shape of four clawed paws slowly treading over the grass-covered plane.

He held his head close to the ground, curiously following the invisible line of energy that lingered in her wake. Tracing her scent which was as recognizable and personal as a fingerprint in the land of dreams. Wisps of black smoke trailed his fur, distorting the landscape.

Sensing her, he slowly lifted his massive head as six red glowing eyes fixed themselves on her.

His name was on the tip of her tongue. She quickly swallowed it down, her throat suddenly dry. This was the first time he didn’t disappear as soon as they made eye contact. She was rooted on the spot, not moving an inch, afraid that any change would break the spell. The sudden wave of longing that washed over her came as a surprise. The sharp ache that quickly followed didn’t. 

Then there was anger.

He took one more step towards her and tilted his head to the side, giving the impression of being unsure if he was looking at threat or prey.

Hoping she was neither, she stood still. She could feel her heart beating in her throat, uncomfortably aware of the tension building in the air. It was like the climate changed and became hotter, the air sticky and suffocating, shaped by the emotions of her inner turmoil.

He took a step toward her, and then she felt the Fade shift.

It was her own doing.

Suddenly she was alone again, overlooking the same mountains where Skyhold stood proudly in the distance. Her home.

She felt relieved that she could breathe again. The air was lighter, the sky brighter, although everything in the fade had a disorienting, ghostlike quality to it. Colors were more intense and subdued at the same time, clouded by a mist you could see only when you focused on it intensely.

Her racing pulse calmed down as she kept her attention on the familiar mountains. Two falcons slowly circled the sky, its colors giving the impression of a setting sun.

‘He is only a stranger. A stranger you once knew’, she told herself over and over.

Yet, he did not scare her. At least not for the reasons one should be afraid of a massive ghostly wolf-shadow trailing their subconscious.

Perhaps she should have confided in Lelliana, Cullen or Josephine about his presence in her dreams. But the Inquisition was no more, so sharing these developments felt... too personal, too intimate. She didn't want to think about it. Nor, for that matter, did she want anyone else to.

The Dreadwolf has your scent.

Why was he still keeping his tabs on her, even after their goodbyes? 

'I will never forget you.' 

No of course not, idiot, if he kept following her like this! 

She could feel her anger shaping the Fade around her, the soft, wispy clouds and sharp mountain peaks crumbling. She was taken to a place darker. Deep down, deep roads, stone, damp air, echoes of fighting. A darkspawns’ screech bounced around on the slick walls of the chasm. Still far in the distance but growing louder with each panicked breath she took. The high pitch surrounded her. Darkness enveloped her like a suffocating blanket. The screams of the dead in her memories ringing like white noise in her ear, drowning out her thoughts except; ’Can’t breath!’.

Panicked, she started to run.

Feet thump, thump, thumping on the slippery stones. The echoes grew louder, a horde of demon’s awakened by the steady rhythm of her long strides. She was a hunter being hunted. The echoes of the past not brought forth by demon’s of anger or fear, but by her own traumatized subconscious. Looking for a way out.

Abruptly she skipped to a halt. Reaching for the amulet. 

There were no demons. They can’t reach her. 

All of a sudden she could hear a voice breaking through the clouds of her panic.

“Allana, breathe like we practiced, you are in control.” a strange voice resonated from the walls, seeming to come from all sides at once and yet far away. A voice she could recognize everywhere.

The revelation shocked her, but grounded her mind. The demons were drawing near. Memories, which could do no more physical harm unless she let them. Remembering what part would come next she needed to end it here. Right now.

She closed her eyes, taking a breath. 

In through the nose-

-one, two, three, four. 

Hold for five seconds, let go for six.

She opened her eyes and was again back looking at the sharp outlines of the Frostback Mountains.

The image shifted and the air smelled of spring. Warmth.

Soft winds blowing across open planes. A body of water flowing like a silver snake across the landscape, casting crystallized reflections on billowing trees. A group white halla taking off, startled by her sudden appearance. She watched them for a moment as they darted across the grass in a dance; a playful homage to freedom. They slowly disappeared along the soft edges of her dream, carrying memories of her life with the Dalish. Of an old home, and a life before the world was ending.

Safe.

On the horizon she could just see the tilt of the head of a wolf, watching from afar. Waiting.

She remembered the voice.

She could not suppress the shiver running along her spine. She wondered what would happen if she called out to him. 

She never did.

-

She missed her friends. 

Somehow her shadow in the Fade made her feel more lonesome. 

It almost became a routine. Push and pull. Following and being followed. It was like a game. She realized with some humor the parallel between their dynamic during the early inquisition years and now. Some things never change.

She would like to talk about her confusing feelings with someone that would understand. But who would? Who could sympathize with a woman, the herald, falling for the affections of the enemy in disguise?

When would she be strong enough to break the chains of their entanglement?

Did she not deserve some peace and quiet? To find out who she was without the responsibilities and expectations resting on her shoulders? 

But her work was not over.

She had considered stepping away, and letting things unfold without interfering. But she couldn’t. Tired as she was, she didn't know how not to be Inquisitor Lavellan. 

All she needed now was a plan. 

How to stop your ex-lover from destroying the world? Your ex-lover, who was, by the way, also an ancient Elvhen God and probably the most powerful Mage to walk the planet?

That did not sound impossible at all.

Damn, she really just kept handing out new book ideas to Varric, didn't she? 

-

Whenever the desire to reach out came up, she swallowed it down.

She didn’t want comforting words from her friends, nor their pitied looks and gentle skirting around certain subjects. 

'Are you sure you're alright? If you need anyone to talk to...'

After the Exalted Council she had turned down all invitations to her friends’ new lives for the time being. She promised to visit once she was ready, and that was enough for them to accept her evasion. For now.

Except Dorian was not having any of it.

He had cornered her the day before she was scheduled to leave. She hadn't wanted a goodbye but he had convinced her he was planning no such thing. 

"Only a present for my dearest friend. Looking as glum as you do I would almost fear sadness is contagious," he had said with a pout.

She had fixed him with a glare, but there had been no true malice behind it. Dorian was perhaps the only one not treating her as if she was made from glass. She appreciated that about him.

"You know a present is not going to convince me to join you in Tevinter, darling dearest," she patted his cheek patronizingly, batting her eyelashes for extra effect.

"Of course not! I wouldn't dare to manipulate you with something so banal as a gift. Who do you think I am? I would at least try to seduce you with my good looks first." He gave her an exaggerated wink and she couldn't stop something that almost resembled an honest smile. She raised her eyebrows at his flirtations. He was laying it on a little bit thick, even for Dorian's standards.

Perhaps humor was the only thing guarding the show of real concern from his face.

"Without further ado, then. Come on, hands out." 

He revealed a small package wrapped in cloth and tied closed with a string of leather.

She hesitantly held out her hand as Dorian sandwiched it between his own, the package a comforting shape in the palm of her hand.

She stared at their joined hands for a moment, swallowing whatever words she would have used to deflect his show of care.

He squeezed her hand once and let go.

"It's not going to unwrap itself, Allana."

She sighed, glad that his sarcasm broke through the tender moment. He knew she appreciated his friendship. She is also aware he's worried about her, like they all are. She was just bad at accepting any kind of support, afraid that leveling the slightest bit of weight from her shoulders would cause it all to come crashing down, burying her fully. 

She needed to be Inquisitor for only one day longer, to keep up the pretense of strength and composure. She could deal with whatever might come crashing down after she left. But not now. Not yet.

"Yes, yes," she huffed at his impatience. Maker, give a girl a moment to compose herself!

She unwrapped the bundle and found an amulet, the telltale pulse of enchantment around it. She looked up at him, waiting for the explanation that would no doubt come.

"This will give us an opportunity to communicate directly, no matter how far away you are. I know you will be miserable without my voice pestering you over the coming months," He pulled out a similar-looking amulet from under his collar and tucked it back, giving her a gentle smile. 

She blinked at the wetness threatening to spill over.

He grasped her shoulders and gently pulled her into a hug. She was glad for the excuse to avert her eyes.

Dorian never mentioned her not-so-subtle lack of grip on her emotions. He knew when she needed the space.

He continued, "It also helps you block out unwanted attention in the fade. No terror demons will find you when you sleep at night and no other spirit will be able to communicate if you don't wish for it. It keeps you bound to your own head, in a sense." She was not sure how Dorian knew about the kind of attention she’s received in the fade, but she’s touched nonetheless. 

"Thank you, Dorian," Ellana mumbles into the fabric of his tunic. "Don't expect me to talk every day though."

"No need, darling. It just makes me happy to know you ignoring me is a conscious choice, and doesn’t mean you are lying in a ditch somewhere."

She snorts, a very undignified sound. "After all I've been through, that ditch doesn't know what's coming for them."

"As long as that fighter spirit never leaves you, my friend," She chuckles wordlessly into his shoulder. She doesn't feel much like a fighter at the moment, although her rogue skills are a second instinct. 

She is tired. But she’s looking for something more comfortable than a ditch just yet.

"Thank you, Dorian."

"Don't get all emotional on me, darling."

She will miss him, but she has to go.

-

The nightmares that had plagued her for weeks vanished after she started to wear the amulet. It was truly Dorian to know the source of the bags under her eyes without her needing to say a word. 

'Bad night?' was all he had to ask, and the look she gave him was enough to know.

Years ago, about a month after he had joined the Inquisition, it had only taken one evening of getting drunk together in a cozy corner of the library to share all the secrets that haunted them at night. While the candles burned low, she learned how their experience of the future at Redcliffe had left a deep impression on them both. The red, terrible future of Corypheus’ would-be victory. Thankfully it was not a future she would have to experience again. That was at least one thing she got right.

He was her closest friend after that evening, their shared pain forming a bond like no other. Ha! Who would have thought. A Tevinter Magister and a Dalish elf? Well, she was never fond of living an ordinary life anyway. It takes one to know one.

The only thing haunting her now was a nightmare of her own creation. Made of pain, self loathing and longing, twisting uncomfortably in the hollow of her chest.

That is one thing the amulet will not help her with: the ghost of a broken heart.

She had yet to find a way to live with it, but time heals all wounds. Or so they say.

But then, why, after revealing his plans, did he tell her that he would like to be proven wrong once again? Why taunt her into resuming their game of evade and catch?

Except if you're called Fen'Harel. Too pridefull to accept your failure, somehow incapable of letting go of your evil plans to restore the glory of the ancient Elvhes and simultaneously doom the lives of all other living beings and the world as we know it.

Damn it all and damn his insufferable pride.

For someone refusing to call himself a god, he sure does like to play with the faiths of mortals.

And why did she believe the sincerity in his eyes when he said it? The pain in the tilt of his brow and the clench of his jaw, the way his voice broke when he said goodbye?

He had called her Vhenan, and walked away. Did she imagine the tremble in his hands, just before he stepped through the Eluvian?

Why had he kept himself hidden from her, lied to her, for years?

What makes a cause worth it, if you have to destroy so much on the way?

Why, Solas?

No, not Solas. Not anymore.

Fen'Harel.

-

She is going after him.

There must be a reason he can’t let her go. If he haunts her dreams, does that mean he still thinks of her when he’s awake?  It must mean that there is something still there, pulling her to him. Perhaps only a side effect of the magic from the anchor, but could it be something more?

He said once things were easier for him in the fade. All she knows right now is that he tried to reach out to her in a dream before she boarded the ship.

He even spoke her name when she got lost in a nightmare. He helped her escape her darkest thoughts. Why?

But was it really him in the dreams? Was this wolf form his true identity? Why doesn’t he show the face that she had come to know? Are the greys of his eyes even his true color? Or are they red and multiplied by three? 

In the dream she stepped away out of fear and that fear fuelled her subconscious mind. Afraid of confrontation. Scared to find a fresh tear in her threadbare composure, with the wounds still raw from his betrayal and abandonment.

To fall apart before him while she had slowly tried to mend the pieces back together, that was not something she was ready for.

She wasn’t strong enough.

How much has he kept hidden from her and how much of what he shared had been real?

Ugh, now there’s a terrifying thought.

Is it possible that he can be at more places at the same time. Dreaming while awake?

Being an immensely powerful immortal mage and all, she really has no exact idea of the extent of his power.

She looked out over the open expanse of the sea. Rippling waves and cutting winds shaping the world around her like a smudged painting of greys and muted pthalo greens. The salt had chapped her lips, and the strands of hair that had escaped her braid whip her face and wipe at her tears like feathered fingers.

She hadn't seen him in her dreams for the last three days, since setting sail on the open ocean. What did it mean? Did he ignore her perhaps?  Were there not enough spirits to whisper of her location? 

She was not going to admit to missing her grey shadow welcoming her to sleep for the last couple of months. 

Somehow being by herself for a few days, truly by herself, made it easier to recover her focus. She was not going to run away anymore. She could not abandon the world she once vowed to save. 

She made him doubt his perspective once before. She can do it again.

Right?

She is Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan, first of her clan. She has been many things in her short life; Herald, Dalish, knife-ear, a beacon of hope. Lover, friend, enemy. An anchor to the world behind the veil. 

She had united nations and destroyed treacherous plots. She had traveled through time and back again. She had fought nightmares, ancient darkspawn, dragons and demons. She has walked physically through the Fade, damn it!

She had fallen in love with a god. Had been betrayed by her lover. He saved her life and then took her arm.

She had promised she would not give up on him. He had said he would never forget her.

None of those experiences managed to destroy her, although they came close a few times. None of those titles made her forget who she was and what she believed in, and they will not be her undoing now. 

She was Elana Lavellan. They say heroes are not destined for a long life, but could she linger long enough to beat the Dreadwolf at his own game?

Did she even have a chance? Or would she end up petrified, a grey and decaying sculpture in the garden of his pride? Would they sing songs of the Dreadwolf’s lover? Would they say that if you listen closely to her chest you can still hear the beating of his heart?

The only reason she was still alive is because he willed it. 

That didn’t really sound like the equal and emancipated relationship she envisioned when she dreamed of the future long ago, now does it?

But the look in his eyes. The pain she glimpsed when he left her in crestwood. And then, the times where his body betrayed what the heart wanted. He had tried to hide it, but there was no doubt in her mind that he had desired her. The desperation in his kiss on the balcony at Skyhold. 'Ar lath ma', whispered like a confession, 'vhenan' a prayer on his lips. And then in the crossroads the gentleness in the movement of gold-plated fingers, grazing her ear and softening the pulsating pain of the anchor ripping her apart. His lips pressing to hers like it was the sweetest honeyed lie he told her yet. Like it wasn’t a goodbye. 

She is going to chase that last sliver of hope. It is all she has.

She must create a thread, to pull him from his web of plotting and lies. There must be some way to keep his focus on the value of this world. To show him it was worth saving. An anchor of some kind.

The journey at sea would take one more day at most. The best course of action would be to visit the alienage of Kirkwall. She had heard of the elves leaving the city, answering a call. She must be able to uncover one of his agent’s to dig for more information. Could she disguise herself? Without her arm she would always stand out like a sore thumb. Everybody knew the stories of the knife eared Inquisitor and her stolen arm. The Dreadwolf’s agent must know of her importance in the game. Knowing that she had been close to their leader once, she could turn out to be a potential weakness.

Okay, so first she would find a smith and fabricate herself an arm substitute. Oh how she missed Dagna. The dwarven woman must have had a million ideas for hidden daggers in a fake arm! She could meet with Varric in secret, and use his contacts in the city. She hadn’t planned to stay in Kirkwall for more than a day, but she’s sure her friend wouldn’t mind the surprise. He shouldn’t have given her the city's key if he hadn’t anticipated her showing up unannounced.

Okay, step one, disguise her arm. Step two, disguise her identity. Step tree: find more information.

What is Fen’Harel gathering the Elves for? Promises of a better world? Are they joining of their free will or is it some kind of death cult compulsion? No he wouldn't go that far… or would he? She has to find out. The more gaps in her knowledge about him, the wilder her imagination is going to get.

The ocean calms her mind. The harsh winds wipe away the doubt and leave her mind clear and focused.

She has a purpose, a plan. 

On the horizon she can slowly spot the soft outlines of Starkhaven forming in the distance. They are nearing land.

The wolf hunts alone, but she is lonely too.

And she is coming for him.

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

Notes:

My second try at writing a Solavellan piece, but the first one I ever uploaded on AO3! Hope you liked it. :)

Big thanks to my sister @colorandvigor for being my beta and having an amazing grasp of gramar. Note, english is not my first language.

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