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lazy-ahh · 2 months ago

Note

Ello~! I was wondering if I can make a request with Mohawk Mark X Starfire Male Reader! Just thinking about them interacting makes me think it’d be cute and funny, especially if Mohawk Mark’s the first person Reader meets and Reader kisses him to learn his language ^_^

LOST STAR

pairing mohawk! mark grayson x (tamaranean/starfire) male reader

when a tamaranean crash-lands on earth with his powers locked behind strange cuffs, the last person he expects to meet is mark grayson—mohawk, piercings, and all the attitude of a pissed-off superhuman. but after a very unconventional first encounter (involving lips, language barriers, and zero personal space), the two find themselves tangled in something neither expected. now mark’s stuck babysitting an alien who follows him like a lovesick comet, touches him like he’s something sacred, and looks at him like he’s the entire damn universe. worst part? mark’s starting to like it.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro

the sky was a lazy blend of orange and pink, the sun sinking low behind the rooftops and stretching the shadows of trees and telephone poles into long, crooked fingers across the quiet suburban streets. mark grayson—invincible, not that the name really mattered—was sprawled on the edge of a rooftop, one leg swinging idly over the drop while he chewed on the inside of his cheek. bored. so stupidly, mind-numbingly bored.

nothing ever happened in this dump at this hour surprisingly. no rampaging villains to put through a wall, no collapsing buildings to prop up last-minute, not even a damn bank robbery to spice things up. just the same old houses, the same old people, the same old nothing. he sighed, tilting his head back. maybe he should just bail—go home, flop onto his bed, and finally read the new issue of seance dog that had been sitting on his desk for two days.

he pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders, ready to take off—

"invincible."

cecil’s voice crackled through the earpiece in his right ear, sharp and no-nonsense. mark groaned, tapping the device. "what."

"we’ve got an unidentified object approaching earth at high speed. trajectory puts it landing in your area. intercept and assess—neutralize if it’s a threat. you know the deal."

mark’s lips curled into a grin. finally.

he barely had time to glance up before something streaked across the sky—a blur of green and purple, moving way too fast to be a meteor, way too alive to be space junk. it slammed into the park across the street with a boom that rattled windows and sent birds scattering in panic.

mark didn’t hesitate. he kicked off the roof, the air whipping past him as he dropped down, landing hard enough to crack the pavement near the smoldering crater you’d left behind. dust swirled in the air, thick and choking, but as it cleared—

there you were.

and oh, this just got interesting.

you were… colorful. like, stupidly colorful. not in some tacky, neon way—more like the kind of vibrant that made mark’s brain stutter for half a second. your skin was a warm, sun-kissed gold, like you’d been dipped in honey and left to glow under some star. your hair—wow, your hair—was a wild mess, strands floating slightly as if gravity had given up trying to tame it. and your eyes. bright, glowing green, like two emerald suns blinking up at him, dazed but sharp.

mark’s gaze dragged lower, slow and deliberate, drinking in the sight of you like he’d just stumbled across something precious. yeah, you were built like him—lean but layered with tight, coiled muscle, the kind of body that spoke of battles fought in zero gravity, of limbs trained to twist mid-air and strike like a comet. but where mark was all rough edges and impatient energy, you were polished. sleek in a way that made his throat feel weirdly dry.

your outfit didn’t help. deep, royal purple—the kind of color that shifted in the dying light, almost metallic, like liquid amethyst poured over your skin. it clung to you perfectly, hugging every dip and curve of your frame, leaving your arms bare and flexing, biceps tensing as you tested the cuffs. the fabric looked smooth but impossibly tough, like it could take a hit from a plasma cannon and barely singe.

then there were the details—the silver metal sleeves encasing your forearms, running from wrist to just beneath the swell of your bicep. sleek violet boots, fitted like they’d been forged onto you. and that collar—high, armored, framing your jawline and flaring over your shoulders like some kind of alien royalty. it gave you this… presence. like you hadn’t just crash-landed in a park. like you’d meant to make an entrance.

mark’s lips quirked. space prince. a really pissed-off one, judging by the way you were glaring at your restraints.

interesting.

mark's eyes dropped to your wrists, where thick, pulsating cuffs glowed with an eerie violet light. they weren't just restraints—they were alive with foreign tech, humming like a trapped wasp nest, their surfaces crawling with strange, liquid-metal runes that shifted under his gaze. you groaned through clenched teeth, the veins in your biceps standing out as you wrenched against the cuffs which were flashing brighter in response as if mocking your efforts. a frustrated snarl ripped from your throat, one that made the hair on mark's arms stand up—there was something distinctly predator about it.

"well, well," mark drawled, his arms crossing over his chest, fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his bicep. "looks like earth's got itself a new intergalactic tourist." his lips curled into that trademark smirk, the one that usually made people nervous. "let me guess—not the welcome party you were expecting, right?"

your head snapped up at that, those glowing green eyes narrowing. for a second, you just stared at him like he'd grown a second head, your nose wrinkling in a way that might've been cute if not for the dangerous glint in your eyes. when you spoke, it was like listening to a storm given voice—words that rolled and crashed in impossible rhythms, some syllables sharp as broken glass, others smooth as molten gold. the sounds curled through the air between you, carrying the scent of ozone and something distinctly not-of-this-world.

mark blinked, his smirk faltering for half a heartbeat. "uh. yeah," he said, shaking his head as if that might dislodge the foreign sounds from his ears. "no idea what the hell you just said."

your expression darkened, those glowing eyes flickering like a dying neon sign. he saw the exact moment you gave up on communication—your jaw tightening, the muscles in your shoulders coiling like springs. then, in a burst of motion so fast it left afterimages, you were gone. one second you were there, kneeling in the smoldering crater, the next you were nothing but a comet's tail of emerald and amethyst streaking upward, the shockwave of your takeoff sending dirt and debris spraying in all directions. the air where you'd been shimmered with displaced energy, the scent of burnt ozone hanging heavy in your wake.

"oh, hell no," mark growled, the words tearing from his throat as he kicked off the ground hard enough to crater the pavement beneath him. the air screamed past his ears as he shot after you, his mohawk flattening against his skull from the sheer velocity.

the chase was a goddamn lightning strike—you moved like starlight given form, all emerald and violet streaks against the twilight sky. you banked hard around a skyscraper, your restrained hands somehow not slowing the fluid way you carved through the air, dipping between buildings with impossible grace before rocketing toward the distant tree line. mark gritted his teeth until his jaw ached, pushing his limits to match your speed. you were quicker, yeah, but he was all stubborn rage and earth-born grit, refusing to let some cuffed-up alien outfly him in his own damn city.

the forest came up fast—too fast. the two of you crashed through the canopy in an explosion of splintered branches and shredded leaves, the scent of pine resin thick in the air as you skidded to a stop in a small clearing. dirt and debris sprayed outward from your landing, the impact sending small creatures scattering into the underbrush. you spun to face him, your cuffed hands held in a defensive position despite the restraints, those glowing green eyes burning like solar flares in the dim light. your chest heaved with each breath, but your stance never wavered—balanced, dangerous, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

mark barely had time to flash that infuriating smirk before you lunged.

your first strike shouldn't have been possible with bound hands—a vicious, glowing green haymaker that left afterimages in its wake as it rocketed toward his jaw. mark barely ducked in time, feeling the superheated energy of your fist singe the tips of his hair as it passed. he countered with a sharp jab to your ribs, but you twisted mid-air with impossible flexibility, your knee coming up in a brutal arc that connected with his diaphragm. the impact lifted him clean off his feet, all the air rushing from his lungs in a pained "oof" as he skidded backward through the dirt, his back slamming against an unfortunate sapling that snapped in half from the force.

"the hell—?!" he wheezed, his vision swimming as he struggled to draw breath. his ribs throbbed where you'd hit him—that shouldn't have hurt so damn much. why the hell do your hits feel like freight trains?

you didn’t let up. another punch—sharp, precise—aimed for his ribs. a spinning kick that nearly took his head off if he hadn’t ducked in time. every movement was fluid, calculated, like you’d spent years mastering how to fight even with your hands bound. mark blocked what he could, arms stinging from the impact, but damn, you were good. not just strong—trained. like someone had carved you into a weapon and set you loose.

"alright, enough," he growled, finally snatching your wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around the smooth metal cuff. you snarled, muscles straining as you tried to yank free, but he held firm, his grip unrelenting. "i’m not trying to fight you, dumbass!"

you froze. your chest heaved, sweat glistening along your temple, those glowing green eyes locked onto his with an intensity that made his pulse stutter. for a heartbeat, neither of you moved—just the sound of ragged breathing between you. then, slowly, your glare softened into something uncertain, almost curious. you huffed, nostrils flaring, before your gaze flicked down—to his lips.

then—

you lunged.

mark’s brain short-circuited. one second, he was glaring at you, ready to snap another insult—the next, your mouth was on his, warm and burning, like kissing sunlight given form. your lips were softer than he expected, but there was a roughness to it, a desperation that left him dizzy. your scent flooded his senses—something wild and electric, like ozone and crushed juniper berries.

he didn’t even realize he’d started kissing you back until you pulled away, and god, his body moved before his brain could catch up—chasing your lips in a hazy, instinctive daze, as if you’d stolen the air from his lungs and he needed it back.

you broke the contact with a quiet smack, licking your lips like you’d just tasted something fascinating. your tongue darted out, slow, deliberate, as if savoring the flavor of him.

"there," you murmured, your voice smooth now, laced with an accent that curled around the words like smoke. the glow in your eyes flickered, satisfied. "now i can understand you."

mark just stared, his lips still buzzing with the phantom warmth of yours, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. he could still taste you—something sweet and foreign, like starlight given flavor. "...what the fuck."

his hand rose slowly, the back of it dragging across his mouth in a rough gesture, like he could wipe away the lingering sensation. it didn't work. "what the hell was that?" his voice came out strangled, higher than usual.

you blinked, your glowing green eyes wide with sudden concern. the way your brows knitted together was almost... cute. damn it. "i am sorry," you said carefully, each word deliberate like you were testing how they felt in your new tongue. your head tilted slightly as you spoke. "my people... we learn speech like this." you raised your cuffed hands slightly, fingers brushing your own lips in demonstration. "lips must touch. to know words."

mark's face burned hotter. "so you just- what, kiss people to talk to them?"

"yes." you nodded earnestly, then hesitated. your nose scrunched as you searched for the right words. "but... not for... pleasure? only learning." you gestured between the two of you. "now i understand you. but your face..." your hand hovered near his cheek, not quite touching. "you look... burned? did i hurt you?"

"no, i'm not- that's not-" mark sputtered, running a hand through his mohawk in frustration. he could still feel the shape of your mouth against his. "it's just... humans don't usually do that, okay? we learn languages the boring way. with books and shit."

your glowing green eyes widened, the light in them pulsing faintly with genuine surprise. "that sounds... very slow." you said it with such sincere, heartbreaking pity—like mark had just confessed he still walked everywhere instead of flying—that his lips twitched despite himself, a choked laugh threatening to escape.

mark groaned, his calloused palm dragging down his face hard enough to briefly distort his features. "unbelievable," he muttered through his fingers. "welp, there goes my first kiss. first alien i meet, and they're a total weirdo."

your head tilted slightly to the side, those luminous eyes blinking once, twice. the movement was so distinctly not human—too smooth, too precise—that it sent an odd shiver down mark's spine. "weer-dee-oh?" you repeated carefully, the unfamiliar word rolling awkwardly off your tongue. your nose scrunched adorably as you tested the syllables. "this is... a bad thing?"

the innocent question, paired with your utterly serious expression, finally broke mark. a sharp bark of laughter escaped him before he could stop it. "oh my god," he wheezed, shoulders shaking. "you're killing me here." he waved a hand vaguely in your direction, struggling to compose himself. "no, it's just- yeah, okay, maybe a little bad. but mostly... you're just different. in a... in a way that makes my brain hurt."

you considered this for a moment, then nodded solemnly. "then i will be... careful with your brain." you said it with such grave sincerity that mark had to bite his lip to keep from laughing again.

the sudden crackle of cecil's voice in his earpiece nearly made mark jump. "invincible. report. was that explosion our new visitor?"

mark sighed, pressing a finger to his ear. "yeah, yeah. we're all good. turns out tall, glowing, and stab-happy here isn't actually—hey!" he interrupted himself as he caught you twisting your wrists violently against the cuffs, your teeth gritted in frustration. without breaking his conversation, he reached over and snapped the remaining restraint like it was a stale breadstick. "—isn't actually a threat. just... real enthusiastic about first impressions."

"you're telling me you've made peaceful contact with an unknown extraterrestrial in under five minutes?" cecil's dry tone could've withered flowers. "should i alert the press about your stunning diplomatic skills?"

"shut up," mark muttered, pointedly ignoring the way you were now staring at him with those big, glowing eyes—like he'd just saved your family and your cat instead of breaking some stupid cuffs. your fingers flexed experimentally, green energy already crackling around your freed hands. it was... distracting. "look, they're harmless. mostly. just... really into the whole kissing thing."

a beat of silence. "...i'm going to pretend i didn't hear that."

"good call," mark said, watching as you shook out your wrists, that ridiculously grateful expression still plastered on your face. he pointedly turned his back, feeling his ears heat up. "anyway, we're cool here. no invasion today. probably."

"your confidence is overwhelming," cecil deadpanned. "anyway, bring them to headquarters immediately—the guardians and i will want to assess this situation properly."

"what? no, he's fine—" mark started, but cecil cut him off.

"that wasn't a request, grayson. headquarters. now." the line went dead with finality.

mark groaned, turning back to see your stupidly earnest face. "stop looking at me like that," he grumbled, crossing his arms. "it was just some cuffs."

you blinked, then smiled—slow and bright like a sunrise. "to you, maybe." your newly freed hand reached up, almost hesitantly, to brush against his arm. "to me... it was everything."

mark's stomach lurched violently, like he'd just missed a step going downstairs. that uncomfortable warmth spread from his chest up to his ears, burning under his skin. oh, this was so not good. with a sharp turn, he pivoted on his heel, deliberately facing away from you so you wouldn't see how flushed he'd become. "anyway, we gotta move. looks like we're taking a field trip," he muttered, voice rough around the edges as he started walking a little too fast.

you blinked, your glowing eyes widening slightly as your head tilted at that perfect, infuriating angle that made your hair sway. without hesitation, you floated after him, keeping pace effortlessly. "field... trip?" the words sounded foreign in your mouth, your accent wrapping around them curiously.

"yeah," mark grumbled, dragging a hand through his mohawk. he could already imagine the interrogation—cecil's piercing stare, the guardians' skeptical looks, and god, if his dad got involved... his shoulders tensed at the thought. "to meet my coworkers. and my boss." he shot you a sideways glance, trying to sound casual as he added, "try not to kiss anyone this time, okay?"

you gently shook your head, the motion sending little emerald sparks dancing through your hair. "there is no need to worry." your voice was soft but certain, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "i won't kiss anyone else other than you."

mark's steps faltered. he whirled around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. "what do you mean by that?" his voice came out embarrassingly high-pitched.

you looked at him with mild surprise, those luminous eyes studying his flustered expression with open curiosity. "i meant that i'll only ever kiss you if i needed to learn more of the language." a small, knowing smile played at your lips as you added, "though, i doubt i'd need to."

mark's brain short-circuited. the way you said it—so simple, so matter-of-fact—left no room for argument. that uncomfortable warmth in his chest bloomed hotter, spreading down to his fingertips. he swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how close you were standing.

oh. he was so completely fucked.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

mark absolutely hated this. hated how you floated after him everywhere like some glowing green shadow. hated how you’d tilt your head at every little thing—vending machines, pigeons, traffic lights—like they held the secrets of the universe. hated most of all how cecil had dumped babysitting duty on him with that infuriating smirk. "just keep him out of trouble, grayson. how hard can it be?"

it was impossible. you were a walking disaster wrapped in purple uniform. yesterday you’d tried to "help" him stop a bank robbery by smiling brightly at the thieves and asking why they needed the money, as if you were going to try out to talk-no-jutsu them into not doing the crime anymore. the day before, you’d somehow set a hot dog stand on fire because "the meat tubes smelled sad and wished to be free." and now? now you were hovering two inches behind him as he tried to buy coffee, your chin practically resting on his shoulder as you stared at the cashier with terrifying intensity.

"dude. personal space," mark grumbled, elbowing you back gently. you didn’t move—just blinked those stupidly big eyes at him and whispered "the small human is giving you paper with numbers. is this a threat?"

mark’s eye twitched. "it’s called money, space case." he shoved a twenty at the cashier before dragging you away by your wrist, ignoring how your fingers immediately curled around his like some overgrown, alien puppy. "we’ve been over this. no interrogating minimum wage workers. no ‘investigating’ trash cans. and for the love of god—" he yanked you back as you started drifting toward a police horse, "—no trying to communicate with earth animals!"

you pouted, all soft lips and wounded dignity, your glowing eyes shimmering with genuine concern. "but the furry one looked lonely."

mark's stomach did that stupid, traitorous flip again—the one that made his ribs feel too tight. he hated that most of all. hated how you'd somehow woven yourself into every fucking corner of his life these past four weeks. you were practically living at his house now, curled up on his couch like some exotic housecat whenever his mom made tamaranean-friendly snacks (which she learned for hours from your instructions). debbie adored you, always saving the snacks just for you, laughing at your terrible attempts at earth jokes. even his father—stone-cold nolan grayson—had started giving you those barely-there smiles when you correctly answered his space trivia questions.

the guardians treated you like some precious child they had adopted. darkwing let you fiddle with his tech. war woman sneaked you candy. even cecil, the human embodiment of a migraine, had gruffly admitted you were "tolerable and nice for your own good." everyone loved you. and mark? mark was so, so fucked.

what he hated most were the nights. those quiet, vulnerable nights when you'd slip into his bed after nightmares about your crashed ship, wearing nothing but his stolen seance dog hoodie (now permanently smelling like starlight and something sweet) and those stupid black boxers that rode too low on your hips. you'd curl against him like a contented star, your warm fingers tracing constellations across his cheekbones, his collarbones, the hard planes of his chest—always to the rhythm of that damn song he'd first introduced to you. he never told you to shut up whenever you would hum or even sing the tune, not because your voice sounded nice or anything, but because it just so happened to be his favourite song. your humming vibrated through his skin, your breath warm against his neck as you studied him with that reverent gaze, like he'd hung every fucking star in your sky.

mark would lie there, barely breathing, his heart pounding so loud he was sure you could hear it. he'd focus on keeping his muscles relaxed, on not shivering when your fingertips brushed his nipple accidentally, on pretending he didn't notice how your thigh kept sliding between his in order to tangle your limbs with his. and if his cock stirred in his sweats, thick and heavy with want? well. that was just biology. didn't mean anything. couldn't mean anything. because if you realized he was awake, if you saw the desperate hunger in his eyes, if you felt the way his hips twitched toward your touch—

it would ruin everything. and mark couldn't lose this. couldn't lose you. so he stayed still, stayed quiet, and let you have these stolen moments—even as they slowly drove him insane.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"i've always been curious about these tiny little metal things on your face." your voice was soft with wonder, fingertips hovering just above his skin like you were afraid he might vanish. slowly, so slowly, you traced the silver buds by his eyebrow, following the curve like it held some cosmic secret. your touch drifted down, feather-light, to brush the labret piercing at the bottom of the corner of his lip. when your thumb accidentally grazed the fullness of his bottom lip, mark's breath hitched—just for a second. "why did you get them?" you whispered, glowing eyes searching his.

mark had learned many things about you these past weeks. like how you were practically made of starlight and touch, always finding ways to connect—a hand on his arm when laughing, fingers threading through his when nervous, your entire body pressed along his back when curious about what he was doing. at first, it had been shy little brushes, like you weren't sure you were allowed. now? now you draped yourself over him without hesitation, leaning in close to whisper terrible jokes in his ear just to feel him shake with laughter.

("you know," red rush had said once, smirking as you clung to mark's arm like a vine, "most humans don't just... climb their friends like jungle gyms."

you'd just nuzzled into mark's shoulder, completely unbothered. "but mark isn't most humans." and damn if that hadn't made his chest feel too tight.)

mark had thought about setting boundaries. once. for about five seconds. then you fell asleep on his chest during movie night, and the idea evaporated like morning dew.

now, with your fingers still tracing his piercings, mark swallowed hard. "dunno," he muttered, trying (and failing) to sound casual. "thought they looked cool, i guess." a beat. then, softer: "my mom cried when i came home with the first one."

your glowing eyes crinkled at the corners. "i think they're beautiful," you murmured, thumb brushing his lip again—and okay, that was definitely on purpose this time. "like... constellations. but on your skin instead of the sky." your other hand came up to cradle his jaw, your touch warmer than any sun. "may i...?"

mark's heart was doing that stupid pounding thing again. "may you what?" he breathed, already leaning into your palm.

instead of answering, you closed the distance between you, pressing the softest kiss to each piercing—first his eyebrows, then the corners of his mouth. when you pulled back, your smile was brighter than any supernova. "now i'll always remember how they feel," you whispered, like it was some precious secret.

mark was pretty sure his lungs had forgotten how to work. "you," he croaked out, voice rough like gravel, "are such a weirdo." but his traitorous hands were already dragging you closer, fingers digging into the soft skin of your hips as his forehead fell against yours. the words came out thick with something he wasn't ready to name—something that burned in his chest whenever you looked at him like that. and god, that smile—the one that lit up your whole face, the one that was only ever for him—it sent a wave of heat crashing through him, turning his cheeks and neck an embarrassing shade of pink that matched the sunset bleeding through his bedroom window.

"is that still a bad thing?" you asked, already shifting like this was your rightful place. in one smooth motion, you straddled his thigh, your legs bracketing his like they were made to fit there. your arms looped around his neck with practiced ease, fingers playing with the hairs at his nape like you'd done this a thousand times before. mark's breath hitched as your weight settled fully against him—the firm press of your ass against his thigh, the way your biceps flexed under his fingertips, the heat of your bare skin where his shirt had ridden up. and fuck, if he didn't focus real hard on the ceiling, he was going to lose his mind over the unmistakable press of your cock against his stomach, barely concealed by those stupid thin boxers you always stole from him. he was just wishing you didn't notice the raging boner in his.

mark swallowed hard, his own traitorous body responding in kind. "no..." he managed, voice muffled as he buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling the scent of starlight and his own shampoo on your skin. one hand came up to cradle the back of your head, holding you close like you might disappear. "not with you." his lips brushed against your pulse point, the words spilling out in a whisper he couldn't take back. "never with you."

exactly 4.6k words, i'm honestly a tiny bit impressed lolol. anyway, hope y'all enjoyed this one-shot! i'm not gonna lie, i didn't know where i was going with this but yeah :]

#lazy-ahh #invincible #invincible variant #mark grayson #mohawk invincible #mohawk mark grayson #male reader #tamaranean male reader #invincible x male reader #invincible variant x male reader #mark grayson x male reader #mohawk invincible x male reader #mohawk mark grayson x male reader #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #are you sure?

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oceandolores · 7 months ago

Text

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔤𝔦𝔬𝔫 | chapter I

General Marcus Acacius x f!reader

"in her eyes shone the sweetness of melancholy."

summary: In the grandeur of ancient Rome, you are the secret daughter of Commodus, living a quiet life as a servant in the imperial palace. Everything changes when you meet General Marcus Acacius, Rome’s honorable and stoic leader.

Though devoted to duty and loyalty to the princess, Marcus is drawn to you in a way he cannot ignore. A forbidden passion ignites between you both, and an affair begins—one that threatens the very foundation of loyalty, power, and honor. As you fall deeper into your dangerous love for Marcus, each stolen moment becomes a fragile, dangerous secret.

warnings: 18+ only, 14 YEARS AFTER GLADIATOR 1, ANGST, Fluff, A LOT OF SMUT, Unprotected Sex, Exhibition Kink, Age-Gap, Ancient Rome, mentions of violence, Gladiators, Blood, Gore, Politics, Sexism, Forbidden Love, Loss of Virginity, mentions of death, Innocent and pure reader, Loss of virginity, Infidelity, more warnings will be added throughout the story

Chapter I

masterlist!

next | chapter II

The palace is alive with preparation, a beast of marble and gold that never rests. Its veins are the labyrinthine halls, pulsing with servants like you, carrying trays of delicacies, wreaths of flowers, and jugs of wine.

Its heart beats to the rhythm of whispered orders, clinking metal, and the distant echo of the marketplace beyond its gates. Tonight, the beast awakens for another feast.

You adjust the folds of your simple tunic, careful not to brush against the elaborate tapestries that line the walls. Each thread tells a story of conquest, glory, and power—legends you’ve only heard murmured by those old enough to remember.

You are not part of those tales, nor their lineage. You are a servant, a shadow cast by the towering figures who walk these halls.

The kitchen is a tempest. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and sweet figs. Claudia, the head cook, barks orders, her voice slicing through the chaos like the edge of a Roman gladius.

You pass her with a nod, your arms laden with trays of fruit—gleaming apples, plump grapes, the kind of bounty the common people outside these walls could only dream of.

Livia catches your eye from across the room. Her presence is a steady anchor in the storm, her face worn but kind.

“Have you checked the wine?” she asks, her tone soft but urgent.

You nod. “It’s ready, Mother,” you reply, the word slipping out as naturally as breath.

She is not your mother—you know this much—but she is all you have.

The story of how you came to be here is one you’ve heard countless times: a baby abandoned at the servants' chamber door, cradled in a basket of woven reeds, with nothing to mark your origin save for a scrap of fine cloth that no one in your station would dare to own.

Livia found you there, swaddled in whispers of mystery, and against all odds, she chose to keep you.

Raised among the laboring hands of the palace, you were given no privilege beyond survival and no legacy but that of work.

The great marble halls and gilded frescoes became your entire world, a place as eternal and unmoving as the gods themselves—or so it seemed.

The servants’ quarters where you lived were nestled in the hidden bowels of the palace, far from the glittering feasts and marble statues.

You learned to scrub floors and pour wine long before you understood the language of wealth and power that filled these walls.

Your life had been carved out in the shadows, molded by the soft voices and calloused hands of those who raised you.

Today, like every other, begins in service to Rome's ever-churning hunger for spectacle.

The air hums with anticipation, thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, a stark contrast to the stench of poverty that lingers just beyond the palace gates.

“Are the platters for the atrium ready?” Livia’s voice cuts through your thoughts.

“They are,” you reply, glancing at the polished silver laden with grapes and apples, their skins shining like jewels under the torchlight.

“Good.” Livia’s sharp eyes soften, though her expression remains tense. “Take the fruit out yourself. And stay close to the kitchen. Today will bring trouble, I feel it.”

You nod, understanding the weight of her instincts. Years of serving in the palace have taught her to sense the storm before it strikes.

As you lift the platters, Claudia, calls over her daughter, Alexandra.

“Go with her,” Claudia orders, waving a ladle for emphasis.

Alexandra groans dramatically but obeys, rolling her eyes as she grabs one of the platters.

“She can’t let me rest for a moment,” she mutters, her tone more amused than annoyed.

You chuckle softly. Alexandra has always been like this—bold where you are cautious, quick to speak where you stay silent.

She is your only true companion here, older by four years and infinitely more daring.

As you and Alexandra arrange the fruits on a grand table in the atrium, she leans closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “The Princess will be here tonight.”

You nod absently, focused on ensuring the grapes cascade just so. “Of course, she will. She is the Princess after all.”

“No, I mean, I haven’t seen her in years,” Alexandra continues, ignoring your tone. “Not since I was a kid. That was ten years ago. You know she moved out of the palace after marrying the general.”

You don’t reply immediately, your hands steady as you arrange the fruit. Alexandra has always loved to gossip, but you prefer to keep your thoughts unspoken.

“Can you believe it’s been ten years, and she hasn’t had a child? Not one with him,” Alexandra muses.

“Maybe it’s their choice,” you say quietly. “It’s not our place to wonder.”

Alexandra scoffs lightly. “I’m just saying, after her son—what was his name? Lucius?—after he was taken and killed by her brother, Commodus…” She trails off, her voice tinged with something between pity and fascination.

You remember Lucius vaguely, a boy with a quiet demeanor and a sad smile.

You were too young then to understand the weight of his loss, but the servants whispered of curses and tragedies surrounding the imperial family.

“It’s not good to talk about the great emperors like that,” you murmur, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

Before Alexandra can reply, the sound of heavy boots echoes through the atrium.

The guards step forward, their polished armor glinting in the firelight. “Make way for their majesties,” one announces, his voice carrying over the growing murmur of the guests.

You and Alexandra immediately bow your heads, the platters forgotten as the twin emperors enter the room.

Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla are a study in contrasts.

Geta, an imposing figure, commands the space with a cold and calculating gaze. His every step seems deliberate, as if the weight of the empire rests on his shoulders alone.

Caracalla, by contrast, walks with an erratic energy, his pet monkey perched on his shoulder. Dondus, the creature’s name, chatters and hisses, a mirror of its master’s unpredictable moods.

You feel the weight of their gazes as they sweep the room. Geta’s lips curl into a smile—or is it a smirk?—as his eyes linger on Alexandra.

There have been whispers, rumors of an affair, though Alexandra denies them with a laugh.

Caracalla’s gaze lands on you, and for a moment, his expression softens. Unlike his brother, he has always been strange but oddly kind to you.

When you were a child, he would find you in the halls, offering you small trinkets or asking you to keep him company.

“Your Majesties,” Alexandra says again, her voice like honeyed wine, sweet but strong.

She curtsies with practiced ease, her eyes cast downward, yet her boldness hangs in the air, unspoken but palpable.

You follow her lead, bowing deeply, but your heart pounds in your chest like the war drums of a distant legion. In the presence of the emperors, the room feels smaller, the air heavier.

To serve Rome, you think, is to breathe in the will of its rulers, no matter how suffocating.

Geta's gaze lingers on Alexandra, traveling from her head to her feet, as though she were a statue he might commission or a possession he already owns.

His smirk deepens, the corner of his mouth curving with an indulgence that unsettles you.

“Alexandra,” he drawls, his voice smooth as polished bronze. “Why do I find the table half-dressed? Are my guests to dine on the promise of fruit alone?”

You glance at the platters, perfectly arranged but not yet fully adorned with the remaining dishes. Your pulse quickens; you know the punishment for displeasing the emperors can be swift, unpredictable.

But Alexandra, bold as always, doesn’t flinch.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” she says, her tone measured yet edged with defiance. “The final trays are being brought out as we speak. The delay was unforeseen.”

Geta arches a brow, his smirk turning sharper, more dangerous. “Unforeseen,” he repeats, as though savoring the word.

“I wonder, Alexandra, if you’ve grown too accustomed to... distractions.”

You know the meaning behind his words. Everyone does.

The whispered rumors of their affair swirl through the palace like incense smoke, clinging to every corner.

Her mother Claudia knows, though she turns a blind eye, perhaps thinking it wiser not to provoke the wrath of an emperor.

Beside him, Caracalla shifts, uninterested in the exchange. His pet monkey, Dondus, chitters softly on his shoulder, its small, beady eyes scanning the room.

Caracalla’s gaze falls on you briefly, but it is not unkind. He has always been more erratic than cruel with you, there is a peculiar understanding in his glances—a shared knowledge of solitude.

“Forgive us, Your Majesty,” you say suddenly, your voice trembling like a bird caught in a net. The words tumble out before you can stop them, and the weight of the room shifts.

Geta’s eyes snap to you, sharp as a blade. For a moment, you wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake.

But then he laughs—a low, indulgent sound that sends shivers down your spine.

“Ah,” he says, leaning slightly toward you. “The little dove finds her voice. How curious.”

You stiffen under his gaze, your knees threatening to buckle. It feels as though he is peeling back your very skin, seeking something hidden beneath.

“You’re the youngest servant here, aren’t you?” Geta muses, his tone light but with an edge that cuts.

“A curious creature, so quiet and unassuming. And yet…” He trails off, his eyes narrowing, as if piecing together a puzzle.

The weight of unspoken rumors presses against your chest.

The whispers about your lineage, the murmurs that you are more than a servant—that you are the illegitimate daughter of Commodus himself, a shadow of Rome’s bloody past.

You’ve heard them before, though never directly. Livia, your steadfast mother in all but blood, dismisses them as lies, the gossip of bored tongues.

But in moments like this, when Geta’s piercing gaze locks onto yours, it feels as though the marble walls around you whisper secrets only they can hold.

Secrets of your origin, of what blood may or may not flow through your veins, encased in the silent austerity of Rome’s cold embrace. You feel the weight of it, a shroud both invisible and suffocating.

Geta doesn’t believe the rumors entirely, but he cannot ignore them either. To him, you are a thorn he cannot pluck without proof.

If the whispers are true, if you are indeed the hidden scion of Commodus and the only living grandchild of Marcus Aurelius, you would be a danger to his rule.

Rome, after all, has loved its Aurelius lineage fiercely.

The plebeians would rally to your name like vines twisting toward sunlight.

Still, no woman has ever ruled Rome.

The Senate, the soldiers, and the gods themselves would balk at such a notion. But Geta knows that power is not always rooted in precedent—it is rooted in the hearts of the people.

And the people would love a descendant of Marcus Aurelius far more than they could ever love him.

“You wear the palace well,” Geta says finally, his tone dripping with mockery. “A little too well, perhaps.”

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks but keep your gaze respectfully lowered. His words are like serpents coiling around you, their venom lying just beneath the surface.

Caracalla hums softly, breaking the tension. He strokes Dondus, the little monkey perched on his shoulder, as though soothing himself rather than the animal.

“Leave her, brother,” he mutters, his tone flat but carrying weight. “You scare the child.”

Geta casts his twin a glance, his smirk briefly faltering. With that, he straightens, clapping his hands once in finality. “Finish the table,” he commands, the sharpness of his tone slicing through the room.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” you and Alexandra reply in unison, bowing deeply as the emperors turn and walk away.

Their robes ripple like molten gold, catching the light as though the gods themselves had woven the fabric.

The moment they are gone, you exhale shakily, the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding slipping from your lips.

The grandeur of the palace, so often a thing of wonder, now feels oppressive—a prison of marble and ambition.

Alexandra nudges you gently, her smile faint but reassuring. “It’s fine,” she murmurs, though the tightness in her voice betrays her unease.

You nod and return to your work, the routine motions of arranging platters grounding you once more. But the unease lingers, like a storm cloud that refuses to dissipate.

Later, after the feast preparations are complete, you retreat to the servants’ quarters. The hallways grow quieter as the palace begins to prepare for the night’s debauchery.

Your mother, Livia, finds you there, her expression tight with concern.

“Are you all right?” You nod quickly, not wanting to worry her further.

Livia’s sharp eyes search yours for a moment before she exhales heavily. “Stay away from them tonight,” she warns. “There will be soldiers, senators, politicians—men who think they own the world. And women and men from the brothels to entertain them. It will not be a place for a child like you.”

“I understand,” you say softly, though the thought of the gathering makes your skin prickle.

"Go to your chamber and stay there.” You nod, obedient as always, and Livia cups your face briefly before bustling away.

But as you walk toward your chamber, the stillness of the afternoon draws you elsewhere.

***

The sun bathes the palace gardens in a golden light, soft and warm, like an embrace from the gods themselves.

The sky is a flawless stretch of azure, and the air carries the faintest scent of blooming jasmine.

Unable to resist, you veer toward the gardens, seeking solace in their quiet beauty.

You make your way to the small pond at the edge of the grounds, where the world feels simpler, untouched by the weight of marble columns and imperial decrees.

This is your sanctuary, a place you’ve tended with your own hands.

The hedges are trimmed neatly, the flowers arranged in bursts of vibrant color—crimson roses, golden marigolds, and pale violets that seem to glow in the sunlight.

The pond reflects the sky like polished glass, its surface rippling gently in the breeze.

You settle onto the cool stone bench nearby, pulling out a small parchment and charcoal.

Writing has always been your escape, a way to make sense of the labyrinth that is your mind.

The words flow from you like water from a spring, each line capturing fragments of your thoughts and fears.

To live in the shadow of gods is to forget the warmth of the sun.

You stare at the words you’ve written, sentences about Rome and its people, the empire’s endless hunger that devours the poor while the rulers gorge themselves on the spoils.

It isn’t rebellion that drives you—at least, not yet—but a quiet, gnawing sense of wrongness.

You have lived your entire life within the confines of this palace, its gilded walls both a sanctuary and a prison.

Outside, beyond the Forum and its grand marble temples, the streets of Rome teem with despair. You’ve seen it, fleeting glimpses on the rare occasions you ventured beyond the palace gates.

Children with hollow eyes and grime-streaked faces.

Men broken by war or taxation, their shoulders bowed under invisible yokes.

Women clutching bundles of rags that you realized, with a sick lurch, were infants too still to be alive.

These thoughts weigh heavily on you as you sit by the pond, the garden’s beauty unable to shield you from the world’s harsh truths.

You lower your quill, pressing trembling fingers to your lips, when the sound of approaching footsteps pulls you sharply from your thoughts.

You stiffen, the air in your lungs turning to stone. It isn’t one of the servants; their steps are lighter, quicker.

This tread is deliberate, measured, carrying a weight of authority. When you glance up, your breath catches.

The man before you is not adorned with the opulence of the Senate nor the ostentatious silk of the emperors.

You know who he is. How could you not?

General Marcus Acacius.

Rome’s shield and sword, the hero of distant campaigns whose name is whispered with both reverence and fear.

You have never seen him in the flesh, for he seldom resides in the palace, choosing instead to live with Princess Lucilla far from its labyrinth of intrigue.

But his likeness is everywhere: etched in marble statues, painted in frescoes, immortalized as Rome’s protector.

Yet, here he stands, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if the gods themselves have sent him.

The crimson cloak draped over his broad shoulders glints faintly in the golden light, its hem embroidered with intricate patterns that seem to tell the story of the empire’s conquests.

His tunic, simple yet stately, is cinched with a polished belt, a gleaming buckle bearing the proud insignia of the wolf of Rome.

Unlike the ornamental decadence of the Senate or the twin emperors, his attire speaks of purpose and practicality—beauty tempered by utility.

And his face—by Jupiter, his beautiful face.

It is a map of victories and sacrifices, weathered yet noble. The lines carved by years of sun and battle only enhance the sharpness of his features, as if the gods had personally molded him for their own designs.

His hair, dark and streaked with silver like the gleam of moonlight on a blade, curls faintly at his temples.

His beard, neatly trimmed, frames a mouth set in the hard line of a man who has spoken a thousand commands and swallowed a thousand regrets.

But it is his eyes that strike you most: deep, piercing, soulful-brown eyes.

They are the eyes of a man who has seen the best and worst of humanity and bears the weight of both.

Your breath catches as his gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sight of a young servant clutching a parchment like a shield.

He regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze, his eyes like iron tempered in fire—unyielding yet reflective.

His presence is commanding, a gravity that draws everything into its orbit. You are struck by how different he is from the emperors.

Where Geta and Caracalla exude indulgence and cruelty, Acacius carries himself with the disciplined grace of a man who has known the weight of true responsibility.

“Not many choose the gardens for their thoughts,” he says, his voice deep, steady, and tinged with curiosity.

It is a soldier’s voice, devoid of the honeyed pretense of courtiers.

You scramble to your feet, clutching your parchment to your chest. “General,” you manage, your voice trembling despite your best efforts.

He raises a hand, the gesture more commanding than any shout. “At ease,” he says, a faint flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—crossing his face. “You are Livia's daughter?"

His question hangs in the air like the distant clang of a bell. You nodded, your name feels small in your mouth when you finally say it, barely audible against the rustling of the garden’s leaves.

Acacius nods, as though filing the information away. His eyes flick to the parchment in your hands. “A poet?”

You hesitate, “I... I write, sometimes. Thoughts.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming yet strangely grounding. He does not reach for the parchment, but his gaze lingers on it as though he could read its contents by sheer will alone.

“Thoughts on Rome, perhaps?” he asks.

His tone is even, but there is an edge to it, a subtle weight that suggests he already knows the answer.

Your throat tightens. To speak of the empire’s flaws to a general of its armies feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

Yet something in his bearing—a quiet patience, a restrained curiosity—compels you to answer honestly.

“Yes,” you admit softly. “About Rome. And its people.”

Acacius’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, a shadow crossing his face. He looks away, toward the pond, his gaze distant now, as if seeing not the still water but something far beyond it.

“The people,” he repeats, almost to himself. “The heart of Rome. And yet, the heart is always the first to be sacrificed.”

The words are spoken quietly, but they carry the weight of experience, of battles fought not just with swords but with conscience.

You watch him, your earlier fear now replaced by a cautious curiosity.

"Do you... believe that?" you venture, your voice barely above a whisper, the words trembling like a fledgling bird daring its first flight.

Marcus halts, his crimson cloak swaying like the banner of a legion stilled in the wind.

He turns to you, his eyes—sharp as a polished gladius—softening for the briefest moment, as if your question has reached a part of him long buried under layers of duty and steel.

“Belief,” he begins, his voice low and steady, carrying the weight of a man who has lived lifetimes in service to an empire, “is a luxury in the life of a soldier. I deal in action, not faith. But I have seen enough to know that Rome’s strength lies not in its emperors, but in its people. And we are failing them.”

The honesty in his words strikes you like the tolling of a great bronze bell, reverberating through the quiet garden and deep into your chest.

It is not what you expected from a man like him—a hero to some, a sword-arm to the empire—but here he stands, speaking not as a general but as a man, his voice laced with something unguarded. Regret, perhaps. Or hope—fragile and faint, but alive nonetheless.

“Do you believe in Rome, little one?” His question falls like a stone into still waters, and you startle, unprepared to have the conversation turned toward you.

“I—” Your words falter, and you look down at your hands, clutching the parchment that now feels like an accusation.

But then, something inside you stirs—something that refuses to shrink back beneath the weight of his gaze.

You lift your eyes to meet his, the courage in your chest kindled like a flame drawn from embers.

“I believe in what Rome could be,” you reply, your voice steadier now.

“I believe in the Rome that lives in the hearts of its people—the ones who work its fields, who build its roads, who kneel at its altars not out of fear, but out of love. That is the Rome worth fighting for. But the Rome I see now…” Your throat tightens, but you press on.

“...has forgotten its people. It worships marble statues and golden coins while the streets crumble and the people starve. How can an empire endure when its foundation is so neglected?”

Your words spill forth, unchecked and unmeasured, and it is only when you see the faintest flicker of something in his expression—respect, perhaps, or surprise—that you remember who stands before you.

The weight of your boldness sinks in like a gladiator realizing they’ve overstepped in the arena.

“Forgive me, General,” you murmur, lowering your gaze. “I forgot myself.”

But Marcus shakes his head, a wry smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Do not apologize,” he says, his tone gentler now, though no less commanding.

“You are young, but your words carry the wisdom of one who has not yet been corrupted by power. Few speak with such clarity, and fewer still with such courage.”

His gaze lingers on you, searching, and you feel it like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“You remind me,” he says, his voice quieter, almost reverent, “of someone. He believed, as you do, in the strength of Rome’s people. He would sit in gardens much like this one, speaking of justice and duty, and wonder aloud whether the empire could ever live up to its ideals.”

Your heart quickens, the weight of his words settling over you like the cloak of a goddess.

The way Marcus looks at you—as though he sees not the servant, but the soul beneath—makes you feel for a fleeting moment.

“I am no philosopher,” you say softly, your fingers tightening on the parchment. “But it is hard to remain silent when I see so much suffering.”

“A Roman citizen has every right to speak of their empire’s failings,” he says, stepping closer now.

“Do not mistake me for a politician, child. I am a soldier. My loyalty is to Rome—not to the men who rule it."

You nod, the words settling over you like a cloak woven of both gravity and reassurance.

The air between you feels charged, alive with the kind of understanding that is rarely spoken but deeply felt.

You watch him, his form cast in the golden hues of the setting sun, the crimson of his cloak vivid against the muted greens of the garden.

There is something about him that draws you—not merely his reputation, not the legends whispered in the palace halls of his valor and victories, but him.

The man behind the titles and statues.

You swallow, your heart a restless bird in your chest. You should not linger, not with him, not now.

And yet, you find yourself unable to walk away.

Words rise to your lips, hesitant at first, but then they spill forth, tentative and careful, like a child offering a wildflower to a god.

“Forgive me, my lord, but shouldn’t you be inside?” you say, your voice trembling under the weight of its boldness. “The palace is bustling with your celebration—wishing you fortune for your campaign, for Rome’s glory.”

He turns his gaze to you, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “Rome’s glory,” he repeats, as though tasting the phrase on his tongue, finding it bitter.

He lets out a soft chuckle, low and warm, a sound that feels oddly out of place amidst the solemn grandeur of the garden. “Let them feast. Let them toast. I’ve no appetite for gilded words tonight.”

You blink, surprised by his candor. He is not what you imagined—not the marble statue immortalized in the Forum or the hardened general whose name echoes in the chants of soldiers. He is… more human than that.

“I’m waiting for my wife,” he adds, his tone casual, though his eyes seem to linger on you as if measuring your reaction.

Princess Lucilla.

The name hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of legend. Rome’s Princess. The only daughter of Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-emperor. You’ve never met her, though her shadow looms large over your life.

“She was delayed,” he continues, glancing toward the palace, though his stance is relaxed, unhurried.

Princess Lucilla, her legend precedes her, a name spoken with reverence, and sometimes, in hushed tones, with fear.

Your mother, Livia, has served her since she was but a girl.

Livia, who moves through the world with a quiet dignity, has always spoken of the princess with unwavering loyalty. “She carries Rome on her shoulders,” your mother would say, her voice tinged with both pride and sorrow. “The weight of a crown rests on her brow, even though it does not sit there.”

Your thoughts drift, but his voice pulls you back to the present.

“Your mother,” Marcus says, his tone shifting to something softer, more contemplative, “she’s a loyal servant to our household, isn’t she?”

You nod, feeling a strange warmth rise to your cheeks. “She is, my lord. My mother adores the princess. She always speaks highly of her.”

At this, Marcus smiles faintly. His expression, though guarded, carries a warmth that feels rare, as if he’s allowing himself a brief reprieve from his usual stoicism.

“Livia is wise, then. Lucilla is… more than most know. Rome sees her as Marcus Aurelius’ daughter, but to me—” He pauses, his voice lowering to something almost reverent.

“She is a woman of strength, far greater than any man I’ve known. Her loyalty to Rome and its people… it humbles me.”

For a fleeting moment, his mask of a hardened general slips, and you glimpse something deeper.

A man bound not just by duty but by love.

His words hang in the air, gilded with affection, and you feel a pang of longing, though for what, you cannot say.

“I’ve never met her,” you admit, your voice quieter now.

He turns to you, curiosity flickering in his gaze. “Lucilla?”

You nod, feeling suddenly self-conscious beneath his scrutiny. “I’ve only heard stories. My mother always told me about her strength, her grace. But we’ve never crossed paths.”

Marcus regards you for a long moment, as if seeing something in you he had not noticed before. “She would like you,” he says at last, his voice steady, though something lingers in his tone, a note of intrigue.

“Are you coming to the feast tonight?” he asks, the question catching you off guard.

You hesitate, glancing toward the palace where the distant hum of celebration filters through the evening air. “Servants are not permitted to attend such events, my lord,” you say, lowering your gaze. “I am only a servant after all,"

His brows furrow slightly, as if the answer displeases him. “Rome is built on the backs of those it calls servants. Do not diminish yourself.”

You blink, unsure of how to respond. There’s a weight in his words, one that feels both heavy and freeing.

Before he can say more, hurried footsteps echo through the garden. You turn, and there stands Alexandra, one of the palace attendants, her expression tight with worry.

“My lord,” she says, bowing her head quickly as her wide eyes catch sight of Marcus.

The respect is immediate, almost reflexive. General Acacius commands not just authority but admiration.

Men respect him, but women… they speak of him in hushed tones, a figure both distant and impossibly magnetic.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” Alexandra continues, her voice trembling slightly under the weight of his gaze. “Your mother is looking for you,"

Marcus looks at you, his expression softening. He steps aside, the movement graceful despite his formidable frame, as though making room for your escape.

"Tell Livia my apologies for keeping her daughter here," he says, his voice low yet deliberate, as though each word is a promise carved in stone.

His gaze lingers on you, longer than it should, and it feels as though he is reading something beyond the surface—a map of your heart, perhaps, etched in the lines of your face.

For a moment, the world narrows to just this: the garden bathed in the golden light of a setting sun, the faint murmur of the distant feast, and the weight of his eyes, heavy yet strangely gentle.

There is something about you, his expression seems to say—something unspoken but undeniable.

You feel it too, a spark that flickers to life beneath the layers of duty, expectation, and fear.

“I’ll see you at the feast tonight,” he says, the words more a statement than an invitation, leaving little room for protest.

There is a finality to his tone, yet also a quiet insistence that stirs something within you.

Before you can respond, he dips his head ever so slightly—a gesture of respect, or perhaps acknowledgment—before turning and striding away, his crimson cloak flowing like a banner in his wake.

You bow reflexively, watching him disappear into the shadowed corridors of the palace, his figure swallowed by the grandeur of Rome itself.

Yet even as he leaves, his presence lingers, an echo in the air, a weight in your chest.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps fades, Alexandra is at your side, her face alight with barely contained awe.

“Was that… the general?” she whispers, her voice tinged with something between disbelief and reverence.

“Yes,” you reply, though your own voice feels distant, as though it belongs to someone else. Your thoughts are still tethered to the garden, to the quiet intensity of his gaze.

“By the gods,” she breathes, clutching your arm as though you might disappear. “He’s… he’s even more handsome up close.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Ale,” you chide gently, though there’s no malice in your words.

“I’ve heard so much about him,” she continues, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“About his loyalty to Maximus Decimus Meridius—the late general—and how he served under him during the great campaigns. They say he adored the princess even then. Some even whisper that his loyalty to Maximus was why he stayed so close to her after his death, marrying her to protect her.”

You glance at her, your brow furrowing slightly. “You know far too much for someone who spends their days in the laundry.”

She grins, unrepentant. “The laundry is where all the palace’s secrets come to dry.”

You shake your head, though her words gnaw at the edges of your mind.

You’ve heard the stories too, in bits and pieces from the older servants: tales of Lucilla’s love affair with Maximus, and Marcus’s steadfast devotion not only to his commander but to the empire itself.

A marriage born of loyalty, they say, not love. And yet, there’s something in the way Marcus spoke of Lucilla earlier that makes you wonder.

As Alexandra chatters on, her words a tide of gossip and speculation, your thoughts drift back to Marcus.

To the way he stood in the garden, his form framed by the soft glow of the setting sun. To the depth in his eyes, like wells carved by the gods themselves—deep enough to drown in, and yet you couldn’t look away.

You feel a strange restlessness in your chest, a stirring you can’t quite name. It isn’t admiration, nor fear, but something more complicated. Something heavier.

Marcus is unlike anyone you’ve ever known—unlike the indulgent senators with their honeyed words, unlike the cruel twin emperors whose laughter carries the sting of a whip.

He is a man of iron and fire, tempered by years of battle, yet beneath that hardened exterior lies something softer. Something… human.

And perhaps that’s what unsettles you most.

You’ve spent your life surrounded by women: your mother, Livia, with her quiet strength and unshakable loyalty; the other servants, who taught you to navigate the palace’s labyrinthine halls.

Men were distant figures, their power felt but never seen up close. Fathers, you’ve only heard about in stories—abstract concepts, not flesh and blood.

But Marcus is no abstraction.

He is real, tangible, a presence that feels larger than life yet undeniably mortal.

To see him, to feel him, is to glimpse a side of the world you’ve never known—a world shaped not by whispered orders or silent sacrifices, but by action, by conviction, by the weight of decisions made on the edge of a blade.

You shake your head, trying to banish the thoughts, but they cling to you like the scent of blooming jasmine in the garden. “It’s nothing,” you tell yourself, though your heart betrays you with its restless rhythm.

“Nothing at all,” you murmur, though even the words feel like a lie.

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thereexists · 2 years ago

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my sister’s bday gift (lime basil mandarin) and my undeserved gift to myself (commodity discovery set)

#foaming at the mouth thinking of the moss perfume…#wearing gold rn at first it reminded me of the black opium and old spice combo I was rocking the other day but this is lovely #I want to keep bringing my wrists to my nose #fragrance

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wonderlandwalker · 1 month ago

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Fake it 'till you break it

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7.8k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Steve’s always been good at pretending. The problem? This doesn’t feel like pretend anymore. Now he’s stuck between two nightmares: watching you walk away when the act ends… or risking everything to make it real. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: hurt/comfort mostly, my attempt at the fake dating trope, some spice of course, i've stared at this way too long so possibly continuity errors or too many synonyms

𝐚/𝐧: this might be a mess but it's a mess I made with love, might come back and edit it later, might redo the whole thing, but wanted to give you guys at least something after all this time, thanks for sticking around <3

There are plenty of things Steve regrets—a running list that gnaws at him in the quiet hours, the kind of thoughts that coil around his ribs and squeeze just enough to remind him they’re there.

He regrets his high school persona, with a shame so visceral it still makes his fucking skin crawl; God, the hair gel alone should’ve been classified as a war crime. He thinks about it when he passes the Hawkins High parking lot, when he catches a whiff of that godawful Axe body spray Dustin insists on dousing himself in, and when some old classmate gives him that look—the one that says, I remember who you used to be.

But this?

This isn’t regret. No, that's too small, too flimsy a word for the way his chest caves in when he catches the scent of your perfume already clinging to his shirt. The vibration of your hum—low, amused, content—as you agree with something Robin says (fuck, what was Robin even talking about? Politics? Movies? That weird new video game?) travels straight through his chest like the most beautiful kind of devastation. You’re right there, tucked against his side like you belong there, your warmth seeping into him like he’d hollowed out a space in his torso just for you. It’s not regret that winds around his throat like a noose he’d gladly tighten himself.

He regrets not visiting Aunt Cathy in Little Rock before she passed. She’d sent him those lumpy handmade sweaters every Christmas, each one uglier than the last, and he’d never even thanked her properly. Just a grumbled "Thanks, I guess" tossed into the receiver during some obligatory holiday phone call, already distracted by whatever party he was missing. Now, the last one she ever made—a pea-green monstrosity with lopsided orange reindeer, mustard-yellow accents that could blind a man, and sleeves so long they swallow his hands whole—sits neatly folded in his bottom drawer. He can’t bring himself to wear it. Can’t bring himself to get rid of it, either.

He regrets getting careless last summer, leaving that half-smoked joint on his nightstand like an idiot before his parents got back from Tokyo. His father’s lecture about "the dangers of marijuana" had been particularly rich coming from a man who kept Cuban cigars locked in a humidor like they were fucking crown jewels. (Not that Steve cared. Not that he ever cared what that man thought—except, well. Except.)

But those were warm-up acts.

Minor-league regrets.

The main event?

The heavyweight champion of his fuck-ups?

The gold medal, hall of fame, once-in-a-lifetime screwup that’ll haunt him to his grave?

This.

This is one of those moments people invent time machines to undo. The kind of mistake that makes men swear off alcohol, religion, and women all at once. There’s a fire somewhere inside him, but it’s not the good kind—not the warm, crackling hearth of something real. It’s the sputtering, desperate flame of a match held too close to skin, the kind that leaves blisters if you’re not careful. His brain has rehearsed this moment so often that muscle memory takes over as his thoughts are stuck. He still interjects at the right moments, laughs at the right beats, and plays the perfect doting boyfriend with terrifying precision. The irony is a blade twisting inside him: after so long of pretending not to love you, now he’s being judged on his performance of pretending to.

God, Robin really has the uncanny ability to turn his world upside down without even meaning to. When she first brought it up, her words had been going a mile a minute, tripping over each other like a drunk gymnast, her mouth running faster than her brain, and he should’ve known right then:

Category Five Disaster.

Code Red.

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.

"—so… I suggested we could go on a double date to make it more, y’know, casual." Her grin hadn’t wavered, even as you blinked at her, slow and uncertain. "What does this have to do with us, Robs?" you finally asked, voice laced with the same wary suspicion that was crawling up Steve’s spine like a particularly persistent spider.

"Because you're the ones we're going on a double date with, duh!" She had beamed, absurdly pleased with herself, looking for all the world like she’d just solved cold fusion. "Whoa, whoa, whoa." He had cut in, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. His pulse hammering—a wild, traitorous thing. He had shoved it back down into the dark where it belonged. "I don't know what delusional world you've been living in, Buckley, but we—" He jabbed a finger between you and himself with more force than necessary, "—are not dating."

The words tasted like acid on his tongue, burning all the way down.

Which was stupid.

Because it’s the truth.

You’re not dating.

You’ve never dated.

Except in his head.

And it's fine.

Totally, completely, achingly fine.

Except—

Except for the way his breath stutters in his chest when morning light catches you just right, turning your features golden and ethereal like some Renaissance painting he’s not devout enough to worship.

Except for the way he’s painstakingly catalogued every variation of your laugh—the inelegant snort you immediately try to smother with your hand, the full-bodied one that makes you double over and clutch your stomach, the quiet, private chuckle you reserve exclusively for his dumbest jokes, and the one that somehow makes him feel like he’s won the goddamn lottery.

And now Robin wanted him to casually drape his arm over your shoulders like he had any right to touch you so familiarly?

To press a kiss to your temple and act like his heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest like it’s making a prison break?

To call you "sweetheart" with all the easy affection he’s been choking back for months, the pet names piling up behind his teeth like an infatuated dragon hoarding woeful treasure?

That wouldn’t just be dangerous—that's downright suicidal.

It’s handing a loaded gun to his weakest impulses and praying he has the self-control not to pull the trigger.

But he’s backed into a corner with no exits, no clever quips, and no patented Steve Harrington Charm™ that can talk his way out of this. If he refuses, Robin’s going to poke and prod like a determined archaeologist at a dig site until she uncovers the pathetic fossil of his crush, dusting it off for the whole world to see. If he agrees…

Christ.

He might as well just drop to one knee right here in the food court, ring made from a soda tab, and confess every embarrassing, lovesick thought that’s kept him awake at 3 a.m. for months.

"—come onnnn, you two both owe me one!" Robin had continued to whine, limbs flailing so dramatically she nearly sent her Diet Coke flying. Her foot connected with Steve’s shin under the table—a sharp kick that would’ve hurt if his entire nervous system wasn’t already short-circuiting. He shoved her away with a grumble that did nothing to hide the panic clawing up his throat. So he fixed her with his best withering glare—but it looked more like a man facing the gallows. "This isn’t the same as eating the last of the takeout, Robs."

"Oh, but it is," she countered, stabbing a finger in his direction with enough force to displace air molecules. "You literally stole my last egg roll—which, by the way, was clearly marked with my initials—" (Steve mouthed 'psycho' at you over his shoulder — because seriously, who the hell initials their egg rolls? His reward was that poorly suppressed grin of yours, the one that makes his stomach perform acrobatics worthy of Cirque du Soleil. The way your lips quirk unevenly, one side rising higher than the other in that lopsided smile he's come to crave, eyes crinkling at the corners like you're trying to contain sunlight — he could write sonnets about that expression if he knew anything about poetry beyond what he'd skimmed in senior English) "—you said, and I quote," Robin went on as she adopted a terrible impression of his voice, all lowered pitch and exaggerated bravado," 'I'll pay you back someday.' Well, guess what, Harrington? Today is someday."

And yeah, okay, maybe he had said that. In his defence, he was running on three hours of sleep and enough caffeine to kill a horse, and Robin had been mid-panic spiral about never finding love. But this? This was way beyond their usual favour economy of borrowed five-dollar bills and shitty closing shifts — this was playing Russian roulette with his heart as the bullet.

"And you," Robin whirled on you next with the terrifying focus of a bloodhound catching a scent, accusation dripping from her pointed finger. "Promised to help me 'get the girl' after the whole Dallas Cowboys cheerleader fiasco. This," she declared, slapping both hands on the sticky food court table with finality, "is me collecting."

Your mouth fell open in protest—tongue darting out to wet your lips in that unconscious gesture that's starred in approximately seven hundred of his late-night fantasies—before snapping shut again as you came up empty. He watched the debate play out across your features: the furrow between your brows, the way your teeth worried at your bottom lip. Every expression was a language he'd become fluent in without meaning to. Steve could practically hear the gears turning in your head, the same way they were grinding in his own skull.

His gaze flickers to you—always to you, like a compass finding true north even when he wishes it wouldn’t. God, what heinous acts did he commit in a past life to deserve this particular hell? You and Robin are his best friends—his people. The ones who stayed up with him getting high and laughing at shitty B-movies, your thighs pressed together on the couch until the lines between friends and something more blurred in the haze of weed and sleep deprivation. He still remembers the way your head eventually lolled against his shoulder, how he’d sat there, paralysed by the possibilities.

You’re the ones who were there for him when he shattered after his parents’ last nuclear fight, when the silence in that too-big house threatened to drown him. Your arms around his shaking shoulders, your voice soft in his“ ear—“You’re better than they’ll ever be, Steve.”

He’d almost kissed you that night.

Almost.

The memory still haunts him like a ghost he can’t exorcise: your face tilted toward his in the dim glow of the porch light, your breath hitching when his thumb brushed your cheek. For one reckless second, he’d let himself truly imagine it—closing the distance, swallowing your gasp, letting the dam break.

You've seen him at his worst—red-eyed and ugly with grief—and you stayed. Wrapped yourself around him like human armour against the world, your heartbeat steady against his back when his own couldn't find its rhythm. That alone should have been enough. Should have cauterised this stupid crush before it took root like some invasive weed cracking through concrete. Should have reminded him that what you have is too precious to risk for something as reckless, as temporary, as fleeting as romance. But then came that first perfidious flutter in his stomach months ago, that stupid, hopeful zing when your laughter curled around him like smoke from one of Robin's clove cigarettes—sweet and intoxicating and impossible to ignore. He'd written it off immediately as his brain's latest attempt to ruin something good (a speciality of his, really), except the feeling didn't fade. It grew, fed by every accidental touch and lingering glance until it became something monstrous and beautiful and utterly inescapable:

The way you'd bite your lip when concentrating, unaware of how his gaze snagged on the motion like fabric catching barbed wire, how his fingers twitched with the need to tug it free, to soothe the indentations with his tongue.

The way you'd stretch in the morning light after crashing at his place, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to reveal that sliver of skin above your hipbone—a soft crescent that made his throat go dry, that made him ache with the knowledge that he could reach out, trace the dip of your waist with just one fingertip—but he won't, he can't, because you're trusting him to be better than that.

The way you'd sigh his name when tired, dragging out the last vowel like it was something precious, something yours, and he'd have to clench his jaw so hard his molars ached against the urge to beg you to say it again, again, just like that, maybe against his mouth this time, maybe with his hands on your—

Now he's trapped in this sick parody of everything he's ever wanted—your body warm against his on the couch, your smiles sweet and fake, your touches choreographed for an audience like some grotesque puppet show. Every time he whispers "babe" (a word that tastes like sacrilege in his mouth), every time he laces his fingers with yours and pretends not to notice how perfectly they fit together, every time he pulls you closer under the guise of selling this lie (just because he can, just because for these stolen moments, you let him)—it's all salt in the wound.

And he knows this is the closest he'll ever get to having you—playing pretend for Vickie's benefit, his heart drumming against his chest with every touch he's not allowed to mean. Because even if—if—there is some part of you that feels it too (that invisible magnetic pull, that quiet hum and deep vibration when his fingers brush yours like a struck tuning fork), there are just too many variables. Too many landmines are hidden in this no-man's land.

Maybe he'd get a few weeks of heaven before you realised he wanted way more than you ever could. Maybe he'd find a way to screw it up like he always does, condemning himself to a lifetime of awkward pauses and avoidant glances every time your paths crossed. Or worse—maybe, maybe, even if you fell for him as badly as he's fallen for you, this dream he's conjured up would still be an impossible standard. A fantasy no real person could live up to, least of all a washed-up king with nothing but a handful of half-kept promises to his name.

But his performance opposite you is working too well—the Romeo to your Juliet (star-crossed and bleeding out), the Heathcliff to your Cathy (ruined and howling on the moors). The world watches staged romance through rose-tinted glasses, seeing only what it wants to see. Stolen glances mistaken for tenderness rather than theft. Casual touches interpreted as affection instead of self-flagellation. Devotion is heard in the harmony of your laughter rather than the dissonance of his slow unravelling.

These have never been love stories.

This has always been a tragedy dressed up as romance—all the warning signs painted over in pretty pastels. There's no happy ending waiting in the wings, no last-minute reprieve where the audience learns it was all a bad dream. Just the whirlwind of maybes and the inevitable collapse, the credits rolling over two people who used to know how to look each other in the eye.

Steve knows doomed narratives like he knows the scars on his knuckles—intimately, painfully. Could chart their progression from meet-cute to catastrophe with his eyes closed. He can pinpoint the exact moment the script flips—in the arch of an eyebrow, the hesitation before a touch. He's lived this story before and knows all its variations by heart.

His fantasies might be vivid.

But the reality is crushing.

The effortless synchronicity you two normally share is already gone, replaced by something jagged and electric—every glance a live wire threatening to burn everything down, every touch a lit fuse that comes dangerously close to the gasoline running in his veins. It's like dancing on a knife's edge where every step could either cut him open or set him free. The hesitation terrifies him—the way his fingers twitch toward you instinctively before he remembers with a gut-punch of awareness: he's allowed to touch you now.

Supposed to, even.

But God, it hurts.

Because it's not real.

And yet—

And yet he'll drink the poison willingly if it means he could stay in this play with you. Would let the curtain fall on him mid-scene if it meant pretending, just for one more night, that this might actually end well. He can tell you feel it too by the way your fingers linger a second too long on his wrist—just enough to feel his racing pulse. By the way, your breath hitches when he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear (for the bit, he reminds himself, even as his skin burns where you touch like he's been graced by something holy). By the way, your eyes keep finding his in the dim light, dark with something he doesn't dare name.

And then, like fate itself is laughing at him, Vickie leans forward with margarita-slick lips, her eyes bright with tipsy curiosity. The question hangs between you all, innocent and devastating.

"How did you two first start dating?"

Perhaps it's the tequila loosening his tongue, or the way the overhead lights reflect in your eyes like distant stars, or he's just so goddamn tired of lying that the truth starts clawing its way up his throat. Whatever the reason, the story spills out before he can stop it.

"It was the night of Robin's last birthday."

His voice is rough, scraped raw by the memory as he looks at you—seeing the ghost of that night superimposed over your face now. The way your nose had scrunched when you laughed at something stupid Eddie said. How he'd counted every one of your smiles like a man keeping track of his last breaths.

"We were both drunk, but not falling-over drunk. Just... loose. Happy." He doesn't say how beautiful you looked that night or how your laughter had turned into something he wanted to bottle and keep forever. Doesn't mention how he'd gone home and pressed his forehead to his bathroom mirror, begging his reflection to get it together as his hands shook.

"You kept leaning into me—shoulder against mine, knee bumping my thigh. Normal shit." His throat bobs like he's swallowing glass.

"But then—" God, he can still feel it—the weight of your palm on his chest through his thin shirt, the way his heart had leapt like a fucking dog on a chain, wild and desperate. The way you'd noticed.

"—You put your hand on my chest and said—" ‘Steve,’ you'd murmured, voice thick and slow with gin and something sweeter, ‘your heart's going crazy.’ Like it was a fascinating scientific discovery. Like you hadn't just signed his death warrant.

"—something stupid." He huffs a laugh, sharp and humourless.

"And I just... knew. Right then."

Knew he was fucked.

Knew he'd never recover.

Knew he'd rather live in this harrowing limbo of almosts and not-quites than risk losing you entirely.

Robin is staring at him now, her expression a mix of dawning horror and pity.

She knows.

Knows this isn't part of the act.

Knows he's just handed you his still-beating heart on a silver platter.

And you—

You're looking at him like you've never seen him before. Like he's just peeled back his flesh and exposed every pathetic, yearning part of himself.

That's when you rip the script right out of his hands.

Within a second, your lips are on his—actually, wholeheartedly on his—warm and slightly sticky from margarita salt, tasting of lime and something sweeter. It’s slow and deliberate and agonising in its gentleness, the way your hand finds the nape of his neck like you’ve spent nights tracing the curve of his spine in the dark, memorising the way his breath hitches when your fingers brush just beneath his hairline. Time stretches, warps into an alternate reality where your sigh vibrates against his mouth like a second heartbeat.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispers, This is a mistake. There’s no coming back from this.

And then, too soon, before he can even properly react, it’s over.

Steve is pretty sure he just died and went to heaven. Or hell. At this point, he can’t tell the difference anymore. Now that he knows what you taste like—now that he knows the reality is a hundred times better than any of his desperate daydreams could have conjured—it takes every ounce of self-control not to drag you back in and ruin himself completely. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling into his palms just to keep from reaching for you. There’s a heat crawling up your cheeks, lashes fluttering like you’re caught in a storm. There’s an uncertainty in your eyes he’s never seen before—which is rare, because Steve has every expression you’ve ever made meticulously catalogued in the neat file cabinets of his brain: the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh, the way your lips press together when you’re annoyed but pretending not to be, and the way your eyes soften when you think no one’s looking.

But this look—like you’re caught between absolution and damnation, like you’ve just stepped off a ledge and aren’t sure if you’re falling or flying—he doesn’t know it. Doesn’t know how to read it.

Doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reach for you or let you go.

He’s spent years perfecting the art of smooth exits and practiced charm, of knowing exactly when to lean in and when to pull away. But right now? With you?

After all this time of carefully rehearsing his lines, he’s been thrust into an improv scene in front of a live audience, and for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington has stage fright.

A beat passes.

Then another.

The silence stretches, suffocating.

His heart lurches, heavy with possibility, and he’s not sure he can survive the fallout if he’s wrong.

The rational part of his brain—the part that still remembers how to breathe—tells him this is just another layer of the performance. That you kissed him because it was easier than finding the right words, because the script demanded it, because, of course, you’d commit to the lie rather than let it crumble in front of Vickie. Of course you’d give him the one thing he’s always wanted without letting him know if he’s allowed to want more of it.

But the part of him that’s hopelessly, ruinously in love with you?

That part doesn’t care.

It will take whatever scraps you’re willing to give him—every staged endearment, any kiss that isn’t real but feels like it could be. And all those careful promises he made himself (don’t ruin this, don’t cross the line, don’t fucking dare fuck this all up) are gone, incinerated in the wake of your lips on his. The Library of Alexandria his heart has built for you is collapsing in flames, and you’re the one holding the torch. Every boundary he’s painstakingly written down in careful self-denial blackens at the edges like ancient parchment tossed into the wildfire.

But he’s just as much to blame.

He lit the match the moment he said yes to this charade.

And God help him, he’ll let the fire turn him to ash if you’ll just stay this close a little longer—with those eyes that see straight through his constructed bullshit to the raw foundation beneath. Like his thoughts are a precious collection of first editions you’re desperate to read but are worried will fall apart in your hold before you get the chance to finish the preface. Like he’s something worth keeping close rather than the human equivalent of a ‘kick me’ sign taped to the universe’s back.

Like maybe—maybe—you’ve noticed the way his breath hitches when you enter a room and finally decided you like the power more than you fear its implications. He’ll choke on the smoke of this fantasy and pretend it’s oxygen if it means breathing the same air as you for just a few more seconds. He’ll gladly let his lungs blacken with the residue of this exquisite cataclysm, swallow every burning ember of inevitability if you’d just let him.

He’s leaning in again before he realises it—drawn like a moth to the flame, knowing it will kill him but too starved to care. The barely-there hitch of your breath is all the encouragement he needs, his body moving on autopilot, already addicted to the way you—

"That’s so romantic!"

Vickie’s voice shatters the moment, fracturing the fragile illusion into a thousand glittering shards.

You jerk back, blinking rapidly like someone waking from a dream, and Steve’s stomach plummets.

Right.

Romantic.

Not devastating.

Not life-altering.

Not I’ve been in love with you, and that kiss just rewired my fucking DNA.

Just… romantic.

The Rosaline he never stood a chance with—except in this version, he doesn’t move on, doesn’t get over it. He’s stuck in the first act of hardship, perpetually wondering, perpetually trying, while the audience watches with pity. In this version, he burns as time slips by in a haze of forced laughter and brittle smiles, but Steve’s internal clock is jammed—stuck on that single, breathless minute when your lips were on his and the world stopped.

He catches you staring every so often, your lips slightly parted like you’re holding back words—or maybe waiting for his. And there’s Vickie, still chattering away, blissfully oblivious to the way the air between you two has gone thick with everything unsaid.

It’s dangerous, this hope. Because if it isn’t fake for you either, if that kiss meant something—

But before he can even begin to untangle that thought—before he can decide if he’s terrified or thrilled by the idea that you might feel it too—Robin grabs his wrist and yanks him up towards the kitchen under the flimsy guise of "helping refill the snacks". The second the door swings shut behind them, she whirls on him, her voice a hissed whisper.

"What the hell was that, Steve?"

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He can’t. Not when the memory of your mouth on his is seared into every synapse, not when his pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment you pulled away. Robin’s eyes are wild, her hands gesturing erratically as she steps closer, backing him against the wall like she’s about to interrogate him. Steve opens his mouth—to argue, to deny, to something—

"I don’t know," he admits, running a hand through his hair—tugging at the roots like he’s trying to channel Munchausen, like he could physically pull the solution out of himself. "I can’t—fuck, Robin, I can’t keep doing this." Her expression flickers—sympathy warring with alarm. "What do you mean?"

"This." The word cracks between them, jagged and desperate. "Me and her. The—"the pretending." His throat burns, like the truth is acid on its way up. He exhales, the breath shuddering out of him like he’s been punched. "It’s horrible."

And it is.

It’s horrible because it’s too good. Because every laugh between you two is a shared secret, something fragile and precious that he hoards like a thief in the night. Because the kiss—the short, fake, perfect kiss—felt like coming home to a place he’d never been allowed to live in.

It’s horrible because he’s spent months carefully constructing walls between what he feels and what he shows, and now you’ve reduced them all to rubble. But he doesn’t get to continue; the door creaks, and when he turns—

You’re there.

Your face is pale, eyes wide and hurt for one fractured second before they shutter into something distant, something closed off.

His insides turn to lead.

Fuck.

"I was just—" Your voice is too light, too careful—the kind of tone you’d use with a stranger, with someone you’d rather forget. " —grabbing some more drinks."

You don’t meet his gaze as you brush past him, your shoulder barely skimming his, and Christ, it’s worse than if you’d shoved him. Steve is frozen, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. Because he meant it—every word—but not like this. Not where you could hear it and twist it into something else. Not where it could hurt you.

His hands flex at his sides, useless.

Go after her.

Explain.

Beg.

But his feet stay rooted to the floor.

And for the first time since this started—since he let himself believe he could do this and walk away with his dignity intact—there's a terrible certainty crystallising in his chest like ice forming over a lake: if he doesn't get himself together, his nightmares of losing you for good will become a reality before he ever gets the chance to tell you the truth.

Before he can say, It was never fake for me.

Before he can beg: Please don't walk away.

Before he can drop to his knees and confess that every touch, every laugh, and that godforsaken kiss has been real for him in ways that terrify him to his core.

Robin spares him one last look, caught between annoyance and sorrow, a silent battle raging behind her eyes about which fire to put out first—his stupidity or your hurt. The decision comes quickly as she turns on her heel to follow you, but not before shooting him a final glare that screams, 'What the fuck is wrong with you?'

The rest of the night unfolds as the worst one of his life.

And that's saying something, considering the literal hellscape he's survived—but this slow unravelling of everything between you two? The way you’re pulling away? Retreating in that devastatingly subtle way of yours—carefully recalibrating every interaction like you're dismantling a bomb, trying to save yourself while simultaneously preventing the explosion of this lie. Every brush of your fingers against his—once electric, now agonising—feels like a choreographed step in a dance you no longer want to perform. He watches helplessly as you turn what used to be effortless connection into careful calculation, and it fucking destroys him.

He doesn't know how to fix this.

Doesn't even know where to start.

He'd watched from a distance as you talked to Robin, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from storming over and demanding to know what you were saying about him. His lungs had burnt with the effort of staying put, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears that drowned out all other sound.

He should have followed. Should have swallowed his pride, his fear, and just talked to you. But the moment passed, as moments do, and now the opportunity is gone.

When he finally cornered Robin, before he could even open his mouth, she gave him that look as she tilted her head in that particular Robin way, and he knew.

It's no use.

Robin Buckley would rather face certain execution than betray your trust, no matter how much he might beg.

And you?

You won't tell him anything at all.

Not anymore.

So he does what Steve Harrington does best when he's in over his head: he fakes a smile, cracks a joke no one laughs at, and pretends the way your avoidance feels like a thousand papercuts doesn't bother him at all.

By the time The Exterminator II ends, it’s past midnight, and the conversation turns to sleeping arrangements—because it’s dark, and you’ve all been drinking, and no one should be driving.

Robin, ever the martyr, offers to take the couch so Vickie can sleep in the guest room, already gathering spare pillows with a pointed glance in his direction.

His stomach drops.

He doesn’t even dare look at your expression.

Because the implication here is obvious.

You’ll sleep in his room.

Of course.

Of course he has to share a bed with you now, when everything is fractured and wrong, when every glance between you is a minefield.

Just hours ago, the idea of you in his bed would’ve sent his pulse into overdrive, would’ve had him imagining the warmth of your body against his, the way your breath might hitch if he pulled you close.

Now?

Now the thought is agony.

Because you’ll be lying beside him, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss again—but he won’t. He can’t. Not when you flinch at his accidental brushes, not when every word between you feels like walking on broken glass.

And he can’t refuse.

Not without making everything worse.

So he just nods, his jaw clenched tight, and tries not to think about how cruel it is—how close you’ll be tonight and yet how far you suddenly feel.

He tries to tell himself you’ve shared a bed before—you haven’t, not like this, never like this—not with the weight of everything pressing down between you. And yet here you are, in his bedroom, tugging one of his shirts from the drawer—his shirt, the fabric swallowing you whole, the collar slipping just enough to expose the curve of your shoulder.

The silence is deafening.

He clears his throat, voice rough. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you mutter, sitting stiffly on the left side of the bed. Your fingers comb through your hair—a nervous habit he’s memorised by now.

“We’re adults; we can handle it.” you add.

Handle it.

As if trying to handle it isn’t the whole fucking issue.

As if he hasn’t spent every single second since that kiss handling the urge to drag you back in.

He hesitates, jaw set tight, but then you look at him—and fuck.

There it is: that same quiet worry he feels in every nerve ending, the same unspoken what now? hanging between you.

So he lies down, careful to leave space between you.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And he’s all out of excuses to tell himself.

There’s no audience left to play this off for, no flimsy justification for the way his fingers twitch toward you, and no lie left to hide behind.

Then—

“I’m sorry, I—” Your voice cracks, barely a whisper, like you’re trying to fold yourself into the quiet between you. And Christ, he’d rather carve his own heart out with a dull spoon than let his stupid, self-sabotaging fear leave you like this—shoulders hunched, lips trembling, like you’re bracing for a blow.

What do you mean you’re sorry?

Your breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—and he realises, too late, that your eyes are glistening; the sight punches through him like a kick to the gut.

“I didn’t want to mess this up,” you whisper, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt like you’re clinging to an anchor. “I mean. I just thought—” Your voice wavers, and Steve watches, transfixed, as a single tear escapes, tracing a slow, damning path down your cheek.

He stares at you, stunned.

His hand lifts before he can stop it—before his brain can catch up with the chaos roaring in his chest—and his thumb brushes the tear from your cheek. Your skin is warm, impossibly soft, and the contact sends a jolt through him, sharp and sweet.

“You didn’t mess up anything,” he murmurs, voice rough, like the words are being dragged out of him. You freeze under his touch, eyes wide, lips parted, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you might pull away again—but then your lashes flutter shut, and you lean in, ever so slightly, your breath warm against his palm.

And finally—he’s done pretending.

His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you in, forehead resting against yours, his breath is warm, uneven, mingling with yours in the scant space between your lips—close enough to taste, but not close enough to consume.

“I’ve always been yours,” he murmurs, and you search his face, eyes flickering over the curve of his mouth, the desperate crease between his brows, trying to find the lie—but you don’t find it. Another breath punches out of you, shaky and sharp, and your gaze shifts—unsure to decisive, hesitant to hungry—before you’re surging forward, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him in with a desperation that mirrors his own. Where the last time was slow—careful, testing—this is messy. Teeth and tongue and hands that can’t decide where to settle—his fingers dig into your hips, then skate up your sides, dragging your shirt along with them, exposing bare skin to the feverish heat between you. It’s violent in its desperation, a collision of pent-up want and the sheer, dizzying relief of finally, finally giving in. And, God, it’s even better than the first time.

No, wait—that’s not right.

It’s different.

The first kiss was discovery; this is destruction.

Like comparing the strike of a match to an entire forest burning, like the difference between dipping your toes in the ocean and being dragged under by the riptide.

He drags you closer, hands spanning your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise (and fuck, the thought of marks on your skin—his marks—sends a jolt of heat straight to his dick). He pulls you into him with all the force he’s been holding back finally unleashed. For a second, that nagging voice of hesitation flickers in the back of his head—too much, too fast—as your lips leave his. His grip loosens, just slightly, giving you space to pull away.

But then you make a sound.

The most beautiful sound in the universe, probably. Better than any symphony, any song on the radio, better than anything he’s ever fucking heard—a soft, breathy moan, spilling from your lips like you can’t help it, like it’s been ripped out of you as he tugs you into his lap. Your thighs bracket his hips, and the contact is electric. The friction is maddening, the way you press against him, already seeking more. His breath hitches, fingers tightening possessively on your waist as he grinds up against you, just once—just to hear you make that sound again.

And you do.

Louder.

And fuck, if this is only the beginning—if the simple act of his hands roaming your body, skimming the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, tears noises from you that already have him aching—then he’s sure you’re going to be the end of him.

But, God, what a way to go.

He wants to cover every inch of your skin with his touch, to map the places that make you gasp, the spots that make you shiver, and to learn exactly how to reduce you to the same desperate, unravelled mess he’s been for you all this time. He wants to find out how many times he can pull this kind of bliss from you before you’re writhing, before you’re begging—for more, for mercy, for him.

You find his pulse point, teeth grazing the frantic beat of his heart, and he’s ripped from his thoughts, reminded with dizzying clarity that this isn’t another fantasy. This is real. He anchors himself back to the moment, needing to show you his devotion, no longer hedonism, finally able to worship without fear. His fingers glide lower, flexing over every bit of skin—until they reach the wet heat already pooling between your thighs. A guttural groan tears from his throat—half at the sensation, half at the confirmation that you want this just as badly, that you’re just as far gone as he is.

Every fantasy, every what if he’s ever tortured himself with—he’ll get to live them all.

In one fluid motion, he flips you over, your head landing against the pillow, your hair already sticking to your forehead, damp with sweat and the sheer tension coiling between you. You’ve never looked more beautiful—not in the soft morning light, not laughing at some stupid joke of his, not even in the hazy afterglow of his most desperate daydreams. This is the moment he’ll remember forever. The way your chest rises with each ragged breath, the way your lips part just slightly, like you’re already begging for his mouth on yours again. If he could freeze time, if he could live in one single second for the rest of his life, it would be this one.

He trails kisses down your body—slow, worshipful—mapping every dip and curve. The hollow of your throat. The valley between your breasts. The trembling plane of your stomach. He wants to take his time, wants to ruin you with patience, but you’re already tugging him back up, eyes heavy lidded but locked onto him like he’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Your fingers tangle in his hair—tugging—and when he slips one finger inside you, you clench around him so tight he sees stars. Christ. Like your body was made for him, to take him, to want him. He can't remember how he ever breathed before this moment, before the staggering heat of you surrounding him.

As he presses deeper, your hand finds his aching length, stroking him in time with his movements until he has to break the kiss just to groan your name. He feels the vibration of it travel through your joined bodies when you guide him to your entrance, and who is he to deny you when you're like this—when you're pleading with your entire body, hips canting up against his, nails biting into his shoulders like you'll die if he doesn't give you what you need?

He's only human.

He pushes inside in one slow, devastating glide, his thumb now tracing quick, insistent circles over your clit. He's already teetering on the edge—from the way you take him so perfectly, like you've been waiting your whole life for this; from the silent gasp that parts your lips when he bottoms out; and from the goddamn way you're still looking at him, like he holds your entire universe in his hands.

It's intoxicating.

He doesn’t let up—couldn’t if he tried. Every nerve in his body is alight, wired on the way you clench around him, the way your nails dig crescent moons into his shoulders like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. But Steve isn’t going anywhere. Not when you’re like this—breathless, boneless, his—falling apart beneath him with every snap of his hips.

His pace turns punishing, each thrust carving your name into the space between your ribs, pulling another broken sound from your lips. And god, each one is sweeter than the last—he’s addicted. He wants to bottle them, wants to memorize the way you unravel for him, wants to live in this moment until it’s seared into his bones. The high whine when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed. The choked-off moan when his thumb presses harder on your clit, circling with just the right mix of cruelty and devotion. The way his name sounds when it’s wrung from your throat like a prayer, ragged and reverent, like he’s the only thing holding you together.

He’s close—so fucking close—but he’ll be damned if he lets go first. Not when you’re trembling beneath him, not when your thighs are shaking, not when every gasp and whimper is a siren song pulling him deeper.

Until Robin's voice cuts through the haze:

"JESUS CHRIST—”

Her shriek could wake the dead.

Steve barely has time to yank the sheets up over your bodies before Robin whirls around, slapping a hand over her eyes like she's just stared directly into the sun.

“I knocked. Oh my God—" She's already out of the room again, the door slams shut behind her with a force that rattles the frame, her dramatic exit punctuated by a muffled, "Ugh, gross!" from the hallway. You burst into laughter beneath Steve, the sound bright and startled. His weight presses you deeper into the mattress as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated. "She has the worst timing," he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Robin’s chaos is, after all, the reason the two of you are tangled together like this in the first place. (He’ll thank her later. Maybe. If he remembers anything beyond the way your thighs tighten around his hips.)

For now, though, his focus narrows to the way your laughter fades into breathless anticipation, lips still parted, eyes darkening as his fingers trace the curve of your waist. He drops his forehead to yours, grinning like an idiot—the kind of smile that used to be reserved for winning fights and stealing hearts, now softened into something just for you.

"You done laughing at me?" he teases, voice low, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw.

You bite your lip, but the mirth still dances in your eyes. "Depends. Are you done pouting?"

Steve scoffs, but his mouth finds yours before he can protest, swallowing your next laugh and turning it into a gasp. He kisses you like he’s got something to prove—like every flick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth is rewriting the script of who the two of you used to be.

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pseudowho · 8 months ago

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"Why are we going to a scare trail, when you scream if a pan falls out of the cupboard?"

Kento grumbled, cosy in his cream turtleneck and teal overcoat. You preened, pressing the lids onto your travel mugs, and leaning up to nuzzle the shell of his ear.

"Because it's fun, you grumpy old goat. Come on. I need protection."

"You need sectioning, perhaps," Kento scoffed, opening the car door for you, "or the public needs protection from you." Kento shifted into gear, reversing with his arm behind your seat. You stroked a hand over his thigh.

"Well, you can be my supervisor then...sir."

Kento coughed, stalling the car at the turn, and grasping your hand with a warning glare.

"Don't. You know what that does to me."

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

Clearly, the gates of hell had been opened into the other end of the Funfair. The screams were not ones of delight.

But, at the entrance, autumn leafcrunch and early chill, swirled with wood fires and yakitori and street food, spicing the crowds with orange and gold. You tucked your arm into Kento's, as if an old married couple, and squelched through the mud to your destination.

Kento grimaced up at the entrance, opening his mouth to speak, before you interrupted.

"I heard they used pig's blood. Not fake blood."

"That is grotesquely unsanitary--"

"--come on, let's queue up--"

"--I should report them to the Health and Safety executives--"

"Shhh, sh sh sh, come on now...there. Lovely."

Bouncing on your tiptoes in the queue, Kento shot you a wary sideways glance, speaking slowly, testing every word.

"I...am perfectly serious, though. You don't usually tolerate frights like this very well. Despite your profession. Always something I found...odd."

You sighed, shrugging. "Just...an overactive imagination, I think. There's something thrilling about being scared but safe. A luxury that work doesn't give us."

Kento was quiet, looking pensively into the Horror Maze, while you allowed a zombie bride to scan your entry passes. "Yes...that makes sense."

Kento was absolutely right, as you headed in. Within minutes, you were rendered useless, in a maze of bloodstained walls and cells-- some crude, tasteless attempt at an insane asylum.

And Kento remained...utterly unshaken. Not a hair out of place. Not even a flinch. Just his usual flat boredom, and irritated rumbles.

'Patients', 'doctors', 'nurses' and 'orderlies' in various states of grisly disrepair, chased you through corridors, backed you into cells, and rattled bars at you until you clung to Kento like a baby monkey.

Neither of you noticed how one of the doctors you passed turned to look at your retreating backs, tufts of fuzzy peach hair peeking out from under his surgical cap and goggles.

"Does nothing scare you?!" You demanded of Kento, squealing like a little girl as a 'doctor' tried to strap you to his table. Lifting you to safety by your waist, and tutting at the perturbed 'doctor', who sagged, put-out, Kento replied, solemn.

"Perhaps my fears are a little more abstract." You almost laughed as an approaching 'nurse' cringed away at Kento's devastatingly withering look.

It was only when you were both chased through a corridor by a horde of screaming visitors and 'patients', that you and Kento became separated. Your adrenaline felt less fun with Kento's absence, and you backed against a black curtain, your heart pumping rapidly souring blood to your limbs.

"Kento!" You called, your voice pitched and rising, "Kent--ooooooh!"

You were yanked back through the black curtain, your sobs muffled beneath a thick brown glove, and your assailant was quick to reassure you. He lifted his goggles and lowered his mask to grin at you, sweet and sunny.

"Hey! Mrs.Nanamin! It's just me."

You melted with relief, sniffling, "Oh my god-- Yuuji-- what are you doing here--"

"Ahhh, just tryna earn some extra cash. I saw where Nanamin went, want to go catch u--"

"No! Wait...Yuuji. Help me scare him."

Yuuji faltered, blinking. "What? Scare Nanamin?" Yuuji pondered, pinching his chin in thought. Eventually, he shook his head, smirking. "Nah. Nothing scares him."

You puffed your cheeks out, shaking your head. Peeking out from behind the curtain and surveying the carnage the actors wreaked upon the screaming visitors, you shook your head.

"Nope. I insist. Let's scare my husband. We'll find something-- anything."

And so, at your insistence, you and Yuuji staggered through a montage of terrific failures.

You locked Kento in a dark room, and he only hummed in minor irritation as a hissing, ragged contortionist spidered out of an impossibly tight chest. He kicked the door open, and held it open for the bewildered contortionist to leave first; "After you."

Yuuji manipulated Kento down a corridor with naught but increasingly unsettling nursery rhymes and crayon monstrosities on the walls. Kento found the radio, switched it off, and gave the crayon-marked wallpaper a despairing side-eye. He tried to scratch some crayon off, grimacing in dismay.

You encouraged a 'nurse' to spill a bag of 'blood' over Kento; he performed exquisite manoeuvres to save his coat, before sternly berating her-- "I'd rather not explain that to the dry cleaners, thank you."

Eventually, leaning back on a rickety wooden railing on a platform above the exit, you and Yuuji admitted defeat. Yuuji rubbed your shoulder in sweet conciliation.

"I told you," Yuuji sighed, as if you didn't already know, "Nanamin just isn't scared of anything."

"Yeah, yeah. I know. I just--"

The crack of the rail breaking behind you and Yuuji pierced the night, and you plummeted to the ground below, the air punching out of your lungs. Coughing, groaning, and dazed, you barely registered Kento calling your name, and calling your name, and CALLING YOUR NAME--

"--shit--" Kento swore, pale, and checking your head, and your eyes, and your body, and your eyes, and cupping your cheeks and surveying you for hurt or damage or injury, "--shit, are you hurt? Say something-- say something--"

You coughed, flapping a hand, saved by your Cursed Energy. "Fine, Kento, I'm fine--"

"-- jesus christ...you scared me."

You blinked up at him, feeling like the worst wife in the world. "I...scared you?"

Kento wasn't listening, still feeling your body all over in pale concentration. Yuuji sat up beside you, watching from beneath his goggles, cap and mask. He opened his mouth to speak, and Kento did not look up, but raised a single stern finger to point at him.

"Not a word, Itadori-kun. You scared me too."

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romerona · 5 months ago

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The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years (a rare moment of decency among men in House of the Dragon, but let's roll with it).

However, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other, setting the stage for a classic love-hate relationship.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Warnings: kids being kids.

The second encounter.

Cregan Stark lingered by the sweets spread, trying his best to fade into the carved wooden panels that lined Dragonstone’s grand banquet hall. The lavish celebration for Prince Aemond’s second name day was in full swing, the chamber brimming with lords and ladies draped in silks and velvets. Overhead, crystal chandeliers cast dancing lights across the polished floors, while the mingling scents of spiced meats, honey cakes, and salt-laced sea air reminded Cregan just how far he was from the North.

He would not have chosen to be here of his own accord—his father, Lord Rickon, had insisted upon it. The North had to show deference to the crown, and so here he was, a wolf trapped among gaudy southern birds. The swirl of vibrant fabrics and the swirl of conversation grated on him, making him feel more foreign with each passing moment.

He absently picked at an apple tart, gaze drifting around the hall. Laughter rolled in waves, bright silks shimmered, and voices overlapped like waves against a rocky shore. Then he saw you.

You, just eight summers old, stood on the dance floor, your silver hair braided and held in place by glittering dragon clips. A genial lord—perhaps one of your father’s many courtiers—guided you through a stately dance, each step practised and careful. Your gown of pale red silk, shot through with gold thread, flared as you twirled, catching the light as if it were spun from Dragonfire. Beside you, Princess Rhaenyra clapped politely, regal and composed, yet it was you who drew every eye, all luminous joy and childlike grace.

You seemed taller than he recalled—though still slight in that dainty, southern way. Everyone knew that you and your elder sister were the King’s favorites, and your presence commanded a sort of reverence. Lords angled for a moment of your attention, ladies curtsied and cooed with honeyed compliments. It was as though the court revolved around you.

From her seat by the King, Queen Alicent watched you dance and laugh. Her mouth curved in a careful smile, but even at ten, Cregan could sense it was a mask. The queen, he suspected, did not relish sharing Viserys’s affections with the daughters who stole so much of his warmth.

He glowered at the thought, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Honestly, what made you so remarkable? You were willful, well-pampered, prone to speak your mind, and insufferable too, if anyone were to ask him. You weren’t that special. Plenty of other children had those traits, too. And yet—no matter how he tried to turn his attention elsewhere, his gaze kept straying back to you, spinning in the lord’s gentle arms, your soft laughter rising above the music as if it had a life all its own.

Cregan stiffened the moment you approached, his posture snapping to an almost militant straightness as though he were preparing for a lecture rather than a conversation. The mischievous gleam in your lilac eyes immediately set his jaw tight—it was the same infuriating spark that had earned him countless reprimands from his father for failing to act with proper decorum around you. You sank into a delicate curtsy, the motion practised and graceful, yet the teasing quirk of your lips betrayed any semblance of genuine respect.

“Princess,” he greeted you with a curt bow, voice clipped. “What an unexpected honour.”

Your tone dripped with feigned gravity as you replied, “The honour is all mine, my lord. Stumbling upon the northern wolf lurking beside the sweetmeats… One might almost think you’ve been tamed.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed in irritation, a flash of defiance sparking in his grey eyes.

“A wolf doesn’t require taming, Your Highness,” he countered. “I stand exactly where I choose.”

You tilted your head toward the table piled high with sweetmeats and pastries, your voice light with false innocence. “And this is where you choose to linger, Lord Stark? Tell me, do the pastries in Winterfell rival these in quality?”

His retort was clipped. “They’re simpler, yes—but far more to my taste than this… southern absurdity.”

You drew a theatrical gasp, hand pressing over your heart. “How you wound me, my lord. Are you implying that life in the North eclipses all else?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “I do not imply. I state fact.”

Your eyes sparkled with mischief, your voice carrying an air of mock civility. “Well, I ought not to take this as an offence. After all, it’s remarkable that you manage the common tongue so gracefully, considering your… brutish northern customs. Tell me, Lord Stark, do you and your kin still howl to your old gods beneath trees, hoping for a reply?”

Cregan’s hand tightened around the tart, the edges of the crust crumbling under the force of his grip. His jaw locked, and his stormy gaze fixed on you with a warning glare. “Since we’re trading such pleasant observations, Princess, perhaps we should turn our attention to dragons—or rather, your conspicuous lack of one.”

The teasing light that danced in your lilac eyes extinguished instantly. Your expression sharpened, the flush of indignation colouring your cheeks.

“What did you say?” you demanded, your voice like the edge of a blade.

Cregan didn’t flinch, folding his arms as he leaned slightly forward, his tone steady and deliberate.

“I said,” he repeated, drawing out each word with an almost casual air, “that a Targaryen princess without a dragon… is painfully ordinary.”

Your entire body stiffened at his words, and your hands curled into tight fists at your sides. Your face burned, the flush deepening as you glared up at him with fiery intensity.

“You will take that back,” you hissed, your voice trembling with barely restrained fury.

“I will not,” he replied simply, meeting your gaze without so much as a blink. It was a standoff, the air between you crackling like kindling set alight, neither willing to back down.

Before he could utter another syllable, you thrust both hands against his chest. The force of the shove made him stagger backwards, one heel catching on the table’s wooden frame. In a desperate bid for balance, he reached out, only for his fingers to catch the trailing hem of your fine silk gown.

The sound of ripping fabric tore through the air, followed by a cacophony of disaster as you both tumbled backwards onto the table. The grand centrepiece—a towering, intricately decorated cake—collapsed under your combined weight, sending frosting, crumbs, and sugar flowers flying in every direction.

For a moment, the hall was silent, the music grinding to a halt as every pair of eyes turned toward the spectacle. The only sound was the slow, steady drip of frosting onto the polished floor.

Cregan blinked up at the chaos, realizing he was sprawled awkwardly amid a sea of ruined confections. Beside him, you were similarly dishevelled, your silver hair streaked with frosting, your gown torn and stained with layers of cream and crumbs.

“You… absolute… oaf!” you hissed through clenched teeth, scrambling to sit up, your lilac eyes blazing with fury. With surprising agility, you scrambled onto him, flailing your small fists in a chaotic flurry.

“You shoved me!” Cregan barked, raising his arms to fend off your flurry of tiny fists. Your attempts to pummel him were more chaotic than effective, but you were determined.

“You insulted me!” you countered, your voice sharp with indignation.

“And you called me a brute!” Cregan retorted, his voice rising in frustration as he seized your wrists, halting your frantic blows.

“That’s because you are a brute!” you snapped, wrenching your arms free with a sharp tug. Your small frame trembled with indignation as you raised a tiny fist, ready to land what you clearly thought would be a devastating blow—but before you could make contact, a broad-shouldered knight, Ser Harwin Strong, intervened.

In one swift motion, he scooped you up and hoisted you over his shoulder like a sack of grain, preventing any further skirmish while you continued to struggle, your fury undiminished. His expression was caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Unhand me, Ser Harwin!” you demanded, still reaching out in an attempt to land your blow, your face aflame with indignation. But Ser Harwin only tightened his hold, keeping you securely aloft as your small fists flailed at empty air.

“Cregan.”

He froze the moment that familiar voice reached his ears—low, firm, and unmistakably displeased. Heart thudding, Cregan scrambled upright, hastily brushing crumbs and frosting from his tunic in a futile attempt to salvage some semblance of dignity, feeling heat rise to his cheeks as he prepared to face his father, Lord Rickon Stark, whose stern grey eyes were now fixed on his son’s every move.

And then, beyond the circle of onlookers, came the voice of King Viserys. The instant he called your name, your thrashing ceased as if a spell had been broken. One fist remained clenched mid-swing, but the sound of your father’s stern summons froze you in place. You wriggled once more on Ser Harwin Strong’s shoulder before going limp with a huff of frustration, clearly aware that further resistance would only make matters worse.

The great hall seemed to hold its breath as King Viserys stepped forward, his frown deepening at the sight of the battered dessert table and his frosting-smeared daughter. Guards and courtiers parted to let him pass, and in the stillness that followed, every eye was fixed on you and the young Stark lord who stood before you, equally dishevelled.

The King’s gaze swept over the scene: the shattered remnants of the centrepiece cake, frosting streaked across the floor, and two children—one caked in sugar and silk, the other in crumbs and frayed northern dignity—standing stiffly before him. His expression shifted from confusion to thinly veiled disappointment as the whispers around the hall grew.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm but carried the commanding weight of the crown. “What in the Seven Hells is the meaning of this?”

Ser Harwin carefully lowered you to the ground as though handling a volatile brew. You straightened your spine as best you could, brushing futilely at the frosting streaked across your gown. Despite your bedraggled appearance, you jutted your chin up stubbornly, attempting to smudge away stray frosting with all the dignity you could muster—though you succeeded only in spreading more crumbs along your sleeve. You shot a fiery glare at Cregan, who still looked like he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

Lord Rickon Stark chose that moment to step forward, clearing his throat. “Your Grace, my son—”

Viserys raised a hand, silencing him without a word. All eyes were on the King, and he, in turn, focused on the two of you with a mix of bewilderment and annoyance.

“Princess,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You will speak first.”

You gave an indignant huff, shooting another scornful glance at Cregan before reluctantly turning to face your father.

“He insulted me grievously, Father—told me I was ordinary because I do not yet ride a dragon!” Her lilac eyes flashed, and she swiped another glob of cake from her hair with a wrinkled nose. “So I merely defended my honour.”

“Aye, by launching yourself at me,” Cregan muttered, though he tried to appear calm, there was no hiding the stiff set of his shoulders—or a dollop of frosting sliding down his cheek. “And need I remind you, Princess, that you provoked me first by comparing my prayers to… howling at the moon?”

A chorus of hushed snickers rippled around them. Viserys’s brow lifted, and for a brief moment, it seemed he fought off a faint smirk.

“I see,” he said, folding his arms. “So, if I follow correctly, you have reduced a royal banquet to a frosted battlefield… because of a few sharp words?”

At that, you set your jaw stubbornly. “Words are not so harmless, Father. They carry weight, and his were particularly unkind.”

“And what of your words?” Cregan interjected, his chin lifting in quiet defiance. “They were none too gentle either, Your Grace.”

You flicked your gaze back to him, a sharp retort already on your tongue. “Oh, do hush, northern brute. I’d not have wasted my breath if you hadn’t been so—”

“Enough.” Viserys’s voice rang out, firm and commanding, cutting through the rising tension like a blade. The authority in his tone stilled you both, silencing further outbursts.

“You are both of noble blood,” he said, his gaze hard as it swept between the two of you. “This—” he gestured at the ruins of the cake, the scattered fruit, and the stunned courtiers “—is not how nobility ought to conduct itself. Especially not before half the realm’s finest lords and ladies.”

Your cheeks burned hotter than dragonfire, but your pride refused to crumble entirely. “Father, I—”

Viserys’s gaze hardened, silencing your protest before it fully formed. “You will each apologize. Properly.”

Your mouth opened to argue, but his iron stare left no room for negotiation. Your teeth clenched, but with a long-suffering sigh, you turned to Cregan, your lips pressed into a thin line.

“It seems,” you began, each word forced through your stubborn pride, “I owe you an apology.” Your gaze flicked to your father, then back to the northern boy. “By the King’s command, of course.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he met your glare. He gave a shallow bow, his voice measured and formal.

“And I apologize for my words, Princess. However,” he added, unable to stop himself, “they were not spoken without reason.”

Your eyes narrowed, and for a moment, it seemed as though you might lunge at him again. But instead, you stood straighter, fixing him with a withering look. The silence stretched between you, heavy and sharp, until your father cleared his throat pointedly.

Both of you turned away at last, but the exchange between your gazes spoke louder than any words: I despise you.

And his? The feeling is mutual.

Helloooo, I hope you all enjoyed this one mess lol. But Oh, do I love making this. Also, thank you so much for the support, the likes, comments and reblogs, you all really make me have so much motivation.

<3 Thank you so muchhhh.

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orphicmeliora · 2 months ago

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ISHQ MUBARAK

PAIRING: Rafayel x Desi!Reader

SUMMARY: Amid the whirlwind of a grand Desi wedding, a wandering artist finds unexpected inspiration in you, someone who hums old songs and wears their heart like bangles. In the spaces between celebration and silence, love takes root—soft, slow, and impossibly tender.

WORD COUNT: 11.5k

NOTES: Owned up to my ethnicity with this fic, the motivation? Do it messy, do it cringe, but don't give up. Also, desi wedding galore.

You don’t remember the moment your motherland stopped feeling like home—only that it happened quietly, like the way bangles lose their shine without you noticing.

Your phone buzzes with another voice note from your sister—her voice crackling through bad signal and laughter, layered with the chaotic clamor of a house overrun with wedding prep.

"And don’t forget to bring those gold jhumkas! The ones from Ammi’s collection? Yes, those. And for the love of everything holy, DO NOT show up in sneakers this time!"

You smile to yourself, forehead pressed to the airplane window as the clouds scatter below like torn cotton. The sun casts long fingers across your lap. You're almost home. Almost.

It's been two years since you left for your master's degree. Two years of cheap takeout, solo library marathons, homesick breakdowns, and video calls at odd hours just to see your baby cousin learning to walk or your Dadi yelling about the price of onions. But nothing—not even the rigors of academia or the pride in your independence—quite soothes the ache you feel now.

You press your palm over your heart, feeling the thrum of it. Your childhood echoing in a language your mouth still dreams in.

You don't realize you're crying until the plane begins to descend.

Not the dramatic kind—just a quiet leak from the corner of your eyes, like your heart forgot how to hold its shape and is spilling through the seams. You swipe at your cheek, pretend it’s nothing. No one notices. Everyone’s too busy adjusting tray tables and waking up their kids. Somewhere behind you, a baby shrieks. Ahead, a flight attendant hums an old song under her breath.

Below you, the land stretches like a story you used to know by heart but haven’t read in years. Dry fields. Slow rivers. Crowded rooftops and ancient roads. You inhale, and it smells like recycled cabin air, but your mind tricks you—it smells like incense and heat. Like dust and sweat and the inside of your Dadi's spice drawer.

It smells like home.

You've been gone for too long. Long enough for your tongue to wrap around a new language, for your silence to grow roots. Long enough to know what it's like to eat alone, cry alone, celebrate alone. Your degree is somewhere in your bag, folded between old receipts and melted chocolate. People will clap you on the back and say they’re proud.

But no one knows how hard it was.

How many nights you watched weddings through your screen, bangles chiming through pixelated videos, your sisters laughing in outfits you'd never worn. How often you let a Desi song play on loop just to fall asleep, the lyrics whispering in your ears like an apology.

Maybe you’re being dramatic. Maybe it’s the altitude.

You didn’t mean to drift. Life just kept pulling. You forgot the names of streets you once knew like the back of your hand. You forgot how loud your family gets when they’re happy. Or angry. Or hungry. You forgot the colors.

And then—an invitation. One of your cousins is getting married. You're not even sure which one. You stopped keeping track when they all started sprouting kids and growing beards. But it’s a month-long wedding and everyone will be there. Everyone. Your siblings. The aunties who’ll definitely judge your weight and your unmarried status. The cousins who still call you by that embarrassing nickname. Your Nana. He's the one you miss the most.

You haven’t even landed yet and already your heart feels too big for your ribs. You missed this place like you miss an ache—constant, dull, a part of you. There’s a fear too, coiled in your gut. What if you’ve changed too much? What if it’s not the same?

What if it is—and it hurts?

The plane touches down.

You reach into your bag, reapply your lipstick, and whisper a silent prayer.

Let this month stitch something back together in you.

Let it feel like home again.

The heat hits you first—thick and cloying, like a shawl draped around your shoulders the moment you step out of the car. The driveway is already full, colors blurring as cousins pour out like a flood. A kaleidoscope of voices tumbles over each other: squeals, shrieks, the holler of your Chacha shouting “Move, move! Let her breathe!” as someone tries to shove a laddu into your mouth before your suitcase has even touched the ground.

“Oye hoye! Look at her! Gori hogayi hai!”

“Do you even eat there, or just survive on air?”

"Beta, you remember me, right? I'm your mother's chachi's devar's wife."

You blink. You're not sure who to hug first. A tiny cousin is already clinging to your leg like a koala. Another one, maybe eight, is dragging your bag toward the door while telling you about how she’s getting her ears pierced next week and do you want to come?

There’s laughter from every corner. Someone’s phone is playing a song on full volume. An uncle you barely recognize is wiping his forehead with a handkerchief and asking about your thesis.

By the time you enter the house, your cheeks ache from fake smiling and your ears are ringing from the overlapping chaos of children crying, elders blessing you, and someone setting off fireworks even though it’s 3 PM on a Tuesday.

Then you see him.

Your grandfather.

Sitting in his usual chair, white shalwar kameez freshly pressed, glasses perched low on his nose, a bowl of peeled oranges in his lap like always.

“Meri beti,” he says, arms open.

You bury your face into his chest, the scent of sandalwood and old paper wrapping around you like a lullaby. The noise fades for a moment. His hands tremble slightly as they hold your shoulders, but his smile is steady.

“You’re home,” he murmurs, like it’s a truth the universe should bow to.

“I missed you, Nana.”

“I can tell. You’ve lost weight. And that glow—where is it? We’ll feed you. Don’t worry.” His eyes twinkle. “You’ll be shining again in two days. Just you wait.”

You laugh, and for the first time in months, it doesn't feel hollow.

Behind you, your sisters are already arguing over which lehenga you’ll wear to the wedding. Your brothers are negotiating who gets the guest room. Your mother is shouting from the kitchen. Somewhere, a child wails about someone stealing their last gulab jamun.

The house is bursting at the seams.

And in the middle of it all, you exhale.

This—this chaos, this noise, this life—it fits into your bones in a way your quiet studio apartment never could. You’d forgotten what it was like to belong so loudly.

Nana leans in conspiratorially, whispering, “Don’t tell your mother, but I saved the last gulab jamun for you. Come. Before your sisters sniff it out.”

You follow him through the courtyard, dodging small feet, a rogue football, and a chorus of voices calling your name.

In your chest, something cracks open.

Your room still smells like jasmine and old notebooks.

The bedspreads have changed, but the walls are the same—covered in faded posters, hand-painted memories, and glow-in-the-dark stars your childhood friends insisted would help you sleep. It’s chaos and comfort all at once. There’s barely space for the four of you to sit, let alone stretch, but somehow you’re all sprawled on the floor, feet tangled, arms overlapping.

“Remember when she tried to run away because Ammi wouldn’t let her buy that glittery purple sharara?” your oldest sister snorts, pointing at you with a tube of lipstick she’s stolen from your makeup bag.

“I was ten!” you protest, laughing.

“You were dramatic,” your second eldest sister smirks, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “We found you sulking behind the swing set with a granola bar like it was your last meal.”

“She still does that,” the middle sister teases, nudging your knee. “Only now it’s over men and deadlines.”

You groan, flopping back on the rug. “I regret coming home.”

“No, you don’t,” your eldest murmurs, softer now, brushing your hair out of your face. “You missed us.”

The room quiets for a beat. There’s no music, no screaming relatives, no henna fumes or wedding bells—just the sound of four hearts syncing up again after too much time apart.

You missed this. The shared language of glances. The way you don’t have to explain your silence here. How your sisters know when to pull you into a hug without asking why your voice trembles.

There are binders. Color-coded. Made by your middle sister who’s taken on the role of wedding planner with the precision of a military general.

"You're wearing yellow for the haldi, green for the mehndi, red for the shaadi, and blue for the walima. No negotiations."

“Don’t even think about escaping wedding shopping tomorrow,” the other two warn. “We’re going to that madhouse bazaar. And you are wearing yellow.”

“Why yellow?”

“Because,” they say in unison, “it makes your skin glow.”

You don’t argue.

The laughter rises again, old and new, stitched into the seams of the night.

You fall asleep to the sound of your sisters breathing next to you, lulled by the hum of belonging.

The market is loud enough to make your teeth vibrate.

Rickshaws honk like they're being punished. Street vendors chant their deals in an unholy chorus. The smell of frying pakoras, gasoline, and rose garlands drapes itself over you like a second skin. It's sticky, messy, and somehow—it’s exactly what you needed.

You haven’t walked these streets in years, but your feet still remember the way the uneven tiles make your sandals catch. The colors around you scream in every direction: turmeric yellow, chili red, emerald green, sequins that wink in the sun like mischief.

Your mother is already fifteen steps ahead, deep in bargaining mode with a vendor who looks like he hasn’t smiled since 2004. Your sisters flank you like a desi SWAT team—one arguing about blouse necklines, the other snapping photos of lehengas to send to the family group chat that currently has 472 unread messages.

Your ears ring with:

“Aunty, yeh last price hai!”

“Beta, is mein lining nahi hai toh thoda dhekhna padega…”

“No, not that dupatta! It looks like mosquito netting!”

You’re half-listening. Mostly trying not to sweat through your kurti. The dupatta keeps slipping off your shoulder. Your bangles ring with every breath. A rogue toddler grabs your hand thinking you’re his mom. You're exactly three seconds from turning around and running straight back into the AC of the car when—

Everything quiets.

Not literally. The market is still chaos incarnate. But your mind blanks for a beat—just long enough to feel like something shifted in the air.

Across the narrow, crowded street, in the shade of a peeling blue storefront, someone is watching you.

He’s sitting on a wooden stool, a sketchpad balanced on his knee, a pencil paused mid-stroke. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, collar open, dark hair messy like he ran a frustrated hand through it too many times. His skin catches the sunlight in that golden, almost unfair way.

And his eyes.

His eyes are the sea right before a storm. Quiet, searching, endless.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

His gaze is fixed, not on your face, but on your earrings. Your jhumkas—the same ones your Nani gave you when you were fifteen. They're old, oxidized gold with tiny red beads, and they swing every time you move. You feel suddenly hyper-aware of every motion, every breath, every step. Like you’re under glass.

He tilts his head, sketchpad now forgotten on his lap.

And you—you don’t look away.

You should. You should say something to your sisters, fake a call, pretend you’re not affected. But there’s something magnetic about the way he looks at you, like he’s not just seeing you, but seeing through you. Like he’s been starved of color, and you just walked into his line of sight wrapped in a hundred shades of it.

A scooter zips between you, breaking the line of sight.

You gasp a little, startled, and look down—finally breaking the gaze.

Your heart is hammering. Not out of fear. But something… unspoken. Ancient. Like your soul recognized something your brain hasn’t caught up with yet.

Your sister bumps your shoulder. “What are you looking at?”

You glance back. He’s still there—but now, sketching. As if the moment never happened. As if you didn’t just crash into a silent kind of thunder between two strangers in the middle of a chaotic market.

You turn back to your family.

But you feel him still—like a thread tugging at your wrist.

Rafayel wasn’t supposed to be here for long. He came for pigment—something earthy, something unnameable. He thought the reds would inspire him, or maybe the deep indigo he heard came from this region. He didn’t expect... this.

He didn’t expect you.

You are standing in the middle of all this noise, holding up a sky-blue sari to the light, and laughing. There’s a smear of haldi on your wrist. A streak of kohl at the corner of your eye. You’re trying on glass bangles that catch the sun and break it into prisms.

And he cannot move.

It isn’t a thunderbolt kind of moment. It’s the kind that creeps up his spine and sets his chest aching.

It’s the way your laugh folds into the bazaar’s song and yet stands out.

It’s the way your sisters shout over one another, but you tilt your head and listen; patient and amused.

It’s the way you look radiant even when you're scolding a rogue child.

Paaon tale mere zameenein chal padi (The earth beneath my feet has started to move)

Aisa toh kabhi hua hi nahi (This has never happened before)

He doesn’t know the song. He doesn’t understand the lyrics playing from a rickshaw parked nearby, but the melody sticks to his skin like paint.

He hears his name being called distantly—his guide, confused, trying to tug him back toward the dyes. But he’s rooted. Drenched in the color of you.

He watches you laugh, mouth full of stories he doesn’t know yet, voice lifted in that language he hasn’t learned.

He steps back.

He’s an intruder here. A guest.

But oh, how his fingers itch to draw you—no, paint you—with every shade the sun left in this country.

You pass him without seeing him again. The crowd swallows you.

Rafayel is left standing in a pool of spilled marigold petals and longing.

And for the first time in months—his fingers twitch.

Inspiration bleeds through the haze of his block, like color finding water.

It’s three days later.

You’ve barely slept. Between pre-wedding events, endless fittings, and relatives using you as a glorified errand runner, you’re running on three hours of sleep and one aggressively sweet cup of chai. You’re back in the market—again—because your younger cousin decided she hates her mehndi outfit and apparently you’re the only one she trusts for “aesthetic guidance.”

“I swear I’ll owe you for life,” she says, fluttering her lashes.

“You already owe me for when I lied to your mom about you sneaking out to that concert,” you mutter.

You're too tired to dress up. Hair in a braid. Simple shalwar-kameez. Just your everyday silver jhumkas, because you feel weird without them now. No makeup, no pretense. You’re not here to be seen.

Which is, of course, why he finds you now.

You’re crouched by a rack of embroidered dupattas, texting your sister and regretting all your life choices, when you hear a low, thoughtful voice just behind you:

“You dropped something.”

You look up—and there he is.

Closer now. Too close, maybe. The kind of close where you can smell the faint sea-salt in his cologne and count the tiny flecks of light hidden in his dark eyes. He holds out his hand, palm up. In it is a single silver jhumka.

You feel for your ears, finding one bare. You hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

“Thanks,” you say, reaching out.

His fingers brush yours as he passes it over. Not by accident.

Not subtle.

He doesn’t let go right away. Just an extra second—barely long enough to call attention to it. Long enough to make your skin burn.

You straighten, suddenly aware of how much taller he is. He’s dressed simply—white shirt, sleeves rolled again, one button casually undone at the collar—but there’s something meticulous about him. Like a man who knows exactly how to exist in a frame.

His sketchpad is slung under one arm. His eyes never leave your face.

“I saw you here a few days ago,” he says, voice calm, eyes sharp. “You were… hard to miss.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Because I was yelling at a shopkeeper?”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Because your earrings sounded like a song I forgot I knew.”

You stare at him.

He doesn't blink.

You break eye contact first. “That’s dangerously close to a line.”

“Wasn’t one,” he says softly. “If I were trying to impress you, I’d have quoted poetry. Or lied.”

“You’re not trying to impress me?”

“No.”

He pauses, tilts his head.

“I’m trying to remember the exact curve your bangles made when you laughed.”

You forget how to breathe.

Your cousin chooses that exact moment to shout your name from two shops down, waving a hideous magenta lehenga like it’s a victory banner. You don’t look away from him, but your mouth curls into something that’s halfway between a smirk and a smile.

“Duty calls,” you say.

He nods but doesn’t step back. “You’ll be back?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“If you keep staring at my jewelry like it owes you answers.”

That smile again, this time more open. “Only if it keeps making music.”

You take a step back, heart beating far too fast for someone who just met a man whose name she still doesn’t know.

But as you turn to leave, he says, “Wait.”

You look over your shoulder.

“I’m Rafayel,” he says. “Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Things?”

“People.”

You hold his gaze.

Then, with a half-smile, you say, “Try not to forget me then.”

“I already tried,” he says quietly. “Didn’t work.”

You're sitting on the veranda with a bowl of cut mangoes, trying to ignore the sound of your cousin playing “Sheila Ki Jawani” for the seventh time this morning. The shaadi countdown has entered a new phase of intensity—someone’s having a breakdown over missing heels, someone else is sobbing about flowers, and a child just ran past you naked holding a samosa.

Typical Thursday.

Your phone buzzes. It's your sister.

come outside

RIGHT NOW

ur not going to believe this

You’re already outside, but you get up anyway, curiosity prickling down your spine.

Then you see it.

The house next door—your grandparents’ old neighbor’s bungalow that’s been empty for months—is open. Curtains drawn back. Movers bustling. A man standing at the gate, talking to your mother.

Not just any man.

Him.

Rafayel.

White shirt again. Sunglasses pushed into his hair. A small smile playing on his lips as your mom gestures wildly, no doubt trying to understand who exactly this foreign-looking man with art-supply-colored fingers is and why he’s moving in next door during a wedding.

You freeze.

He glances toward you, and his smile shifts—something quieter, softer, almost smug.

Your stomach does a flip it has no business doing.

Of course, your mother clocks the silent exchange. She calls out your name like she just uncovered a scandal.

“Come say hello! Our new neighbor just arrived! Artist banda hai, you’ll like him!”

Before you can fake a phone call or a divine intervention, your entire extended family flocks to the gate like vultures spotting free pakoras. Uncles. Aunties. Cousins. At least three toddlers. Your sister’s already live-tweeting it in the family WhatsApp group.

Someone asks if he’s married.

Someone else asks if he’s single.

Your chachi squints suspiciously. “Artist? Matlab, kya karta hai full-time?”

Rafayel doesn’t flinch. “I paint.”

“Paint? As in walls or...?”

“Canvas,” he says, deadpan. “And sometimes silence.”

Your mamu side-eyes him like he just spoke French.

A cousin snickers. “Do you also paint feelings, bhai?”

“Yes,” Rafayel says. “But only the unspoken ones.”

The chaos halts for one holy second as they invite him into the house. He walks in like a man accepting a dare. Hair a little too perfectly tousled, expression unreadable—but his hand brushes yours lightly as he passes.

You feel it in your wrist.

Your grandfather is already seated at the head of the room, his cane leaning beside him, newspaper folded with surgical precision.

“Artist sahib,” he says, voice low and amused. “Come. Sit. Tell us—what exactly are your intentions toward our pigment?”

Rafayel blinks. “My... intentions?”

Cousins snicker.

You groan. “He means what color you’re looking for.”

“Ah,” Rafayel says, lips twitching. “Ultramarine, if I can find it. And maybe vermilion. Something that bleeds a little.”

That shuts them up. Slightly.

Nana nods, eyes gleaming. “Good answer. Sounds expensive.”

One of your younger cousins leans in and whispers—loud enough for everyone to hear— “He looks like a drama hero. All broody and tragic.”

Another pipes up, “He’s hot. Is he rich too? Or is this a starving artist situation?”

You elbow her gently. “You all have no shame.”

“We just care about your future, sis,” she says sweetly, then looks straight at Rafayel. “Do you like chaat?”

He nods. “If it burns the roof of my mouth and makes me question my decisions, yes.”

They love him. Instantly.

Tea arrives. Biscuits. Then laddoos. Then a plate of steaming samosas. Rafayel is juggling a cup, a plate, a toddler in his lap, and three questions from three different relatives at once.

But he keeps looking at you.

Between bites, between glances, in that moment when your jhumka catches the light and you sip your chai with both hands around the cup—he watches. Not like a man who wants to undress you with his eyes. Like a man who wants to learn you like a language.

Aisa lagta hai kyun teri aankhen jaise (Why do I feel as if your eyes)

Aankhon mein meri reh gayi (Have settled in my eyes)

Nana clears his throat loudly. “You know,” he says, tone casual, “in my day, a man came home only if he meant to stay.”

The entire room goes still.

You make a strangled sound into your tea.

Rafayel’s mouth quirks. “Then I hope I’m not offending tradition. I was told there’d be snacks.”

Nana sips his chai and gives a secretive smile.

And you know you’ve lost this round. Rafayel has officially infiltrated.

It’s nearly midnight, but the house is still humming.

The elders have finally gone to bed, the kids tucked away like mismatched socks in spare rooms and floor mattresses. From the rooftop, faint laughter still drifts—your cousins playing antakshari. A fan creaks overhead as you sit cross-legged on the bed, brushing your hair out with slow, absent strokes.

The day is still clinging to you in pieces—Rafayel’s fingertips brushing yours at the doorway, his long lashes lowered as he sipped chai, the way your Nana watched him like he was trying to read a painting that kept changing under his gaze.

You try not to smile.

But then the door creaks.

“Knock knock,” comes the sing-song voice of your eldest sister as she slips in uninvited. “Or should I say... Rafayel Rafayel?”

You groan. “No.”

“Oh yes.” She plops down beside you, stealing the brush from your hand. “Explain to me how the world’s most expensive painter just so happens to be hanging around our living room? Looking like a Renaissance sculpture with abandonment issues?”

“He’s here for pigment,” you mutter.

She wiggles her brows. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Your second sister pokes her head in. “Are we talking about the mysterious artist who doesn’t eat sugar but somehow accepted two laddoos from Dadi?”

You chuck your pillow at her. She dodges, cackling, and climbs in beside you. “Oh, you’re blushing. This is historical.”

You bury your face in your hands.

The third walks in dramatically, arms crossed. “I just want to know if we’re getting an international jiju. I need to update my Snapchat story accordingly.”

“There is nothing going on!” you yell, tugging the dupatta over your face in mock shame.

But they know better. They’ve seen the way you looked at him. The way you didn’t look at anyone else. The way you spoke a little softer around him.

The way his gaze lingered even after you'd left the room.

“You know what he told Nana?” your eldest sister says, smirking. “That the light in our courtyard reminded him of Florence. Florence, yaar. Who talks like that?”

You mumble through your scarf, “A pretentious idiot with a brush addiction.”

The second sister hums. “A pretentious idiot who kept staring at your jhumka like it was whispering secrets.”

Your third sister nudges you, “Are you gonna kiss him or sketch him?”

You groan again. “Can I have one peaceful night in my own house?”

But when they finally leave, trailing whispers and giggles behind them, the room is too quiet again. You lie back, fingers still warm from brushing your hair, the ghost of a gaze heavy at your wrist.

The courtyard isn't special.

It’s cracked tiles, uneven shade from a too-old neem tree, and the constant whir of a dying pedestal fan set up for the caterers. But somehow, in the late afternoon light, it feels like the only place untouched by wedding chaos.

You escape here more often now. Everyone’s too busy with haldi prep, last-minute fittings, sifting through bangle boxes and earring piles. The aunts are arguing over oil brands, the cousins are choreographing dances with the passion of Broadway stars. You’re slipping away before someone hands you another gift basket to decorate.

There’s a rustle—fabric, leaves—and then him.

You don’t startle. You’re almost used to it now. His quiet arrivals. The way he steps into a space like he was always meant to be part of it.

Rafayel.

Squatting on the ground this time, surrounded by ceramic bowls—actual hand-thrown ones—filled with powders that shimmer like magic. Ground turmeric, dried marigold, beetroot, crushed hibiscus, even something that smells faintly of cardamom and ash.

He looks up but doesn’t speak.

Just watches you as you approach, the corner of his mouth twitching in recognition. His eyes flick to your anklet when it chimes faintly against the stone. His gaze lingers. Longer than polite.

You sit without asking. Without needing to.

“Are you starting a spice shop?” you ask, picking up a pinch of burnt orange powder.

“I’m making a base for coral,” he murmurs. “The kind that dries dusky, not bright.”

“And that requires... cooking ingredients?”

He dips a brush into water, adds a swirl of powder. The hue that blooms is molten. Dreamy. “Natural pigments have soul. Artificial ones lie.”

“You sound like my Nana when he talks about real ghee.”

That earns a chuckle.

Then, a quiet beat.

“You always come here after everyone else is busy,” he says. Not a question.

You shrug. “Hard to be the youngest. Loud family. I disappear and no one notices for ten minutes.”

“I notice.”

It’s soft. Not performative. Like he’s telling you he breathes. A simple fact.

You glance at him. And this time, you really look.

He’s beautiful, yes—but not in the obvious way. Not in the way your cousins whisper about, half-laughing. There’s something in the curve of his mouth when he concentrates. In the quiet reverence with which he holds pigment. In the way his knees are dusty from squatting too long and he hasn’t even noticed.

“Why do you keep showing up wherever I go?” you ask, not sharply.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I think I was always going to end up here,” he says, still mixing. “You just happened to be in the frame.”

You should roll your eyes.

Instead, your fingers tap absently at your bangles.

“That’s a line.”

He glances up. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

You want to say something back. Something clever. Instead, you reach out and swipe a finger through the coral pigment he’s just finished blending. It stains your fingertip a shade deeper than the sunset.

“Will it stay?” you ask.

“Days,” he replies. “Weeks, if it gets under your nails.”

There’s a pause.

Then—

“Better than henna?” he asks.

You go still.

He doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t say how he knows.

Maybe you had mentioned it once, offhand. At the bazaar. While he handed you a tissue for your chili-stung mouth.

You hadn’t thought he was listening.

He was.

You look down at your coral-stained finger.

“It’s different.”

“How?”

You hesitate. Then:

“Henna… feels like a promise. This feels like a secret.”

He nods. “Some promises lie. But secrets—secrets always tell the truth.”

Your eyes meet. Not flirting. Not play. Just that pull again.

You rise to leave—because if you don’t now, you’ll stay, and if you stay, you’ll say something you aren’t ready for. But as you brush past him, he lifts his hand like he might reach for your wrist. Stops. Thinks better of it.

Still, you feel it.

The warmth of him. Close. A little too close.

“Next time,” he says, quietly, “tell me what color you want. I’ll make it for you.”

You pause, turning just slightly.

“And if I want a shade that doesn’t exist?”

His smile curves, slow and knowing.

“Then I’ll invent it.”

You don't remember agreeing to be the haldi handler, but somehow your arms are covered in it and your cousins are weaponizing rosewater like it’s war paint.

The inner courtyard is a riot of flowers, steel thalis, and three aunties yelling conflicting instructions. There’s singing, of course—off-key and heartfelt—and a cousin blasting Punjabi remixes from a Bluetooth speaker taped to a potted plant.

You’re wiping your hands on the edge of your dupatta when he appears.

Rafayel.

Again.

Leaning against the carved stone archway like he walked out of a Mughal painting and forgot to go back in. His sleeves are rolled up. He's wearing a kurta—pale ivory, thin enough that the shadows of his movements peek through. His gaze is easy but intent, scanning the courtyard until it finds you.

You freeze. Your cousin, of course, does not.

“Oh hello again, Sketchboy.”

You groan.

Rafayel’s lips quirk, just barely. “It’s Rafayel.”

“I know. She told me.”

You send her a glare. She ignores it.

He walks in further, cautious not to step on the wet haldi puddles. “I was looking for your grandfather,” he says, to you.

Her eyes gleam. “Nana’s upstairs. But since you’re here—do you want to help?”

He raises an eyebrow, and she thrusts a bowl of turmeric into his hands.

“You are always hovering around her,” she says with a wicked grin. “Might as well get your hands dirty.”

You open your mouth to protest—to save him—but he just nods. Calm. Graceful. Hands the same golden bowl back to you, and another box on top of it, like it’s a peace offering.

“For your bangles,” he says, eyes warm. “So they match the rest of you.”

Your cousins howl.

Another one whistles. “He’s got lines! Who gave this man lines?!”

You flee before they start chanting wedding shlokas.

He follows. But only after you’ve gone far enough that no one can see how your cheeks burn beneath your earrings.

That night, you escape to the rooftop.

The city is hushed, just the whisper of distant car horns and the soft rustle of leaves. The stars blink lazily. The fairy lights from the courtyard glow below like grounded fireflies. You breathe in silence.

And then—

You know it’s him before he speaks.

He doesn’t say your name. Just steps beside you, a safe distance away, holding two steaming cups of chai.

“Your sister cornered me,” he says mildly. “Asked if we were in love yet.”

You snort. “I hope you told her we weren’t.”

“I told her we weren’t yet.”

Your laugh catches, half a sound.

He hands you a cup. You wrap your fingers around it slowly.

The night presses close. The chai smells like cardamom and something darker—clove, maybe.

“You were looking for Nana?” you ask.

He nods, gaze distant. “I asked him about indigo. Real indigo. He told me a story about how it dyes memory, not just cloth.”

“That sounds like him.”

“He said…” Rafayel turns, voice quieter, “...some colors never leave the skin. No matter how hard you scrub.”

You don’t reply.

You just drink.

The wind teases the hem of your dupatta. His shoulder is only inches from yours now, even though neither of you moved. You can feel the warmth of him in the space between.

“I remember the sound of your anklet before I saw your face,” he says, out of nowhere.

You turn your head sharply.

He’s not looking at you.

Just the city.

“But I think…” he adds, barely audible, “...I would’ve found you either way.”

And your heart does something reckless.

You shift your hand slightly. It brushes against his on the cement railing. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

Neither of you say anything about it.

But you don’t let go.

The house is a riot of colors and movement.

Marigold garlands are being strung across doorways. Plates of samosas, mithai, and chai pass from hand to hand with military precision. Your eldest massi is in a standoff with the decorator over the exact shade of pink for the drapes. The children are being bribed with mango juice to stop climbing the stage pillars. Your cousin nearly sets his kurta on fire trying to light a candle.

And you’re in the center of it all—trying to fasten a stubborn anklet that refuses to cooperate with your patience or your Garara.

“Uff, I swear I’m going to cut it off,” you mutter, crouched on the low veranda step.

“Would that be considered an act of war here?”

The voice is low, amused—and far too close.

You freeze.

Looking up, you find him standing above you, bathed in the golden hue of the setting sun. Rafayel. Dressed simply—white kurta, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair is tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times. His eyes, though—sharp as ever—are focused only on you.

He kneels slowly before you, tilting his head up. “Need help?”

You blink, heart thudding. “You know how to tie an anklet?”

“I know how to observe.” His voice drops a little. “You were pressing too hard. The clasp just needs a little patience.”

He reaches forward before you can protest. His fingers brush yours, gentle, cool.

It’s suddenly very quiet despite the chaos around you. Like the volume’s been turned down on the world just so you can hear the sound of your own pulse.

He fixes it carefully, then lets his hand linger a second longer than necessary against your ankle, his thumb grazing skin. Your breath catches.

When he finally looks up, there’s something unreadable in his eyes. Something reverent.

“You wear color like it was made for you,” he murmurs. “Sound, too.”

You blink. “Sound?”

He gestures lightly. “Your anklets. Your bangles. That jhumka. You don’t just move. You announce yourself.”

You try to laugh it off, but your cheeks are warm. “Bit poetic for someone who paints with mud and beetroot juice.”

A flicker of a smirk curves his lips. “You haven’t seen what I can do with turmeric and heartbreak.”

You’re saved from replying by the sudden shriek of your sister yelling your name from the terrace. “OYE—stop flirting! We need help with the gajre!”

Rafayel’s eyes crinkle with silent laughter as you groan and get up, brushing off your hands.

“I’m not flirting,” you shout back automatically, already turning away.

But you feel him watching you go.

The anklet chimes with every step, traitorous and delighted.

The courtyard is transformed.

Fairy lights drip from the trees like liquid stars. Orange and pink drapes flutter in the breeze. Someone’s playing the dhol like their life depends on it, and the beat rattles through the ground and into your ribs. Laughter crashes like waves—loud, unrestrained, warm.

This is what you missed.

Home.

Family.

And right now, the stage belongs to you and your sisters.

You’re twirling, lost in rhythm, dupatta flying behind you like fire, bangles clashing with the music. Your sisters flank you, all of you laughing, dancing in sync, every step a memory coming alive. Anklets sing with every movement. Across the crowd—near the water fountain where the elders have congregated—he stands.

Rafayel.

Wearing deep blue, like storm clouds threatening to pour. Hair swept back now. A quiet shadow among all this noise. But his gaze never wavers.

Not even for a second.

It’s not just admiration. It’s... hunger. The kind born not of lust, but of longing. His eyes drink you in like he’s found the muse he crossed oceans to chase.

And for a moment, you dare to meet his gaze mid-spin.

The world doesn’t slow—it stutters. Your breath snags. The dance fades into background noise. His lips twitch at the corner, not quite a smile, not quite a challenge.

He looks like he wants to walk straight into the fire of it all.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he stands rooted, one hand curled around a cup of chai he’s forgotten, the other clenching loosely by his side like he’s holding back something urgent. Something unruly.

The music swells. You turn away, cheeks burning, heart loud.

You shouldn’t be thinking about him this much.

You shouldn’t be wondering how it would feel to rest your head against that chest, warm and steady like thunderclouds before the rain.

Tu hi tu hai joh har taraf mere (Now that you are there all around me)

Toh tujhse pare main jaaun kahan (So where can I go far from you)

You mouth the lyrics with the music, not realizing how they cling to you like a secret.

Later that night, when the guests begin to trickle out and the lights grow softer, you pass him by in the corridor. He’s leaning against the arch, one leg crossed over the other, gaze unreadable.

“You danced like you were trying to set something free,” he says quietly.

You pause, heart skipping.

“And did I?” you ask.

His voice is low—dangerous. “No. You caged something else instead.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

But neither of you moves. The moment stretches like silk—thin, shining, threatening to snap.

Until your little cousin barrels down the hall screeching, “SWEETS!”

Rafayel glances up, chuckling. “Always the dramatics in this family.”

You smile, but it trembles a little at the edge.

Because you know it now.

This isn't just a crush.

It’s something deeper.

The smell of mehndi hangs thick in the air—earthy, sweet, nostalgic. The house is glowing with fairy lights, cushions thrown everywhere, dhol beating loud enough to shake your ribs. Cousins are dancing. Aunties are gossiping. Kids are high on sugar and unregulated enthusiasm. Everything is bright and loud and spinning.

Except you.

You sit on the edge of the steps, hands folded neatly in your lap. Bare.

Everyone else has swirls of deep brown trailing up their arms, names of lovers hidden in curls, flowers blossoming across skin like poetry. You? Nothing.

Because in the chaos—between fixing someone’s ripped lehenga, calming your crying niece, and being sent to find a charger for the henna artist’s phone—you missed your turn.

By the time you got back, the artist was packing up. Everyone else had gone back to eating, laughing, taking selfies.

No one noticed your hands were still empty.

No one asked.

You don't cry. That would be stupid. It’s just mehndi, right? You’re not the bride. You’re not even the sister of the bride. You’re just... here. The guest. The helper. The fixer. The extra set of hands.

But god, it hurts.

You slip away from the crowd, down the back path that leads toward the garden. It’s darker here. Quiet. Your bangles don’t jingle. You’ve stopped moving like music.

That’s when you hear him.

“You look like someone punched your soul.”

You turn.

Rafayel stands leaning against a tree, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a small paper cup of juice. He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t try to crowd you. He just looks.

You try to laugh it off. “What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you were invited again.”

“I wasn’t,” he says. “I was summoned. By your grandfather. Said there’d be sweets.”

You snort. “Of course.”

He walks forward slowly. Stops beside you, close but not too close.

You look down at your bare hands.

He sees.

“What happened?”

You shrug. “Nothing. I was just—busy.”

“With everyone else.”

You look away.

He’s quiet for a long beat. Then:

“Would you let me?”

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out—of all things—a fresh, sealed henna cone.

“I heard you say how much you wanted it. I may have… spent the last few days learning.”

You stare at the tube. Then at him. Then back.

“You what?!”

“I watched tutorials. Got a few lessons from the lady who sold me the bangles. Look, I might’ve accidentally stained my hands orange in the process, but…” he shrugs, sheepish. “I can try?”

You stare.

And then you laugh.

Loud and full and stunned. “You? Want to do my mehendi?”

“I figured…” He rubs the back of his neck. “If I can paint on canvas, I can paint on you.”

Just then, your cousins stumble onto the terrace. Spot the henna cone from above. Spot Rafayel.

“Oh my God, look at him! He’s going to do her mehendi?!”

“I thought he was a foreigner!”

“He’s not even Desi and he’s trying! What is this, a fanfic?”

“Bhaiya, please marry her—”

Rafayel, flustered and surrounded, gets to his feet. “Okay—I take it back, this was a terrible idea—”

You’re laughing so hard you have to lean against a pillar.

But eventually, you pull him by the wrist and escape up the back stairwell, breathless and grinning.

“I wasn’t joking,” he murmurs when you’re alone again. “I really want to do your henna.”

You look at him—at his stained fingers, at the sketchbook peeking from his bag, at the way he’s looking at you like you’re the most sacred canvas he’s ever seen.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay?”

You hold out your hand.

He takes it like it’s made of glass.

And begins.

You sit cross-legged on the marble balcony, the air sweet with mogra and anticipation. Somewhere behind you, your cousins are whispering by the window, spying, no doubt—but for once, you don’t care.

The moonlight falls soft on your arms as you extend your hands toward him. Your skin glows under its silver wash, and for a second, Rafayel just stares.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice low. He’s already kneeling in front of you, henna cone poised delicately between long fingers.

You nod.

“Positive.”

His gaze lingers on your face—eyes searching for hesitation, for teasing. There’s none. So he exhales, rests his hand lightly under your wrist, and begins.

The first line is slow.

Tentative.

You hold your breath as the cool trail touches your skin. His touch is featherlight, reverent. The henna’s earthy scent begins to bloom between you as intricate curves unfold beneath his steady hand.

You glance at his face—and your breath catches.

He looks... different.

Focused, yes, but something else flickers there too. A sort of awe. As if your skin is sacred and this—the act of decorating it—is worship.

“You’re good at this,” you whisper, half-teasing.

He smiles faintly. “I practiced on oranges and my own leg,” he murmurs. “This is... better.”

You laugh softly. “I should hope so.”

The pattern snakes up your palm in elegant spirals. Your fingers twitch once, brushing against his wrist, and his entire body stills for a second too long.

“I didn’t expect...” he starts, then stops.

“Didn’t expect what?” you ask.

“That I’d care this much about doing it right.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes. You don’t press.

The air between you grows heavier as he works. The world shrinks to nothing but the warm hush of your breath and the cool glisten of henna tracing lines over your skin.

It’s too much—too quiet, too close, too everything.

So you break it.

“Did you come really come this far just for color?” you ask, softly.

His hand pauses for a moment.

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

Your heart stumbles.

“I came for inspiration. I was blocked, empty. Nothing made sense on canvas. But now...”

He glances up.

“You do.”

And there it is.

The truth, plain as stars.

Your throat tightens.

“Rafayel—”

He gently lifts your other hand. Brushes his thumb over your knuckles. “May I?”

You nod, breath caught between your ribs.

He begins again, slower this time, more deliberate. Every curve of henna—a confession he isn’t ready to say out loud.

As he draws, you realize what he’s weaving into your palm. A crescent moon, delicate and shaded, blooming from a sea of waves and lotuses—an ocean of you and him.

And hidden in the swirls of your wrist, nestled between the paisleys—

A single stroke. He signs his name, woven into the intricate design.

You don’t say anything.

Not now.

Instead, you close your eyes.

You don’t need words.

The henna speaks for you.

You wake to the scent of dried henna warm on your skin. The morning sun slices through sheer curtains, dancing over the gold trim of your pillow.

You sit up slowly.

Your hands are dry now, the patterns stained into your skin like secrets.

You lift them to the light—and stare.

You had seen it forming last night, glimpses between breathless silences and the brush of his fingers. But in the full glow of morning, it’s mesmerizing.

Waves. Lotuses. The crescent moon—so delicate it looks like a smile. Everything twined with the tiniest, near-invisible strokes of text—

His name. Hidden in the curve of your wrist. Not loud, not bold. Secret. Intimate.

You run your thumb over it. Your chest aches in a way it shouldn’t.

Outside your room, the house is already alive—laughter, clinking dishes, someone shouting about roti. But here, it’s still quiet. Still yours.

You press your palm to your cheek and smile. Just a little.

You weren’t planning to wear anything that would draw attention.

But your sisters had other plans.

Somehow, you ended up in an emerald-green lehenga and so many churiyan stacked on your arms, you feel like a walking wind chime. They curled your hair, pinned your jhumkas just right, and lined your eyes with a black liner so sharp it could cut.

“You look like heartbreak—personified,” your cousin said, snapping your picture.

You didn’t say it, but you were already holding it.

Because on your hands—woven into your skin like a soft, silent rebellion—are Rafayel’s designs.

His ocean.

His name.

You weren’t going to tell anyone. You were just going to survive the event, perform the group dance, maybe eat a gulab jamun or four, and avoid thinking too hard.

But the universe had other plans.

You walk into the courtyard.

Someone sees your hands.

And the chaos begins.

“OHHH MY GODDDD!”

Your middle sister grabs your wrist like its evidence. “Yeh kisne banaya? This is NOT the henna artist’s work.”

Your aunt peeks over her shoulder. “Arey haan, this is too modern.”

Your youngest cousin squints, snatches your hand, flips it over. “Kya likha hai yahaan…? R… A… Rafay—”

You pull your hands back. Mortified.

“RA-FAY?” she shrieks. “WHO. IS. RA-FAY?”

You freeze. For once, you have no comeback.

Your sisters are SCREAMING. Your chachis are huddled like spies in a Netflix crime doc. One of your brothers actually drops his phone and shouts “Plot twist!!”

You try to mediate the situation, but it’s too late.

You're in the spotlight now.

“You didn’t even TELL us?”

“Is he rich?”

“Is he tall?”

“Are you in love?”

“Kya kahani hai?!”

“Show us his picture!”

“NO NO, call him HERE.”

You’re backing away when you bump straight into a very solid chest.

Rafayel.

Wearing—of course—a black kurta with the sleeves rolled up and a subtle smirk playing on his mouth like he knew this would happen. Like he planned it.

Of course he did.

The entire family goes silent.

Your chachi is fuming.

Your sister whispers, “No. Freaking. Way.”

A cousin mutters, “Ladka hot hai. You’re excused.”

And Nana?

Sitting with a cup of chai, cross-legged on the divan. Watching.

He smiles. Doesn’t say a word.

Just sips.

You, somehow, find your voice. “What are you doing here?”

Rafayel’s tone is innocent. “Nana invited me.”

Nana, not your Nana, not your grandfather. Just Nana, as if—

Your grandfather raises his cup in the air like he’s won.

The rest of your family stares. You brace yourself for questions, for teasing, for death-by-curiosity.

But Rafayel just turns to you, eyes steady, and says:

“You didn’t wash it off.”

You don’t blink. “You wrote your name on me.”

“I asked permission.”

“You did not.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

Your mouth opens. But you’re short-circuiting. The lehenga’s too tight. The night’s too loud. The mehndi is still dark.

And Rafayel, without even touching you, has you unraveling.

Your aunt whispers to your mother, “Ab inki shaadi krwani hai.”

Nana nods sagely. “Larka acha hai. Artist hai, lekin acha hai.”

You look at Rafayel. “You’re enjoying this.”

He leans down, voice low, just for you. “More than you know.”

The music's gone thunderous again—bass so heavy it could realign your spine. Everyone's dancing now. A blur of color and sweat and wildly offbeat choreography.

You duck out, breath catching in your throat, heat rising in your cheeks, pulse still tripping over Rafayel’s words.

You didn’t wash it off. You didn’t stop me. He said it like a fact. Like a challenge.

You need air.

The side courtyard is quiet. Just fairy lights and the faint echo of Raataan Lambiyan bleeding through the walls. You press your back to the cool stone and try to remember how to inhale like a normal human being.

“Running away again?”

His voice cuts through the quiet like silk.

You don’t open your eyes. “I’m not running.”

“Then what are you doing out here?” he asks, footsteps soft as he approaches.

“Hiding from my family. They’re about five minutes away from planning our engagement.”

He laughs, quiet and real.

“Would that be such a bad thing?”

You open your eyes.

He’s standing in front of you now, too close for comfort, but not close enough to touch. That maddening in-between space where the air buzzes and you don’t know whether to step forward or step back.

You go for sarcasm, because that’s safe. “Do you always move this fast?”

He shrugs. “I don’t move fast. I move when it feels like I’ll regret standing still.”

You hate how that lands. You hate how it feels true.

He takes a half-step closer. “Why does it scare you?”

You meet his eyes. “Because you’re—we're—”

We're too different. You don't say but he realizes nonetheless.

Something flickers in his expression. He doesn’t respond.

And then—just as you’re about to turn, to leave, to end this before it spills over—

Your dupatta catches.

Snagged, pulled, stuck—right on the button of his kurta.

Classic. Cosmic. Catastrophic.

You both freeze.

His hand lifts slowly, carefully brushing over the embroidery. You feel it in your chest, not your shoulder.

“It’s delicate,” he murmurs, eyes still on the fabric. “Like you.”

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Don’t make that a metaphor.”

“I wasn’t going to.” He finally looks up. “I don’t need metaphors. You’re already the art.”

You exhale sharply, but you’re not smiling.

You’re bare.

No sarcasm. No shield. No exit.

“Why me?” you ask. “You could have anyone. You could walk into a gallery and have a dozen muses lined up.”

He leans in just enough that you forget how to stay still.

“I don’t want a muse,” he says. “I want a mirror.”

You go still.

Your heart has the audacity to lurch.

And then—just like that—he untangles the thread. Slow. Gentle. His fingers ghost over your shoulder as he frees you. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t press.

He steps back.

But you feel it like he touched your soul.

“You’re dangerous,” you whisper again.

This time, he smiles like he agrees. “So are you.”

And with that, he leaves you standing there—wrapped in green, stained with his name, and completely unraveled.

You should’ve seen it coming.

It started with your sisters plotting by the sink. Then whispering way too obviously during dinner. You knew they were up to something—your family doesn’t whisper, they scheme.

So when the plans for the “pre-wedding cousin trip” were announced—beach day, whole squad, bride, groom, chaos—you weren’t surprised.

What did surprise you?

The moment you climbed into the rental van and found Rafayel, already seated by the window, sipping Rooh Afza from a paper cup, like he belonged there.

“Kya— Why are you here?” you ask, switching languages without realizing, clutching the doorframe like it might save you.

He shrugs, deadpan. “Don't look at me like that. Your sisters practically kidnapped me. I'm a victim”

Your middle sister grins from the driver’s seat. “We needed an adult to supervise.”

Your eldest sister chimes in, “And someone hot for aesthetics.”

You stare at them.

They wink at you.

You climb in, praying the universe has a sense of mercy.

It does not.

Because Rafayel ends up beside you.

Because the van is packed.

Because fate is dramatic like that.

The beach is wild.

Desi playlists blasting from a Bluetooth speaker. Cousins racing into the water, someone trying to fly a kite, the groom being bullied into a photoshoot, and your dupatta turning into a weapon in the sea breeze.

You try to fade into the background. Let the younger ones scream over one of Atif Aslam’s songs and the older ones debate biryani vs kadhai. You sit near a rocky patch, toes buried in the sand, finally breathing.

Rafayel appears like a ghost beside you.

Shoes off. Sleeves rolled up. A soft salt-touched breeze threading through his hair.

“Didn’t take you for a beach person,” you say.

“I like water,” he replies. “It never lies.”

You glance at him. “Is that how you paint?”

He nods. “Water remembers things the canvas forgets.”

You don't know what that means, but it sinks into you anyway.

“Do you swim?” he asks suddenly.

You raise a brow. “Do you?”

His smirk is dangerous. “Want to find out?”

Before you can answer, one of your cousins yells, “WE’RE DOING A SANDCASTLE CONTEST—COUPLES EDITION!”

Your sisters immediately point at you and Rafayel.

“THEY’RE A TEAM!”

You open your mouth. “We’re not—”

Too late.

You’re being handed a bucket, a mini shovel, and more pressure than a family dinner.

Rafayel just chuckles. “Let’s win.”

You glare. “I hate you.”

He leans close. “Puh-lease, you love me.”

You blink.

Then he grabs the shovel and starts building like he didn’t just drop an emotional grenade on you.

—

The tide creeps in slowly. Your team lost (your youngest cousin's “Shrek castle” won by sheer chaos points). Everyone’s packing up.

But you’re still standing at the edge of the water, ankle-deep, jeans rolled up, watching the waves.

You hear him before you see him.

“Come on,” Rafayel says, walking straight into the tide like a painting coming alive. “One dip won’t kill you.”

“You don’t have extra clothes.”

“I’ll dry.”

“Your shirt’s linen.”

He grins. “Then let it wrinkle.”

You stare.

He walks farther in.

The ocean wraps around him, warm and gold and endless.

“You’re insane,” you call.

He looks over his shoulder, hair damp now, smile soft and sure.

“Come anyway.”

And somehow—you do.

You step into the water.

And it feels like everything else—your name, your past, your aching chest—gets washed back to shore.

He doesn’t touch you.

He doesn’t need to.

You’re already drowning.

And for the first time in weeks—you want to be.

The day of the wedding it's like there’s gold in the air.

Not just in the shimmer of embroidered sarees or the edge of the bride's red veil trailing behind her like a royal train, but in the laughter, the glint of bangles clinking like tiny bells, in the chaos of cousins running wild with stolen stage props and half-baked plans.

Music weaves through the air—old Bollywood, newer remixes, and a few chaotic mashups that only your loudest cousins know how to dance to. Your aunties are shouting across tables, bargaining over bets and rules like they're trading on the stock market.

And Rafayel?

He’s seated quietly at the edge of it all, in a crisp sherwani you still can’t believe he agreed to wear. It’s ivory, with subtle hand embroidery at the collar, and when he shifts in the golden sunlight, he glows like he belongs in an oil painting. A silent observer, sketching it all with his eyes.

But then his gaze finds you, and he forgets how to breathe.

You’re helping your niece with her bangles, bent slightly forward, the jhumkas by your ears swaying like they have their own rhythm. Your hair is pinned up in an updo. And that smile—God. You look like a moment he wants to paint into forever.

You catch him looking. He doesn’t look away.

Tera dil woh shehar hai (Your heart is a city)

Jis shehar me ja ke lauta na main kabhi (A city I went to once and have never returned since)

—

The joota chupai begins like a war. Your cousin army steals the groom’s shoes, hiding them under a sea of lehengas and fake distractions. The groom’s side retaliates. There are negotiations, ambushes, ransom demands. Rafayel watches it all unfold with mild horror and deep fascination.

“You people are intense,” he mutters when you pass him, breathless and triumphant with one stolen shoe in hand.

“We’re efficient,” you say. “You’d better watch your shoes.”

“If you want me, just ask nicely,” he retaliates.

Your breath catches at the implication—but you don’t stop walking.

—

Then comes the game.

A table is laid out with dozens of objects—glass bangles, a peacock feather, a toy gun, a spoon, a fake mustache, lipstick, a paper crown. A speaker blasts snippets of Bollywood songs and everyone rushes to pick the object that best matches the lyrics. It’s madness. It’s brilliant.

“Kala Chashma”—a cousin dives for the sunglasses.

“Bole Chudiyan”—you grab the glass bangles.

“Desi girl”—he snatches a bindi and sticks it between his brows with a flourish. The entire family howls.

Rafayel doesn’t win most rounds. But when “Ishq wala love” plays, he doesn't reach for anything. He just looks at you.

And that… is enough.

—

Later, after the crowd has dispersed for dinner and the courtyard is quieter under strings of fairy lights and the stars above, you find him sketching near the tree.

He looks up.

“You look beautiful,” he says, as if it’s a confession. “Not just tonight. Always.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“Rafayel—”

“I’ve tried not to,” he says softly, stepping closer. “I told myself this is temporary. A trip. A burst of color. A muse.”

He exhales like it hurts. “But it’s not. I love you.”

The world stills. The lights flicker. A firecracker cracks in the distance.

You close your eyes.

Because you want to believe it. God, you want it.

But what happens when the trip ends? When you go back to your studies, your deadlines, your life? He’s famous, traveling the world. You're rooted in something smaller, softer, real.

“It’s not enough,” you whisper, stepping back. “We won’t survive. Not for the long run.”

And before he can speak again—before he can soften your doubt into something brave—you slip away, heart thundering.

—

Days pass.

The wedding is over. The chaos settles into memory.

Your room is quiet. His suitcase is still in your foyer. Neither of you reach for each other.

Nana watches you mope around, pretending not to stare at your phone every ten minutes. Watches Rafayel sketch for hours but never finish a single piece.

He huffs.

“Enough,” he mutters one morning. “I didn’t survive three bypasses and a youth of British colonial nonsense to watch two idiots destroy their own love story.”

Nana’s plan starts like most historical disasters do: with the elders whispering in corners.

You should’ve been suspicious when your aunties started wearing their fancier clothes to breakfast. Or when your second cousin first removed—who usually dresses like a teenager on laundry day—showed up in a sherwani and borrowed your brother’s perfume.

You definitely should’ve noticed when your mother gave you the look. That silent, smug “don’t-ask-just-go-wear-the-red-one” look.

But you were tired, still aching from how things ended with Rafayel, still pretending not to notice how your phone stayed silent. So you let yourself be dressed, fed, ushered into a car.

“Whose wedding are we going to, again?” you finally ask.

Your brother shrugs. “Distant cousin. Friend of a cousin. Someone’s son. I don’t know.”

You narrow your eyes. “You guys don’t not know things.”

No one answers.

The venue is decorated like a fever dream. Red and gold and ivory everywhere, fountains flowing with rose petals, dhol beats rolling thunder across the marble floors.

There’s a wedding chair up front.

Two.

One of them is empty.

The other is ocuppied by you.

“I swear to God,” you whisper, turning to your sister, “if this is a prank—”

“It’s not,” she says sweetly. “It’s a plan.”

And that’s when you see him.

Rafayel. Wearing a sherwani—how many has he bought?—looking utterly bewildered and completely beautiful.

“What sort of mating ritual is this,” he asks, blinking at your grandfather, “if I may ask?”

“An intervention,” Nana says smugly, holding the sehra. “Sit down.”

—

You are mortified. Beyond mortified.

There are aunties placing flower garlands around your neck. Cousins taking selfies. Your niece is live-streaming. Nana is pretending he’s hard of hearing when you question him.

Rafayel is frozen in place, eyes darting between you and the absurdly ornate garden. “Are we… getting married?”

You pull him aside by the wrist.

“No! God, no. It’s not real. They’re messing with us.”

“Are you sure? These rituals look too real.”

“Just—ignore it.”

He looks at you for a moment too long.

“I wouldn’t have minded,” he murmurs.

Your heart does a backflip.

“What?”

“If it were real.”

You forget how to breathe.

Eventually, you manage to escape the fake-wedding-ambush with your dignity mostly intact. The others cheer like a cricket match has just ended. Nana looks annoyingly pleased with himself.

But the damage is done.

Rafayel walks you to your room that night. The air is quiet again, heavy with things unsaid. The corridor is dimly lit. Soft golden sconces cast shadows against the marble, catching on your bangles as you fidget, still breathless from the mayhem.

He leans against the wall just outside your room, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. He’s always been like this—wrapped in riddles, walls so carefully constructed you never thought you’d see past them.

But tonight… tonight he looks wrecked in the way only someone in love does. Beautiful and broken. Holding himself still like the wrong word might make you vanish.

You speak first. Quietly.

“I thought I was protecting myself. Maybe even protecting you.”

His gaze flickers to you. “From what?”

“From falling too deep. From making it harder when we part ways. From hoping.”

A long silence stretches between you. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, and that alone makes your throat ache.

“You’re Rafayel,” you say with a hollow laugh. “The world’s darling. Painter. Traveler. Terrible at remembering things.”

“Things?” Rafayel raises an eyebrow.

“People,” You acquiesce. “And I’m just… me. The girl with an entire extended family who thinks you’re my groom now.”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “That was chaos.”

“That was Nana.”

He laughs, finally. It’s low and warm and you’ve missed it more than you’ll ever admit.

Then his voice drops. Soft. Bare.

“Do you really think I care about any of that?”

You blink at him.

“You think I look at you and see someone ‘lesser’? I see the girl who made me forget I was lost. Who walks into a room and makes everything brighter—even when she’s holding grief in her chest like a second heart.”

You feel your eyes sting.

“You think I planned this? You think I came to this country looking for inspiration and expected you to be it?”

His voice catches. “But there you were. With anklets that sang like wind chimes. With that laugh that makes me forget my own name. I didn’t mean to stay. But I did.”

Your fingers tremble against your bangles.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

He exhales shakily. “You tore through my silence like a monsoon.”

His hand lifts, slow and reverent, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

“And I haven’t been able to breathe the same since.”

You swallow thickly, wanting to believe it, wanting so badly to let it all go and just fall—into him, into the soft promise of his hands and his voice and his everything.

“We live worlds apart,” you murmur.

“Then I’ll build a bridge.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“No,” he says, “it never is. But you and I? We’re worth the complication.”

The air between you is charged, your hearts beating in tandem like two instruments tuned to the same storm. You step forward, and he does too, and for a moment the distance shrinks until only choice remains.

You look up at him, eyes wide and soul trembling.

“What now?”

“Now,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone, “we try.”

“And if we fail?”

“Then at least we did it holding on to each other.”

The salt-laced wind rushes past you as you stand at the edge of the dock, bare feet grazing warm planks, the scent of sea and paint lingering on your skin. Somewhere behind you, laughter echoes—Rafayel’s, low and lazy, like sunlight stretched across a hammock.

A seagull calls overhead.

In your hand, a half-finished sketch of a bustling spice bazaar in Marrakech. On your wrist, a silver bangle you picked up in Istanbul, etched with waves. Next to you, a weather-worn travel satchel stuffed with fabrics, pigment jars, dried flowers, postcards. Places you've seen. Places you've lived. Together.

You hear footsteps.

“You’re sketching again,” he murmurs, peering over your shoulder.

“Trying to keep up with your genius,” you tease.

He rolls his eyes dramatically. “Please. Your mango vendor has more soul than my cathedral.”

He slips his hand into yours.

Your rings clink.

Cities blurred past. Paint on his collar, your poetry scrawled in margins, nights tangled in hotel rooms with rain drumming against old windows. Bickering in markets. Singing old Bollywood songs while doing laundry in some forgotten corner of Prague.

Once, he painted you wearing bangles and jhumkas and nothing else. You framed it in the kitchen of a houseboat you rented in Kerala.

The world doesn’t feel so wide now. Not when you’ve danced in its shadows with someone who speaks in art and sarcasm and glances that set your pulse racing.

He presses a kiss to your temple.

“Where next?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin.

You smile. “Wherever the color is.”

He bumps his shoulder into yours. “Wherever you are.”

You turn to face him. Sea spray in your hair. Love in your eyes. The kind that didn’t arrive with fireworks or grand declarations. Just persistence. And softness. And staying.

Somewhere, a song plays in the distance, wafting from a small celebration down the beach.

Ae mere dil mubarak ho (Congratulations to you, my heart)

Yahi toh pyaar hai (Only this is love)

You both freeze.

Then you laugh. Loud and bright and free.

He groans. “That song is going to haunt us for the rest of our lives.”

You lean into him. “It brought you to me.”

He grins, his eyes soft with something eternal.

“No. You brought me to you.”

And just like that, with the sea behind you and the whole wide world ahead—you walk forward, fingers intertwined, hearts unafraid.

TAG LIST: @datfangirl

#meliora writes #love and deepspace #rafayel x desi reader #rafayel x reader #rafayel love and deepspace #love and deepspace rafayel #lads rafayel #rafayel x you #qi yu x reader #qi yu lads #qi yu love and deepspace #reader is not mc #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel x non mc reader #lads x non!mc reader

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shegatsby · 3 months ago

Note

I’ve been thinking of one where Reader is a concubine of Paul, but she gets ignored because he has Chani & Irulan. Paul mainly has her around because she gets along with him, Chani, and Irulan and keeps the peace between them as a concubine and as a healer. He is possessive of her but doesn’t love her romantically, but reader wants to be loved and held. Then Feyd comes in-he gets injured-reader tends to him and he falls for her, but she doesn’t know what to do because she’s loyal to Paul and never had this type of attention before. Then Feyd becomes like her personal bodyguard & shenanigans ensue.

A/N: Omg this was in my drafts for so long. Thank you so much for the request I loved writing it. Hope you'll like it.

Warnings: Battle but not any detailed gore or depictions.

“Lord Paul expects his wife and his concubines. It is urgent.” You were chatting with Chani when one of the guards barged into the garden section of the palace, drinking spice coffee and talking about life was your favorite activity to do with her, she was a great friend to have. Whenever something important accured Pauld would request his partners at his side, his wife and Chani on his right and you were standing on his left.

Paul was sitting on his gold throne, the colorful windows at the ceiling casted rainbow lights on the marble floors of the throne room. He was dressed in Atreides colors, red and after his victory dark shade of green. Irulan was already there, Chani smiled at you kindly and took her place. Paul didn’t even notice you, he wasn’t a bad person, he took you in because you were an orphan and you had great skills. Especially healing, because at the Siech you helped your old Reverend Mother, she thought you many things. You stood in your space, facing the tall doors and waited. “Let him in.” Paul’s voice was heard and the tall heavy doors opened, you wondered about the person you were about to see. He must be important.

You saw a tall, bald headed man walk in with pride, his uniform was jet black, his combat boots made it sound like he was marching to war… or was he?

“Bow before your Emperor Paul Muadib Atreides.” Duncan Idaoh’s voice harsh voice echoed in the throne room. The bald man looked at Idaho and then Paul, and he fell on his knees. “Your message intrigued me.” Paul began which made the man look up at him, “Rise and explain your scheme, Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen.” He finished and you felt your heart burn in fire, “A Harkonnen?!” You thought, they were the reason you were an orphan, they were the reason why your people suffered for years. Your hands were in fists you had to be calm. Your harsh gaze found his already staring blue eyes, his eyes were originally blue not because of the spice. His eyes trailed a path on your body and found your face, you were wearing a tight orange dress, your long hair loose, you had golden bracelets on your arms. You didn’t flinch from his stare, in fact, you stared back into his eyes with primal fury in your soul. His gaze turned back to Paul, ''I have interesting news about my uncle and I thought you might like to hear and make an alliance.. so to speak.'' his raspy voice sent shivers to your body, so dominant and cold. Paul didn’t say anything, just let him speak.

“Baron Vladimir Harkonnen has been gathering troops from Salusa Secundus.”

Duncon Idaho whispered but enough for you to hear, “Old Emperor’s troops.”

“He is planning on attacking Arrakis in a few days.” He finished, staring at Paul with a smirk.

Paul regarded him suspiciously, “Why are you telling me this? He is your uncle after all.” He was right.

“I am tired of being Na-Baron of Giedi Prime, I desire to be it’s Baron and only ruler.” He confessed one of his deepest desires, Paul raised an eyebrow, “I would like to discuss this with my advisors. In the meantime you’re our guest. You shall have a second of the palace for yourself and servants to attend your every need.” Paul swiftly stood up from his throne, and walked down the stairs, his subjects including you following him. You never liked these situations where you had to follow him like a puppy. You wanted to stand next to him as his concubine. He was a nice man to you but it was obvious that his affections laid with Chani, not you and certainly not Irulan. You desired to be held by him, considered to be his equal but he discarded you so many times. His cold eyes never regarded you with… anything really. To him and others you were just a Fremen healer girl.

As you walked past Feyd-Rautha, he looked at you again, in a way all women wanted to be looked at… your trainings had told you so but you brushed his intense gaze off, kept your composure and walked past him gracefully.

Next day you were having breakfast at the gardens, the palace had gardens but the part you usually went was at the back. Not many people visited here so it was peaceful and calm. You were seated by the fountain which used to overflow with water but you made the servants cut the water. To you it was a waste of water and Arrakis was never kind to her residents whom regarded water as insignificant.

Over time you started to tend to the flowers and trees, ever since you became Muad’Dib’s you could access to knowledge of anything thanks to the lavish library. You started to learn about plants which you have never seen or heard before and slowly it became your passion. You were in your deep thoughts when a sudden cough attracted your attention, you turned to face the owner and it was him. Even though you didn’t want it you had to get up and bow respectfully, “My Na-Baron.” You greeted him. He was wearing a sleeveless tunic and satin, loose pants. His arms looking strong, up close he looked paler than usual. “What’s your name?” His direct question startled you. “Y/N. My Lord.” You said, still in shock.

“Your name is pretty as your face.”

You could feel your cheeks heat, it had been a long time since someone had complimented you.

He sat on the empty seat, “Sit.” He gestured for you to sit and you did. “Eat.” He said as he started to eat a fig from your plate. You continued eating, there was a silence, noticing his piercing blue gaze on you.

“What are you to him?” He was the one who broke the silence.

You understood what he meant, “I’m sure my Lord already knows.” You replied, didn’t want to say it.

Feyd smiled wickedly, was he playing a game?

“I do… but I want to be sure.”

You sighed before you spoke, “I am Paul Muad’Dib Atreides’s concubine.”

He scuffed in annoyance, “A concubine who doesn’t warm a bed isn’t truly a concubine.” His remark made you look up at him sharply, he was still smiling. How did he know that Paul never had you? Not even once…

“Our Muad’Dib-“ he cut you off, “He doesn’t care for you-“ he paused for a split second, “properly. Does he?” His tone carried something carnal. You couldn’t reply back to him for he was telling the truth.

“If you were mine you would be… looked after and taken care of.”

What was he trying to say to you?

You had heard so many horrible stories about him and how he treated the slaves he took to his bed or his servants in general. Most died in a few days. Thankfully you weren’t alone. You belonged to someone, even though he didn’t want you in that way.

''My Lord Na-Baron..'' you protested in shock, didn't know how to reply in a respectful manner and you saw the wicked smirk on his face. He got up from his chair, got a purple grape from your table and he leaned on the small table, you had no idea what was going on before it was too late. He made you open your mouth and eat the grape, the juice running from the corner of your lips, he wiped the juice with his thumb and licked it, ''Just saying.'' he said and left.

The rest of the day you couldn't eat anything or focuse on anyhting, even the servants around you had noticed but didn't dare to utter a word.

The second day he was on the palace you ran into him. You were walking to accompany Princess Irulan in her chambers, you had to bow when you saw him, ''Lord Na-Baron.'' you greeted him properly, you had no choice but your cheeks flushed with the memory of yesterday. He hummed in pleasure when he saw your cheeks, he had two bodguards wgiven him by Paul hismelf. Of course they were spying on him and reporting everyhting he did so he wanted to put on a show for him, ''Lady Y/N, how lovely to see you here.'' he began, his raspy voice wasn't something one could get used to, it sent electricity to her body, she nodded in return. ''May I accompany you to your destination?'' he offered extending his arm to you and you could not refuse a Na-Baron.

You took his arm and together headed to the section of Irulan's chambers, ''I cannot stop thinking about our conversation yesterday, I would love to talk to you more.'' he mentioned, making sure the bodyguards aka spies heard him correctly. ''I do love to entertain you with conversations Na-Baron but unfortunately I am very busy.'' you reached to Irulan's double doors, no men was allowed from here.

''I must attend to our Princes Irulan. I bid you good day.'' you said getting your arm back from him, he swiftly held your wrist and planted a kiss on the back of your palm, ''Till next time.''

You walked into Irulan's chambers dizzy.

The news of Feyd's interest in you have reached Paul's ears. He was in his study when his spies had explained the situation, was this a game or was he actually interested? Nonetheless you were his, his concubine. It was unacceptable. He specifically asked if you were also interested but his spies only said that you were respectful and didn't cross a line, he was glad to hear that your loaylty laid on him.

It was the 5th day of his arrival that he took things further, until today he kept teasing and impyling things to you but you were stubborn. Why did you insisted on belonging to someone who didn't take you? Or showed any interest at all. In these past 5 days all he had seen was that you followed Chani and Irulan like a lost cub, you hid behind the shadows but no longer. His plan was to tear you from the shadows and give you the spotlight you deserved.

As he was dwelling on these thoughts siren was heard, it was show time. He had told Paul that it was most likely for Baron to strike on the 5th day and he was right, he quickly wore his uniform which was given him by Paul himself, earlier today he was visited by him.

''I want you to lead the attack. I want Baron to see you in Atreides unfirom.'' he demaned and it was the perfect opportunity for Feyd, ''If I do so I might ask something in return.'' he replied as he was holding the dark green uniform with a golden Atreides badge on the left shoulder, ''You shall have your planet and rule it as it's Baron, as we have agreed.'' Paul pointed out the agreement, ''I know but I want something else too.''

Paul was intrigued, ''Which is?''

''Once I have won your battle for you I will reveal it. Do not fret.'' Feyd placed his hand on Paul's shoulder and gave a wicked smile. Paul didn't know what it was but if it was soemthing he could give then it was settled if he won the battle of course.

The battle took only few hours for Atreides soldiers ready and plannes have been made beforehand thanks to Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen. He led the troops to victory, as he fought his brother Rabban in a combat he got injured but he managed to defeate Glossu Rabban Harkonnen, by defeat Feyd took his head and put it on a spike and placed it on the battlefield, after that Atreides chanted their voictory shout. Baron was sent to prison along with remaining Sardaukar soldiers.

Feyd marhced the marble halls of the palace to the throne room, the doors opened for him, he heard Paul clap in victory, ''As you have said, Baron attacked on the 5th day and you have defeated him. Bravo Feyd.'' he greeted him with a smile, seated on his golden throne. Feyd was glad that he had audience, advisors, politicians and highly ranked soldiers.

His eyes found you, behind Irulan and next to Chani, and yet you had chosen to stand a step behind her. You wore jet black today, why? He loved the color on you and he couldn't wait to touch you. Your eyes also found him, he was covered in blood and you noticed that he got stabbed. Why was he here instead of getting treatment? He was a crazy man you were sure now.

Others had followed clapping, chanting in his name.

After the loud sounds died down Paul spoke, ''As I have promised, you shall have Giedi Prime and run it as its new Baron. I am sure our alliance will continue from generation to generation.'' he announced.

Feyd bowed on one knee, ''Emperor!'' he raised his head from his place, ''I have another wish too. A small and pretty one.''

''Oh, yes you have mentioned something earlier, pray tell.''

''I do not wish to run my planet alone. I want a woman by my side.'' he began which attract the entire ton's attentin.

''I want Lady Y/N by my side, as my wife.''

And everyone held their breaths, everyone in this room knew that you were an untouched concubine, his least favorite companion. However you were still Paul's. You were in shock, was he serious or joking? Harkonnens do tend to have a strange sense of humor. Chani held your hand and squezzed in reassuringly.

Paul Muad'dib's face was stoic, not giving any clue on how he felt or what was he about to say. His most rusted soldier and advisor was by his side, Duncon Idaho looked more stern than his Emperor.

''She is my concubine, as you know.'' Paul's voice was flati matter of factly.

There wasn't a single sound in the entire throne room, Feyd got to his feet, he could feel his open wound, throbbing softly but he didn't mind.

''Haven't I been generous?'' Paul said questioningly, ''You have your own planet to yourself now and no doubt high ladies in Giedi Prime would love to be your wife.'' Paul didn't understand Feyd's reasons behind this request.

''You are right, however I do not wish to have any of them. I only want Lady Y/N. In my time I have come to a realization that,'' he turn to the audience to gain their favor, ''she is the only one who could be my equal and represent my name with respect. Her loyalty is unmatched and If you let me,'' he turned back to Paul. ''I am going to take care of her and make sure she is comfortable till the day she closes her eyes to this galaxy.''

Your heart was beating at it's full capacity, was he telling the truth or was this just a game? It was true that these past days he was courting you and trying to get your attention but now it was serious.

The ton started to ramble, he heard whispers saying that

''He betrayed his uncle for god's sake''

''New Baron looks devoted''

''He won the battle in few hours''

Paul raised his hand to silence the crowd, ''Due to Feyd-Rautha's outstanding victory in the battle and his sacrifice of his family, I would love to give Lady Y/N to him, however..''

he looked around, testing the waters, ''It is for her to decide. It isn't my place.''

Paul was hopeing maybe you would stay, now that someone was interested in you he thought how beautiful you were... it was too late though.

Chani urged you to walk, you walked down the stairs of the throne and you bowed once you were below Paul. ''My Emperor, thank you so much for your protection over the years,'' she began, her body was calm but her mind was screaming at her ''What are you doing?''

''I believe I have served you enough. I would like to be on Baron Feyd-Rautha's side.'' once the words slipped her mouth there was no going back. She couldn't believe herself.

''Then it is settled. Congradulations.'' Paul announced with a sullen look but only Duncon could tell.

You turned and walk to Feyd quickly with the worry in your eyes, ''Let's take care of your wound my Baron.''

He liked it. ''My Baron.''

Back at his chambers you were stitching his sound on the side of his stomach in silence, the events of what happened still ringing in your ear. ''Why?'' he asked calmly, watching your sitting form, your hands quick and with his question you hurt him unintentionally of course. ''Sorry,'' you looked up, ''Why did you accept me?'' he asked directly.

You were silent for a few seconds, after you were finished with his wound you rubbed an oil to heal it quicker, his back was leaned on the couch, legs spread, you got up from the couch, placed your healing stuff back to the kit and turned to him, ''Because of you.''

He looked puzzled so you explained, ''You look like you would kill an entire nation if someone touched a strand of my hair. Paul could never give me that.''

It was true and it made Feyd smile to see that you understood how possessive and protective he was towards you.

He got up from the couch, walked to you and his hand went to your hair, he had never seen scuh beautiful color and length, he had wanted to touch your hair for so long and now he felt how soft the strands were, ''You and I, against the galaxy.'' he whispered as he leaned for a kiss.

Thank you for reading. :)

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fixated-cookies · 1 month ago

Text

Milk, Flame, and the Witch's Pit

A powerful witch, once thought lost to time, returns to Earthbread-her body disguised, her magic not. She does not seduce. She does not beg. She commands. And those who cross her path-Burning Spice Cookie, full of fury, and Shadow Milk Cookie, her only loyal sin- will find themselves drawn into her pit of worship and ruin.

COMISSION

Minors do not interact

The wind changed before she arrived.

It slipped between stalks of caramel grass and dragged its breath across molasses stones, humming with a charge no Cookie could name. Flowers folded in her wake. Clouds parted above her with reverence or fear—it was difficult to tell the difference. She walked slowly, barefoot and regal, the color of her dough unknown beneath layers of velvet shadow. The bells at her hip did not ring. The sound had been devoured by the heat.

The Land of Spice trembled around her.

She had no name anymore. Names were for stories, and she had outlived every one whispered about her. What she carried was heavier than sugar, older than the ovens that birthed the Ancients. Her magic whispered at the edges of the world, soft as breath, sticky as sin.

And it did not go unnoticed.

A heat slammed into her path like a living wall.

“Hmm, what do we have here?” came a voice, cracked like scorched stone. “You don’t belong here.”

He stood half-wreathed in fire, chest bare and pulsing with the beat of battle, gold teeth bared in something between a snarl and a smile. Tattoos shimmered over his massive arms, and the antennae blazing from his skull lashed the air like twin serpents of flame.

Burning Spice Cookie.

She tilted her head, eyes calm. She said nothing.

He scoffed. “What? No words to be said? A worthy opponent?"

Still, she was silent. One finger raised—slowly, deliberately. A flick.

The fire at his feet dimmed. His snarl stuttered. Something like a shiver licked down his spine.

“You—” he started.

But her gaze had already gone through him. Past his teeth, past his fury. Into the place where his flame softened, where rage and lust touched hands like old friends.

One word slid from her lips.

“Bend.”

He tried to bark a laugh—but his breath caught in his throat. His knees hit the ground with a cruel crack. Heat surged from the base of his spine, uncoiling, throbbing. He gritted his teeth, growled—but his cock betrayed him. The tension twisted into pleasure, shame blooming in his gut like a scarlet lotus.

She turned. Walked on.

Behind her, Burning Spice Cookie stayed kneeling, panting in the ash, unable to understand why it felt so good.

She kept going, kept walking. As the desert became more filled with plants, forest appearing. Darkness.

The road behind her smoldered, and still she walked.

Beast Yeast welcomed no travelers—but it yielded to her. Vines parted like curtains, slick with dew and breath. Trees blinked when she passed, their bark pulsing faintly with the same rhythm as her slow, steady pulse. The air grew damp, cloying, laced with old sugar and something wilder. The shadows here were alive.

And they were watching.

She did not call his name. She didn’t need to. She merely stepped between two warped trunks, and the forest sighed.

“Even now,” came a voice, smooth and sly, “you enter like the last act of a forgotten play.”

Shadow Milk Cookie emerged from nothing—woven from gloom and glitter. His dual-toned hair curled like ink in water, strands shifting between jester’s blue and pitch-black oil. One of his hidden eyes opened within the shadow of his bangs, blinking slow. His smile was crooked, familiar, unbearable.

“You smell the same,” he whispered, drifting close. “Like broken vows and sugar-laced venom. Hah… I’d almost convinced myself you weren’t real.”

She said nothing.

He tilted his head, studying her like an art piece returned from ruin. His staff tapped once against the ground—a signal, or a habit. “You always did know how to time an entrance. Tell me… is this another illusion? Or have you truly come to finish what we started?”

Still, she gave no answer. She only looked at him.

That was enough.

The smile faltered. His breath caught—just once. Her eyes had not changed. Still that bottomless, terrible calm. He stepped closer, cautious, as if the very act of nearing her was dangerous.

“I missed you,” he confessed, low. “There. Does that please you? The Master of Deceit, saying something real for once.”

She raised her hand.

He didn’t flinch—but he swayed, like his body had remembered this moment from another lifetime. Her fingers touched his jaw, light as mist, and he shuddered.

“I tried to forget,” he rasped, leaning into her palm, “but I don’t lie to myself as well as I used to.”

His knees buckled. He sank into the moss and fog like he belonged there. Her presence curled around him, magic without movement. He gazed up at her with parted lips and eyes gone half-lidded—devotion without demand.

Shadow Milk knelt beneath her, chest rising with shallow breaths. His fingers hovered at the hem of her veil but never touched. He wouldn’t dare. Not yet.

“You didn’t come,” he said, voice almost childlike. “When I fell. When they shattered my name, trapped me. I waited.”

Silence again.

Then—

“I was afraid,” she murmured.

It was so quiet it barely counted as speech. But the forest flinched. Even the wind stopped.

His gaze snapped up.

She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were turned inward, to some echo he couldn’t reach.

“I saw what they did to you. I saw the fire they lit in your absence. I told myself I couldn’t help. That it was too late. That if I moved, I’d fall with you.”

He laughed, but it cracked. “Fall? My dear. I needed you to fall. I was already at the bottom.”

“I know.”

She finally looked at him. The stillness between them turned sharp.

“I hated myself,” she whispered. “For staying behind. For surviving it clean. For watching your ruin like it was a play I'd written. I wanted to believe you didn’t need me.”

“I didn’t,” he said, breathless. “Not then.”

She leaned in.

“I need you now.”

The kiss was featherlight. Barely a press of mouth to mouth. But it burned. A memory drawn in blood. His whole body jolted—like magic, like mourning. His hands curled in the moss. He didn’t reach for her. He let it happen.

Another kiss. Slower.

Her lips dragged against his like she was trying to recall the shape of them. His eyes fluttered, a soft groan slipping loose. Her magic lingered on her tongue, bitter and sweet.

“I dreamed of this,” he gasped. “A hundred times. A thousand. I dreamed of you coming back.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. His jaw. Then his throat.

“I didn’t dream at all,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

His hand rose, shakily, and touched her wrist. Just once. As if afraid it would break the spell.

“Then let me dream for both of us.”

She didn’t answer. But her fingers slid into his hair. The tentacles beneath them stirred with recognition, sensing the shift. The ritual hadn’t begun—but it was coming.

And the air behind them shimmered—hot, jagged, furious.

The hunter had arrived.

The air shattered behind them.

A wave of raw heat swept through the glade, curling moss to ash and coaxing hissed warnings from the roots. Trees bent low as if in supplication. The fire had arrived.

Burning Spice Cookie stepped forward, flame-etched and radiant, his crimson eyes glowing coldly under the weight of fury. Sweat licked the curve of his throat, his dhoti clinging to the lines of his body. But his composure was unbroken.

“Is this what you’ve become, Deceit?” he said, voice smooth, low, deliberate. “On your knees for a woman who slithered in silence through our lands?”

Shadow Milk only grinned. “You say that like you’re above it.”

“I am above nothing. I descended long ago. But I did not rot.”

His gaze flicked to her—unflinching, dissecting.

“You… I remember your kind,” he murmured. “Temptresses spun from half-truths and perfumes. Witches who speak not in spells, but in silence. You are not new.”

Her expression didn’t change.

“You tread on sacred ground with your eyes half-lidded,” he continued. “You violate the body as if it were a scroll meant to be rewritten. And you leave your victims wanting.”

A flicker of tension beneath his jaw betrayed him. His control was fraying.

Shadow Milk tilted his head. “So you’ve felt it too.”

“I have felt… a corruption. Slithering beneath my skin like oil.” His voice darkened. “I do not know whether to burn it out or bend to it.”

Her voice was soft. “You came anyway.”

“I came,” he said, “because your magic reeks of something unfinished. And I do not abide loose ends.”

She raised her hand.

The earth opened.

Tentacles bloomed from the velvet pit below like petals of sin, dripping with soft luminescence. Runes pulsed in the air. The scent of aphrodisia filled their lungs. The sky flickered pink.

Shadow Milk had already sunk into the silk with a sigh. “Let go,” he whispered. “You’ll break more gracefully that way.”

“I do not break,” Burning Spice answered, a flash of gold behind his teeth. “I yield only to worthy flame.”

One of the tentacles brushed his thigh—gentle, exploratory.

He flinched.

His eyes narrowed.

“…You’ll have to prove yourself.”

The pit had become a chamber of sin—slick silk beneath them, velvet runes flickering in the air like warning lights, tentacles curling with silent anticipation. And at the center of it all, she sat untouched, radiant, her expression unreadable.

Then she moved.

She reached up—slowly—and undid the clasp at her collarbone. Her robe slipped down just enough to reveal the curve of her chest, pale and glowing, as if kissed by moonlight and marked by magic itself.

Her hands came to her breasts—round, heavy, soft in a way that defied the laws of dough and doughmakers. She pressed them together, the valley between them pulsing with a subtle enchantment—warm, wet, trembling like a mouth.

“You may use this,” she said simply.

Both Cookies froze.

Shadow Milk let out a whimpering laugh, rolling onto his elbows. “You’re… really letting us?”

“You will take turns.”

That was not a kindness. It was a command.

Burning Spice Cookie’s jaw ticked. His pride flickered in his eyes, but it was drowned beneath the ache that throbbed between his legs.

She shifted her knees apart, still seated, breasts lifted by her arms, gaze impassive.

“Come.”

Shadow Milk was first.

Of course he was.

He crawled to her, trembling. A tentacle gently guided his cock into place. He pressed forward—slow, reverent—and let out a shattered moan as his length sank between her breasts.

They were impossibly soft, slick with enchantment, tight like the space was made for him. She held them still—did not squirm, did not breathe hard. She watched.

He began to thrust—shallow, pretty movements, his breath stuttering with every pass. “Ah—so warm, it’s… ngh—"

A tentacle wrapped around his throat gently. Just a warning.

“Don’t finish,” she said.

“I—I won’t, I swear—”

His hips jerked anyway.

When he was close—too close—she pulled him back with a mere twitch of her finger. He let out a broken sob, cock twitching uselessly in open air, denied.

“Next.”

Burning Spice moved forward, slow as a soldier facing his executioner. His cock leaked with want—he was harder than he’d ever been, pulse thrumming in his ears.

She adjusted slightly. A little more lift. A tighter hold.

He gritted his teeth and pressed in—and immediately bit back a groan. “Tch—too much—too… gods—”

His hips bucked. Unlike Shadow Milk, his rhythm was rough, desperate. His face stayed hard, but his body betrayed him.

“You act controlled,” she murmured, “but I feel your tremble.”

He growled—but the sound caught, warbled, and fell apart in a groan. His cock throbbed against the plush heat of her chest, but he couldn’t cum.

The spell wouldn’t allow it.

His knees buckled.

He pulled out before he begged.

Shadow Milk whimpered beside him, face buried in his hands. A tentacle stroked his back in mock sympathy.

She wiped her chest clean with a flick of her magic.

“You are permitted to rut,” she said. “Not to release. Your seed is not earned.”

They both stared at her—trembling, ruined, cocks twitching, lips bitten raw.

And she just looked back.

Unmoved.

.....

They lay collapsed in the pit’s silk—Shadow Milk’s limbs tangled in a dozen tentacles, his voice gone hoarse from moaning, begging, breaking. Burning Spice sat upright still, if only by sheer force of will, sweat glistening along his temple, his cock still twitching from denial that bordered on cruelty.

Their breathing filled the silence.

Wet. Shaky. Ruined.

The tentacles eased—for now.

From her throne above, the Witch exhaled softly, lowering her arms. Her body, untouched. Her robes, barely ruffled. Her eyes, still glowing low like a hearth you could never warm yourself by.

“You performed as expected,” she said.

Shadow Milk laughed—quiet, delirious. “Then… then why does it still hurt…”

Burning Spice didn’t speak. He merely turned his face away, jaw tight, humiliation thick on his tongue.

The pit pulsed again—deeper this time. A rhythm like a heartbeat. Like something awakening.

She stood.

Both Cookies stirred at once—half out of instinct, half in dread.

She stepped down into the silk, barefoot. The ground did not touch her. The tentacles curled back in reverence.

“Rest while you can,” she murmured.

Her hand hovered briefly above their heads—not quite touching, but close enough for them to ache for it.

“This was only an opening. A taste.”

She looked down at them—two once-proud titans of power and war, now trembling at her feet.

“You will come again.”

And then she was gone—vanishing like steam from hot skin, leaving behind nothing but scent and ruin.

The pit quieted.

And deep below, something else… shifted.

A presence. Watching. Waiting.

Shadow Milk shuddered.

Burning Spice clenched his fists.

Neither spoke.

The ritual wasn’t over.

It had only just begun.

---

This took forever to make, I typed it on laptop but then had to edit it on phone lol

#shadow milk cookie smut #burning spice smut #shadow milk cookie x reader #burning spice cookie x reader #crk smut #crk x reader #smut

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byjove · 9 months ago

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One time I bought Old Spice laundry scent booster at Ollie's Bargain Outlet (like the inter-dimensional cable of household goods) and it was perfect. It left all my clothes and linens with this light masculine scent that kept them smelling fresh for so long. Far superior to the lavender vanilla scent booster I usually use. I’ve never seen it anywhere else so I decided to check online.

If I had known what I was using was laundry gold, I would have metered it out a little better. Old Spice please collab with Downy again. I neeeeeeed it.

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valenftcrush · 2 months ago

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⩨MISDELIVERED ˙˖✶ james potter

pair: james potter x fem!reader warnings: none, kinda fluff; English isn't my first language so it may contain spelling mistakes.

Summary: When Y/N receives a package meant for the boy upstairs, she doesn’t expect it to come with a cat, lavender tea, and a smile that lingers longer than it should.

Y/N wasn’t particularly fond of living in a building where the ceilings creaked with every step, the walls seemed to have ears, and parcels always ended up in the wrong place. Still, the rent was reasonable, the flat got a decent amount of natural light in the afternoons, and if she managed to ignore the neighbour blasting electronic music at three in the morning, she could just about convince herself that her life was somewhat under control.

Until that day.

That day, the doorbell rang. When she opened the door, no one was there. Just a box resting on the threshold. Her long-awaited order: scented candles.

“Finally…” she murmured with a faint smile, stepping back into the flat without checking the label.

With a pair of scissors, she eagerly opened the box, anticipating the sweet scent of vanilla and spices. But what she found inside was something entirely unexpected.

A book titled "Breathe. Don’t Yell at the Universe", a white mug with gold lettering that read: "Best Cat Dad", and a box of lavender tea, all carefully packed alongside a note. “Jamie, I hope you’re taking care of yourself, but in case you’re not, I’m sending you this. Love, Mum.”

Y/N blinked. Then read the note again.

No. That definitely wasn’t meant for her.

She inspected the box more closely, a strange feeling settling in her stomach. Finally, she read the label:

James F. Potter – 3B, third floor.

3B… She lived in 3B, yes… but in the second floor.

“Seriously?” she whispered, shoulders slumping in defeat. The universe, once again, was mocking her life.

She knew who lived in the 3B upstairs. Well, she’d seen him a few times. The guy in dark hoodies, oversized headphones, and a look that seemed to hide secrets beneath his messy brows. He always stepped out of the lift just as she was waiting, but they had never interacted beyond fleeting glances. No greetings, no smiles. Just his perpetually tired expression, like the world was too much for him.

She’d once seen him wearing a shirt that said Chudley Cannons. And she’d assumed, without much thought, that it was some European rugby team or something. Honestly, she had no idea, nor any interest.

Though now, a flicker of interest was beginning to spark.

She sighed, put on her slippers, picked up the box and decided to head upstairs.

When she arrived, the door to 3B was ajar. Before she could even knock, a black cat peeked through the gap and stared at her with disdain. It was large, and its fur looked incredibly soft.

Y/N stepped back just as a voice from inside the flat said:

“Reggie, don’t go out. You know you’re not allowed to hunt pigeons on Tuesdays.”

The door opened fully, and there he was: James Potter.

No headphones, no hoodie, just an old T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. His hair was still damp, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. For a brief moment, he looked just as startled as she did.

They both blinked. Silence fell between them instantly and completely.

“Er… hi,” Y/N said, holding the box between them like a bridge between two worlds. “I think this is yours. It was delivered to the wrong 3B.”

James looked at the box, then at her, then back at the box.

“Oh…” he cleared his throat. “Right. Sorry. I… I must’ve put the wrong address.”

“It’s not your fault,” Y/N replied quickly. “Couriers always get the numbers mixed up. They don’t even check the floor, and… well, never mind.”

An awkward silence followed, though not entirely uncomfortable. More like clumsy, as if neither of them knew how to move forward. Neither wanted to close the door, but neither knew what else to say.

“Did you open it?” James asked eventually, his expression curious.

“Just a little,” she lied, though in truth she had examined every item with the precision of someone trying to decipher a hidden message.

James nodded, slightly embarrassed.

“Well… um, thanks. For bringing it up.”

“Of course,” she replied, offering a small smile—shy, but meant to carry a hint of warmth.

Another pause. This one lighter than the previous. The awkwardness lingered, but in a softer way. Neither seemed to know how to say goodbye without it feeling weird. No one wanted to be the first to shut the door.

“Well…” she began, just as he blurted:

“Do you want…?”

They both stopped.

“You first,” they said, again in perfect unison.

They both laughed softly, lowering their eyes. It was an almost painfully tender moment.

“I was just going to say… if you want to keep the tea. It’s a double pack. And Reggie doesn’t drink herbal tea. Yet,” he added with a wry smile.

“And I was going to say… it was nice meeting you. Even if it was thanks to a delivery mishap.”

James nodded thoughtfully, then, with a touch more confidence, said:

“Would you like to come up another time? I can make lavender tea. Or… whatever one’s supposed to do to not look like a complete idiot.”

Y/N shrugged, still smiling.

“Tea sounds good. Idiot, not so much—but you’re not far off.”

James let out a genuine laugh, the first one Y/N had heard from him up close.

“I swear this is still the most embarrassing thing that’s happened to me since I fell over in the middle of a national match.”

“Was that Reggie’s fault too?”

“Of course. He’s the real star player.”

Y/N smiled at him again, and he didn’t stop looking at that smile. As she made her way down the stairs, she couldn’t help but think that maybe there was more to this building than just creaks and misdelivered parcels.

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wonyowonyo · 2 months ago

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Pixel Hearts (K. Gaeul X M! Reader))

when college gamer Y/N is pulled into the mysterious RPG Aetherion, he teams up with IVE’s Gaeul, trapped as Princess Seraphine, to escape the game. through perilous quests and heartfelt moments, their bond grows, forging a real-world connection that promises new adventures beyond.

genre: fluff

w.c 6.7k a/n: slowly finishing up the remaining pendings i've stockpiled heh. also for those who don't know, i'm starting a new njz book on my wattpad page, so if ya'll are interested u can check it out! anyways, hope you all enjoyed this one.

The thrift shop smelled of old books and forgotten summers, its shelves crammed with relics of yesteryear—faded board games, chipped teacups, a rotary phone that probably hadn’t rung since the ’80s. Y/N’s sneakers squeaked against the worn wooden floor as he wandered the aisles, his eyes scanning for something to spice up his Saturday night. A college sophomore with a penchant for gaming, he was always on the hunt for retro consoles or obscure titles to fuel his late-night sessions. Today, though, nothing had caught his eye. Until he saw it.

Tucked in a corner, half-hidden behind a pile of dusty VHS tapes, was a sleek, unmarked gaming console. Its design was a paradox—retro curves like an old Nintendo, but its surface gleamed with a futuristic sheen, catching the dim shop light in a way that felt… alive. A small screen on the front glowed faintly, gold letters spelling out Aetherion. No brand logo, no manual, just a single controller with buttons that shimmered like opals. Y/N’s pulse quickened. This wasn’t just a console. This was a mystery.

“Yo, how much for this?” he called to the shopkeeper, a grizzled man who barely looked up from his crossword.

“Twenty bucks,” the man grunted. “No returns. Thing’s probably busted.”

Y/N didn’t care. His gamer instincts screamed treasure, and twenty bucks was pocket change for a potential gem. He handed over the cash, cradled the console like a newborn, and hustled back to his dorm, the autumn air crisp against his cheeks. His room was a chaotic shrine to gaming—posters of Zelda and Final Fantasy plastered on the walls, a tangle of controller cords spilling from his desk, and a mini fridge humming softly in the corner. He set the console on his desk beside his digital clock that displayed 5:55 P.M, plugged it into his ancient TV, and held his breath as he pressed the power button.

The screen flared to life, not with the usual static flicker of old tech, but with a burst of color and sound that made Y/N’s heart skip. A cinematic unfolded: a sweeping vista of a fantasy world—lush forests, jagged mountains, a castle gleaming under a sky with two moons. A deep, resonant voice narrated, “In the realm of Aetherion, the tyrannical Sorcerer Valthor has imprisoned Princess Seraphine, plunging the land into shadow. Only a true-hearted warrior can restore light to the realm.” The words Start Game pulsed on the screen, and Y/N’s fingers itched to dive in. But something felt off. The console hummed, a low vibration that seemed to pulse through his bones, and the air in the room grew heavy, like a storm was brewing.

He gripped the controller, its buttons warm under his thumbs, and selected Start. The screen flashed blinding white, and a jolt—like static electricity, but sharper—shot through him. His vision blurred, the dorm spinning away, and then… nothing.

Y/N blinked, his head throbbing like he’d just face-planted off his bed. But he wasn’t in his bed. He wasn’t even in his dorm. He was sprawled on a carpet of moss, surrounded by towering trees that swayed in a gentle breeze. The air smelled of pine and earth, so vivid it made his nose tingle. Above, a sky stretched endlessly, twin moons casting a silvery glow over a landscape that looked like a painting—except it was real. Too real. His hands brushed against his clothes, no longer his hoodie and jeans but a rough-spun tunic and leather boots. A rusty sword hung at his hip, its weight unfamiliar but grounding.

“What the hell?” he muttered, scrambling to his feet. His voice echoed slightly, swallowed by the rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of birds. This wasn’t a dream. Dreams didn’t feel this… tangible. He pinched his arm—ow—and then noticed a faint shimmer in the air. A holographic panel materialized, like something out of a sci-fi movie, displaying:

ꜱᴛᴀᴛꜱ: ʏ/ɴ, ʟᴇᴠᴇʟ 1 ᴡᴀʀʀɪᴏʀ. ʜᴘ: 100/100.

Qᴜᴇꜱᴛ: ʀᴇꜱᴄᴜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ ꜱᴇʀᴀᴘʜɪɴᴇ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴠᴀʟᴛʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ᴛᴏᴡᴇʀ.

The words blinked insistently, and Y/N’s stomach did a flip. He wasn’t just playing Aetherion. He was in it.

His gamer brain kicked into gear, pushing past the panic. Okay, RPG rules: explore, level up, follow the quest. He took a tentative step, the forest floor crunching under his boots, and marveled at the details—the way sunlight dappled through the canopy, the faint buzz of insects, the glint of a treasure chest half-hidden behind a tree. He pried it open, finding a measly

Health Potion (Restores 20 HP), but the thrill of discovery made him grin. This was next-level immersion, like VR on steroids. But the question gnawed at him: How am I here?

He didn’t have time to dwell. A rustle in the bushes made him freeze, his hand fumbling for the sword. A slime—classic RPG fodder—oozed into view, its gelatinous body pulsing with faint green light. Y/N’s first swing was pathetic, the blade bouncing off like he’d hit a rubber ball, but he dodged its sluggish lunge and hacked again, adrenaline pumping. The slime burst into pixels, dropping a single Aether Shard that glittered like a tiny star. “Nice,” he panted, pocketing the shard. If this was the game, he could handle it.

The quest marker on his HUD pointed north, toward a clearing where stone pillars jutted from the earth like broken teeth. As he approached, the air grew heavy again, charged with something ancient and electric. At the center of the clearing stood a ruined shrine, its altar overgrown with vines that pulsed with faint runes. And there, chained to the altar by shimmering magical bonds, was a girl.

Y/N’s breath caught. She was stunning, her short, dark hair framing a face that was both fierce and delicate, her eyes sparkling with defiance despite her predicament. Her gown was regal, all flowing silk and embroidered stars, but it was her presence that hit him like a critical hit. He knew that face. He’d seen it on posters, on his phone screen during IVE’s latest comeback. Gaeul.

She noticed him, her head snapping up, and for a moment, they just stared—him frozen, her assessing. Then she spoke, her voice clear and sharp, cutting through the silence. “You’re not one of Valthor’s goons. Are you… a player?”

Y/N’s mouth went dry. He nodded, then cleared his throat, trying to sound less like a starstruck fanboy. “Uh, yeah. I’m Y/N. I… got sucked into this game, I think. You’re—wait, you’re Gaeul?”

Her lips twitched, a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Bingo. Though here, I’m Princess Seraphine, or whatever this stupid game calls me.” She tugged at the magical chains, which sparked but didn’t budge. “Long story short, I was messing around with some sketchy game file on my laptop, and next thing I know, I’m trapped in this pixelated nightmare. You gonna help me out, or just stand there gawking?”

Y/N flushed, his inner IVE fan screaming, but he forced himself to focus. She was real—well, as real as he was in this bizarre world—and she needed him. He stepped closer, inspecting the runes. They glowed brighter, almost mocking him, and his sword did nothing but clang uselessly against them. “These are magical,” he said, more to himself than her. “I don’t have any spells or—”

“Great, a noob,” Gaeul teased, but her tone was playful, not cruel. She leaned forward as much as the chains allowed, her eyes scanning him. “Check your inventory. Games like this always give you something to start with. Hurry up, hero, my arms are killing me.”

Y/N fumbled with the HUD, his fingers clumsy in the air, and found the Aether Shard from the slime. On a hunch, he held it near the runes. The shard pulsed, and the chains flickered, then dissolved in a burst of light. Gaeul stumbled forward, rubbing her wrists, and flashed him a grin that made his heart do a backflip. “Not bad for a level one warrior,” she said, brushing dirt off her gown. “Stick with me, Y/N. We’re getting out of this game, and I’m not leaving without a fight.”

The shrine’s vines seemed to shiver, as if the game itself was watching. Y/N gripped his sword, his nerves buzzing with a mix of fear and excitement. Gaeul stood beside him, her presence electric, her smile a spark in the dim clearing. He was just a guy, a gamer with no clue how he’d ended up here. But with Gaeul—Princess Seraphine, or whatever she was—by his side, he felt like he could take on anything. Even a sorcerer. Even a world that felt too real to be just a game.

“Lead the way, Your Highness,” he said, half-joking, and her laugh—bright, genuine—echoed through the forest, a sound that promised adventure, danger, and maybe something more.

The forest of Aetherion stretched endlessly before Y/N and Gaeul, its canopy a mosaic of emerald leaves that filtered the twin moons’ silvery light. The air was cool, laced with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, and every step crunched against twigs or rustled through grass that felt too real for a game. Y/N’s rusty sword bounced against his hip, its weight a constant reminder of his new reality. Beside him, Gaeul moved with a grace that belied her princess gown, the hem catching on roots but never slowing her down. Her eyes, sharp and curious, darted to every shadow, as if she expected the game to throw a curveball at any moment.

“So, level one warrior,” she said, her voice teasing as she glanced at him, “got a plan, or are we just wandering until Valthor sends his welcome committee?”

Y/N grinned, his nerves easing at her playful tone. “Plan’s simple: follow the quest marker, bash some monsters, save the princess. Classic RPG stuff.” He tapped the air, summoning the holographic HUD. The quest log glowed:

ʀᴇꜱᴄᴜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇꜱꜱ ꜱᴇʀᴀᴘʜɪɴᴇ.

ɴᴇxᴛ ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ: ꜱᴇᴇᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀʏꜱᴛᴀʟ ᴄᴀᴠᴇʀɴꜱ.

A golden arrow pointed west, through a misty ravine up ahead.

Gaeul snorted, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. “Save the princess, huh? Newsflash, Y/N, this princess can handle herself. You’re just here for moral support.” But her smile was warm, and the way she bumped his shoulder—light, almost accidental—sent a flutter through his chest. He was still wrapping his head around the fact that Gaeul, IVE’s Gaeul, was here, bantering with him like they were old friends. Or maybe more, his traitor brain whispered, before he shoved the thought away.

The ravine loomed closer, its walls jagged and shrouded in fog that swirled like liquid silver. The path narrowed, forcing them to walk single file, Y/N taking the lead with his sword drawn. The HUD pinged a warning—Enemy Detected—and his grip tightened. “Heads up,” he whispered, just as a low growl echoed from the mist.

Three shadow wolves emerged, their fur black as ink, eyes glowing like embers. They were bigger than the slime, faster, and definitely not beginner-friendly. Y/N’s gamer instincts kicked in, but his first swing was a disaster, the sword glancing off a wolf’s flank as it lunged. He stumbled back, heart pounding, and barely dodged its snapping jaws. “Okay, not cool!” he yelped.

“Focus, noob!” Gaeul called, her voice steady but urgent. She raised her hands, the runes on her gown flaring with light, and a burst of blue energy—a Frost Bolt, Y/N’s brain supplied—slammed into the wolf, slowing it. “Hit it now!”

Y/N swung again, this time connecting, and the wolf dissolved into pixels with a satisfying ding. Gaeul’s magic danced around them, freezing one wolf while Y/N tackled another, their movements chaotic but syncing up. He tanked a claw swipe—his HP dropped to 80/100, the HUD flashing red—and gritted his teeth, slashing until the last wolf burst into loot: three Aether Shards and a Wolf Pelt.

They collapsed against a boulder, panting, their laughter bubbling up like a shared secret.

“Holy crap, we’re not half bad,” Y/N said, wiping sweat from his brow. The ravine’s mist clung to his tunic, damp and chilly, but the adrenaline high made it worth it.

Gaeul nudged him, her grin mischievous. “You’re welcome for the assist, hero. Next time, maybe don’t swing like you’re chopping firewood.” She picked up a shard, its glow reflecting in her eyes. “These are the key. Valthor’s curse runs on Aether energy. Enough shards, and we can break his hold on me—and maybe get out of here.”

Y/N nodded, pocketing the loot. The ravine’s walls were etched with faded carvings—knights, dragons, a crowned figure that looked eerily like Gaeul. The game’s lore was everywhere, woven into the world like a story begging to be unraveled. But as they pressed on, Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that Aetherion was watching them, its rules bending just enough to keep them on edge.

The village of Elderglow appeared like a mirage, its thatched roofs and cobblestone streets glowing under lanterns that bobbed like fireflies. The ravine had spit them out into a bustling hub, alive with NPCs bartering at market stalls, bards strumming lutes, and children chasing a pixelated cat through the square. Y/N’s HUD updated—Objective: Gather Information—and he marveled at the details: the smell of fresh bread from a bakery, the clink of coins, the way Gaeul’s gown caught the light as she spun to take it all in.

“This place is unreal,” she said, her voice soft with wonder. “If I wasn’t trapped, I’d almost enjoy it.” She caught Y/N staring and raised an eyebrow. “What? Got something on my face?”

“N-no, just… you look like you belong here,” he stammered, then cringed at how cheesy it sounded. “I mean, like, you’re rocking the princess vibe.”

Gaeul laughed, a bright, musical sound that made his cheeks burn. “Smooth, Y/N. Come on, let’s upgrade that trash sword of yours.” She grabbed his wrist, pulling him toward a blacksmith’s forge where a burly NPC hammered glowing metal. Her touch was warm, fleeting, but it left his heart racing.

At the forge, Gaeul worked her charm, her smile disarming the blacksmith as she bartered for a Steel Longsword (+10 Attack). Y/N traded the Wolf Pelt and a few shards, and the new blade felt solid, balanced, like an extension of himself. They hit the market next, stocking up on Health Potions and a Mana Crystal for Gaeul’s spells. Every interaction felt like a mini-quest, the village pulsing with life—vendors haggling, a leaderboard in the square showing “player” names (all NPCs, Y/N noted with a shiver), and a fountain where water sparkled like liquid starlight.

They ended up at a tavern, its wooden beams creaking under the weight of raucous laughter. Y/N ordered virtual cider—sweet, fizzy, and surprisingly refreshing—and they claimed a corner table, the glow of a hearth warming their faces. Gaeul sipped her drink, her expression softening. “This is the first time I’ve felt… normal since I got stuck here,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Back in the real world, I’m always ‘Gaeul from IVE,’ you know? Schedules, stages, smiling for cameras. But here…” She trailed off, tracing the rim of her glass.

Y/N leaned forward, his curiosity outweighing his shyness. “Here, you’re a badass princess who shoots ice bolts and saves my butt from wolves.”

She chuckled, but her eyes were distant. “Maybe. But I’m scared, Y/N. What if we can’t get out? What if I’m just… code now?” Her fingers tightened around the glass, and the vulnerability in her voice hit him like a critical hit.

“You’re not code,” he said firmly, surprising himself with his conviction. “You’re Gaeul. And I’m not leaving you here. We’re beating this game together, okay?” He held her gaze, hoping she saw the promise in his eyes.

Her smile returned, small but genuine. “You’re not as noob as you look, Y/N.” She clinked her glass against his, the sound a quiet vow in the noisy tavern.

The seer’s hut sat at the village’s edge, a ramshackle structure draped in vines and glowing with an eerie light. The NPC inside was ancient, her eyes milky but piercing, her voice like wind through dry leaves. “The prophecy speaks of a true-hearted warrior and the princess,” she intoned, her gnarled hands tracing a star chart that shimmered in the air. “Together, you may defeat Valthor, but only by combining your strengths. Seek the Heart of Aether in the Crystal Caverns. The path is perilous, but the stars guide you.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted. True-hearted warrior? He was just a guy who liked Pokémon and instant ramen. But Gaeul’s expression was fierce, her jaw set. “Prophecy or not, we’re doing this our way,” she said, her voice cutting through the hut’s heavy air. “No offense, lady, but I’m not some damsel waiting for a hero. We’re a team.”

The seer’s lips curled, almost amused. She handed them a Map of the Caverns, its parchment pulsing with golden lines. “Then prove the stars wrong, child. Your hearts will light the way.”

Outside, the village hummed with evening life, lanterns casting long shadows. Y/N clutched the map, its weight grounding him. Gaeul stood close, her shoulder brushing his as they studied the path ahead. “Crystal Caverns, huh?” she said, her tone light but her eyes serious. “Sounds like a dungeon crawl. You ready, warrior?”

He met her gaze, his nerves buzzing but his resolve solid. “Born ready. Let’s kick Valthor’s butt and get you home.” He held out his fist, and she bumped it with hers, her grin infectious. The twin moons hung above, their light a silent cheer for the journey ahead.

But as they left Elderglow, the map glowing in Y/N’s hands, he couldn’t shake the seer’s words. Your hearts will light the way. His heart was racing, sure, but not just from the quest. Gaeul’s laugh, her trust, the way she made this crazy world feel like an adventure worth fighting for—it was all starting to feel like more than a game. And that, he realized, was the most dangerous quest of all.

The Crystal Caverns shimmered like a galaxy trapped in stone, their walls a dazzling array of prismatic shards that refracted the twin moons’ light into a cascade of colors. Y/N’s boots crunched against the translucent floor, each step sending faint ripples of light outward, as if the cave itself were alive. The air was sharp, laced with a metallic tang that prickled his lungs, and the faint hum of the caverns pulsed like a distant heartbeat. His Steel Longsword caught the glow, its edge a silver promise, but it was Gaeul’s steady presence—her gown trailing like starlight, her eyes scanning every shadow—that kept his heart from racing out of his chest.

The Map of the Caverns, tucked in his inventory, glowed faintly, its golden lines urging them deeper into the maze. “Feels like we’re walking into a trap montage,” Gaeul said, her voice low but laced with her usual spark. She brushed a crystal stalactite, its chime echoing softly. “Bet you’re regretting that ‘born ready’ line from the village, huh, warrior?”

Y/N grinned, his nerves easing at her teasing. “Nah, I’m good. Just don’t cry when I outscore you in loot.” He tapped the air, the HUD flickering to life with their quest: Claim the Heart of Aether. The golden arrow pointed down a narrow path, where mist swirled like ghosts. Their banter was a shield against the caverns’ eerie weight, but Y/N couldn’t ignore the runes etched into the walls—faint, glowing symbols of knights and dragons, hinting at a history older than Aetherion’s code.

Trouble found them fast. A pressure plate clicked under Y/N’s boot, and he barely registered the whir of gears before spikes shot from the floor, their tips glinting like daggers. Instinct took over—he dove, grabbing Gaeul’s waist and pulling her down with him. They hit the ground in a tangle, her breath warm against his cheek, her eyes wide but glinting with adrenaline. “Okay, hero,” she gasped, shoving him off with a playful scowl, “watch where you step, or I’m billing you for this gown.”

“S-sorry!” Y/N stammered, his face hotter than a Fire Spell. He scrambled up, offering her a hand, and her fingers lingered in his, soft but firm, sending a jolt through him. The caverns didn’t let them linger—a crystal golem lumbered from an alcove, its faceless head glowing with inner light. Y/N swung, his sword sparking against its hide, while Gaeul’s Frost Bolt froze its arm, giving him an opening. His HP dipped to 80/100 from a glancing blow, but her Healing Touch—a warm pulse of light—mended the ache, her hand brushing his arm. “Stay alive, noob,” she muttered, but her smile was softer than her words.

The path twisted deeper, bridges of crystal arching over chasms that swallowed light. Every trap, every golem, drew them closer—Gaeul’s magic lighting the way, Y/N’s blade clearing the path. The caverns’ pulse grew louder, the runes brighter, as if Aetherion was testing their resolve, daring them to reach its heart.

The cavern’s heart was a cathedral of light, a vast chamber where crystals soared like spires, their reflections dancing in a haze of color. At its center, a pedestal held the Heart of Aether, a glowing orb that pulsed with a rhythm that matched the cave’s hum, its light both inviting and ominous. Coiled around it was a crystal dragon, its scales like molten glass, its eyes twin flames that seemed to see through them. Y/N’s HUD flashed—Boss: Crystal Guardian—and his throat tightened. This wasn’t just a fight. This was judgment.

The dragon didn’t strike. Its voice echoed in their minds, deep and resonant, like a storm trapped in stone. Only those bound by trust may claim the Heart. Answer, or perish. Its first riddle hit Y/N like a blade. What do you fear most, warrior? The air grew heavy, the chamber’s light dimming as if the game itself demanded truth.

Y/N’s grip on his sword faltered, his heart pounding. He glanced at Gaeul, her eyes steady but searching, and the words spilled out, raw and unguarded. “Failing you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not being enough to get you out of here.” The confession hung between them, heavy and real, and the dragon’s form flickered, its scales losing their sheen, as if his honesty had chipped away at its power.

Gaeul’s turn came next. And you, princess? The question seemed to pierce her, her confidence wavering as she twisted the hem of her gown. She looked at Y/N, her eyes glistening, and her voice trembled. “Losing myself,” she said. “Becoming just… Seraphine. Not Gaeul anymore.” The vulnerability in her words made Y/N’s chest ache, and he stepped closer, his hand brushing hers, a silent promise that she was still her. The dragon flickered again, its eyes dimming, but it wasn’t done.

What binds you? The final riddle demanded they speak as one. Their eyes locked, and without hesitation, they answered together: “Trust.” The word was a spark, igniting the chamber’s light, and the dragon roared, its form solidifying as it lunged. The fight was brutal—Y/N darted in, his sword sparking against crystal scales, his HP dropping to 60/100 from a tail swipe that sent him sprawling. Gaeul’s Frost Bolts slowed the beast, her voice fierce as she shouted, “Get up, Y/N! We’re not done!” Her magic wove through the crystals, amplifying into a dazzling Aether Surge that stunned the dragon, giving Y/N the chance to climb its back and strike a glowing weak point. The beast shattered, its fragments dissolving into light, and the Heart of Aether floated toward them, warm and alive in Y/N’s hands.

The victory was fleeting. The Heart pulsed in Y/N’s grip, its light flooding the chamber, but the caverns trembled, a low groan echoing as cracks splintered the crystal walls. The HUD glitched—text flickering into gibberish, colors bleeding like a corrupted file. Gaeul’s eyes widened, her breath hitching. “Y/N, it’s breaking!” she cried, her voice sharp with panic as the ground bucked beneath them. Pixels sparked in the air, and for a horrifying moment, her form flickered—her gown dissolving into static, her hand in his turning translucent before snapping back.

“No!” Y/N grabbed her, pulling her close, his arms wrapping around her as the chamber shook. “You’re not disappearing, Gaeul. I’ve got you.” His voice was fierce, cutting through the chaos, and she clung to him, her fingers digging into his tunic, her breath shaky against his chest. The Heart’s warmth steadied the glitches, its pulse a lifeline, but the caverns were collapsing, shards raining like glass.

The HUD flickered, barely legible:

ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ: ᴄᴏɴꜰʀᴏɴᴛ ᴠᴀʟᴛʜᴏʀ.

The Heart was their key—Valthor’s weakness, and maybe their way out. But the glitches revealed something darker. Runes on the walls flared, showing glimpses of Aetherion’s truth: a sentient program, designed to trap players, feeding on their will. The dragon’s defeat had destabilized it, but at a cost. Gaeul’s eyes met Y/N’s, her fear tempered by the same fire that had carried them this far. “We’re ending this,” she said, her voice steady despite the trembling ground. “Together.”

Y/N nodded, his hand still in hers, the Heart’s glow a beacon in the chaos. “Together,” he echoed, his grin shaky but real. The chamber’s light flared, the caverns’ pulse fading as debris fell around them. Whatever lay ahead—Valthor, the game’s final trap—he knew one thing: Gaeul’s trust, her warmth, was worth fighting for. And he wasn’t letting go.

The wasteland stretched before Valthor’s Tower like a scar on Aetherion’s vibrant heart, its cracked earth dusted with ash and lit by a sky roiling with storm clouds. The tower itself loomed, a gothic spire of black stone that clawed at the heavens, its spires wreathed in lightning that crackled with menace. Y/N’s boots sank into the grit, the Heart of Aether pulsing warmly in his inventory, its glow a faint counterpoint to the storm’s fury. His Steel Longsword felt heavier now, as if it sensed the battle ahead, but Gaeul’s presence beside him—her gown tattered but her stride fierce—made the impossible feel within reach.

The HUD’s quest log burned bright:

ᴏʙᴊᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ: ᴅᴇꜰᴇᴀᴛ ᴠᴀʟᴛʜᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴜʀꜱᴇ.

“Last chance to back out, warrior,” Gaeul said, her voice light but her eyes sharp, scanning the tower’s arched entrance. A gust tugged at her hair, and she tucked a strand behind her ear, the gesture so ordinary it grounded Y/N in the chaos. “This place looks like it eats noobs for breakfast.”

Y/N smirked, his nerves buzzing but his resolve ironclad. “Good thing I’ve got the best co-op partner in the game.” He bumped her shoulder, a playful echo of their village days, and her laugh—bright, defiant—cut through the storm’s howl. The warmth of that sound lingered as they stepped into the tower, the air shifting to a damp chill, heavy with the scent of old stone and magic.

The ascent was a gauntlet. Spiral stairs wound upward, their edges worn smooth by unseen centuries, lit by torches that flickered with unnatural blue flame. Minions—shadowy wraiths with glowing eyes—swarmed from alcoves, and Y/N’s sword sang as he slashed through them, his HP holding steady at 80/100 thanks to Gaeul’s Frost Bolts and quick Healing Touches. A magical barrier blocked a landing, its runes pulsing red, and they pressed against it, their shoulders brushing in the cramped space. Gaeul’s fingers traced the runes, her brow furrowed, and Y/N shielded her from a wraith’s claw, his grunt of effort drowned by her triumphant shout as the barrier shattered.

“Nice one, princess,” he panted, wiping sweat from his brow. Her grin was all mischief, but the way her hand lingered on his arm—steadying, grateful—sent a flutter through him. The tower’s stained-glass windows cast eerie patterns, depicting a crowned figure falling to darkness, and Y/N’s HUD pinged with lore: Valthor, once a hero, succumbed to greed, binding Aetherion to his will. The game was telling its story, but the real one was unfolding between them—every shared glance, every brush of hands, a thread tying their fates tighter.

The throne room was a void, its walls swallowed by shadows that pulsed like a living thing. At its heart stood Valthor, a towering figure cloaked in darkness, his eyes twin voids that seemed to drink the light. The Heart of Aether flared in Y/N’s inventory, its pulse syncing with his racing heart, and Gaeul’s hand brushed his, a silent signal to stay sharp. The HUD flashed—Boss: Sorcerer Valthor—and the air grew thick, charged with power that made Y/N’s skin prickle.

“You dare challenge me?” Valthor’s voice was a hiss, slithering through the void. “A boy and a puppet princess, bound by fleeting trust. You are nothing.” His words targeted their doubts, and Y/N felt them—fear that he wasn’t enough, that Gaeul would be trapped forever. But her eyes met his, fierce and unwavering, and the doubts crumbled.

“Shut up, creepy,” Gaeul snapped, her Aether Surge flaring, a dazzling arc of light that lit the room. “We’re taking you down.” She squeezed Y/N’s hand, her warmth grounding him, and they charged.

The battle was chaos. Valthor’s spells—shadow bolts, chains of dark energy—tore through the air, and Y/N dove to shield Gaeul, his HP dropping to 50/100 as a bolt grazed him. Pain flared, but her Healing Touch soothed it, her voice fierce: “Stay with me, Y/N!” He struck back, his sword sparking against Valthor’s barriers, while Gaeul wove magic, her Frost Bolts slowing the sorcerer’s movements. Valthor’s taunts grew desperate, targeting their bond—“She’ll forget you, boy, in the real world”—but Y/N roared, “She’s not your puppet!” and Gaeul’s laugh, sharp and defiant, echoed his resolve.

The Heart of Aether was their edge. Y/N tossed it to Gaeul, who caught it mid-air, its light amplifying her magic into a blinding Aether Nova. The room shook, Valthor’s form flickering, and Y/N saw his chance—a weak point in the sorcerer’s chest, pulsing with stolen light. He sprinted, dodging chains, and drove his sword deep, the Heart’s energy surging through the blade. Valthor screamed, his body dissolving into pixels, and the throne room pulsed, the shadows retreating to reveal a broken man—Valthor’s true form, frail and defeated, before he vanished entirely.

Y/N collapsed to his knees, panting, his HP at a shaky 30/100. Gaeul dropped beside him, her breath ragged but her grin triumphant. “We did it,” she whispered, and before he could think, she pulled him into a hug, her arms tight around him, her warmth chasing away the void’s chill. He hugged her back, his heart pounding not from the fight but from her—her laugh, her strength, her trust. For a moment, the world was just them, and it was enough.

The tower trembled, its stones cracking as the Heart of Aether pulsed wildly in Gaeul’s hands. The HUD glitched, text dissolving into static, and the throne room warped—walls bending, floor rippling like water. Valthor’s defeat had broken Aetherion’s core, and the game was unraveling. Gaeul’s eyes widened, her grip on the Heart tightening. “Y/N, it’s now or never,” she said, her voice steady despite the chaos.

A portal tore open at the room’s center, a vortex of light that hummed with promise and peril. Beyond it, Y/N glimpsed his dorm—messy desk, flickering PC, the real world—but the portal flickered, unstable, as debris fell around them. Gaeul’s hand found his, her fingers lacing through his, and he felt her tremble, her fear mirroring his own. “What if it doesn’t work?” she whispered, her eyes searching his. “What if we’re stuck?”

Y/N squeezed her hand, his voice firm. “We’re not. You’re Gaeul, I’m Y/N, and we’re going home.” He pulled her close, their foreheads nearly touching, and her nod was small but fierce. The Heart flared, its light stabilizing the portal, and they ran, hand in hand, as the tower crumbled behind them. The vortex’s pull was dizzying, light blinding, and Gaeul’s grip tightened, her voice a soft, “Don’t let go.”

They leaped, the world dissolving into white. Y/N’s senses spun—weightless, then heavy, the air shifting from Aetherion’s storm to the stale warmth of his dorm/ He landed hard on his carpet, Gaeul beside him, her gown gone, replaced by jeans and a hoodie, her short hair framing a face that was unmistakably her. The console sat on his desk, dark and silent, its screen blank. The Heart was gone, Aetherion with it. He looked at the clock at his desk:

6:02 P.M

What was eternity for them, was merely a minute in the real word. Gaeul’s laugh broke the silence, shaky but real, and she punched his arm lightly. “We made it, you dork.” Her eyes sparkled, relief and something softer—something that made Y/N’s heart skip. He grinned, rubbing his arm, and for a moment, the dorm felt as vibrant as Aetherion—because she was here, real, and they’d won.

The dorm smelled of instant ramen and faintly of burnt popcorn, a stark contrast to Aetherion’s pine-scented forests and metallic caverns. Y/N’s desk was a mess—empty soda cans, a tangled mess of controller cords, and the now-silent console, its screen dark as if it had never pulled them into a world of magic and danger. The late afternoon sun slanted through the window, casting golden stripes across the carpet where Y/N and Gaeul sat cross-legged, a steaming pot of ramen between them. Gaeul, no longer in her princess gown but in a borrowed hoodie and jeans, twirled chopsticks with the same grace she’d wielded Frost Bolts. Her short hair framed her face, and her smile—bright, unguarded—made the dorm feel like the coziest place in the world.

“Never thought I’d miss instant noodles,” she said, slurping a mouthful with a contented hum. Her eyes sparkled as she leaned closer, nudging Y/N’s knee with hers. “You’re a terrible cook, you know. This is, like, 80% water.”

Y/N laughed, his cheeks flushing as he poked at his own bowl. “Hey, I’m a warrior, not a chef. Besides, you’re eating it, so I’m calling it a win.” Her nudge lingered, her knee still pressed against his, and the warmth of it sent his heart into a familiar flutter—one he’d felt in Aetherion, dodging spikes or hugging her after Valthor’s fall. But here, in the real world, it felt bigger, realer, like a spark that refused to fade.

They traded stories over the ramen, their voices overlapping in a giddy recount of their adventure. Y/N mimicked his clumsy first swing at the slime, earning a giggle that made Gaeul’s nose crinkle. She reenacted the dragon’s riddles, her voice dropping dramatically, and Y/N couldn’t help but stare, captivated by how her hands danced as she talked, how her laughter filled the room like music. “You were so serious back there,” she teased, leaning closer, her shoulder brushing his. “All, ‘I’m not leaving you, Gaeul.’ Total hero vibes.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, his blush deepening. “I meant it, you know. Couldn’t let my favorite princess stay trapped.” The words slipped out, bolder than he’d planned, and Gaeul’s eyes softened, her teasing grin shifting to something warmer, something that made his breath catch.

“You’re sweet, Y/N,” she said, her voice quiet but sincere. She reached out, her fingers brushing his, and didn’t pull away, letting their hands rest together on the carpet. The touch was simple but electric, and Y/N’s heart raced as he laced his fingers with hers, tentative but sure. Her smile widened, and she squeezed his hand, a silent acknowledgment that this—whatever it was—was real. The dorm, with its cluttered chaos, felt like their own little world, a new adventure just beginning.

The sun dipped lower, painting the room in hues of orange and pink, and Gaeul’s phone buzzed on the desk, a reminder of the real world waiting outside. She sighed, checking the screen—messages from her IVE members, a schedule packed with rehearsals and interviews. “Duty calls,” she said, but her tone was reluctant, her hand still in Y/N’s as she leaned against him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. The weight of her was warm, grounding, and Y/N’s heart thudded, torn between the thrill of her closeness and the ache of knowing she’d leave soon.

“You’re gonna be okay, right?” he asked, his voice soft, almost afraid to break the moment. “Back to being Gaeul from IVE, dazzling the world?”

She tilted her head to look at him, her eyes glinting with mischief but softened by something deeper. “Only if you’re there to cheer me on, warrior.” She poked his chest, her finger lingering, and Y/N caught her hand, holding it against his heart. Her teasing faded, replaced by a quiet intensity, and for a moment, the dorm was silent, the world narrowing to just them.

“Let’s make a deal,” she said, sitting up but keeping her hand in his. “We game together again—something less… life-threatening. Co-op, you and me, maybe some Mario Kart to see if you’re as good with a kart as you are with a sword.” Her grin was playful, but her eyes held a promise, a future beyond this moment.

Y/N’s smile mirrored hers, his nerves replaced by a quiet confidence. “Deal. But only if you let me take you out for real food first. No more watery ramen.” His boldness surprised him, but her laugh—bright, delighted—made it worth it. She leaned in, her forehead brushing his, and the closeness stole his breath, her warmth a reminder of every moment they’d shared in Aetherion.

“You’re on, Y/N,” she whispered, her voice a mix of challenge and affection. She pulled back, grabbing her phone and typing quickly, then handed it to him. “Put your number in. No escaping me now.” He did, his fingers shaky but sure, and when she saved it with a heart emoji next to his name, his grin was unstoppable. The dorm’s glow felt like Aetherion’s twin moons, a light that promised new quests—together.

Night had fallen, the dorm now lit by the soft blue glow of Y/N’s PC. Gaeul had left an hour ago, her IVE van whisking her back to her world of stages and spotlights, but her presence lingered—in the hoodie she’d “borrowed” from his closet, in the warmth of her hand still tingling in his. Y/N sat at his desk, the console still silent, a relic of their adventure. He powered on his PC, half-expecting it to be as ordinary as ever, but a new notification popped up—a game invite from “SeraGaeul.” The screen flashed, and a pixelated heart appeared, its glow a nod to the Heart of Aether, to everything they’d fought for.

Y/N’s heart skipped, a laugh bubbling up as he grabbed his headset. He accepted the invite, and Gaeul’s voice crackled through, bright and teasing. “Took you long enough, noob. Ready to lose at Among Us?” Her giggle was infectious, and Y/N leaned back, his dorm transforming into a portal of its own—a bridge between their worlds.

“Only if you’re ready to admit I’m the better gamer,” he shot back, his grin wide as he joined her lobby. The game loaded, but it was her voice, her laugh, that filled the room, making the ordinary extraordinary. The pixel heart lingered on his screen, a reminder of Aetherion—of wolves and dragons, of trust forged in chaos, of a bond that had crossed worlds.

As they played, bantering and scheming, Y/N’s eyes drifted to his phone, where a new message from Gaeul glowed:

See you soon, hero. Don’t forget our deal ❤

His heart soared, the promise of coffee dates, game nights, and maybe more stretching before him like a new quest. Aetherion was gone, but this—this spark, this connection—was their true victory. “Here’s to new adventures, Gaeul,” he murmured, his voice soft but sure, and her laugh through the headset felt like a vow, a pixel heart beating forever.

#kpop #kpop fanfic #kpop gg #kpop imagines #fluff #kpop girls #idol x male reader #kpop x male reader #ive x reader #ive gaeul #gaeul x reader #kim gaeul #gaeul x male reader #ive x male reader

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xichilie · 3 months ago

Text

Brant x (fem)reader

A Fool’s Grand Surprise

The Fools’ Elysium had never looked so alive.

Silken banners of red, gold, and deep indigo draped from the high wooden beams, their ends twinkling with tiny enchanted lanterns that cast the illusion of a starlit sky. The scent of spiced wine and roasted almonds filled the air, mingling with the laughter of masked performers and the distant hum of stringed instruments being tuned. Every table was adorned with scattered petals, every wall lined with flickering candles, their glow reflecting off of mirrors to make the entire space shimmer like a dream.

And at the heart of it all was her.

Y/N barely had time to process the sheer spectacle before a sudden burst of confetti rained down from above. A collective cheer erupted, led, of course, by the one voice she had expected.

“Ah-ha! There she is—our radiant guest of honor!”

Brant’s voice rang through the hall, filled with triumph and unmistakable glee. He leapt from an overhead beam, twisting midair with impossible grace before landing in a flawless bow before her.

Y/N placed her hands on her hips, trying—and failing—to suppress a smile. “This is insane, Brant.”

“Insane?” He clutched his chest as if wounded, staggering back dramatically. “And here I thought it was magnificent. Do you see what I endure, my friends?” He turned to the gathered Troupe, gasping in feigned horror. “I put my soul into this, and she calls it insane!”

Laughter rippled through the room. A fire-eater let out an exaggerated sob. Someone from the back called out, “Give us a real tragedy, Brant!”

He shot them a wink before spinning back to Y/N, eyes gleaming beneath the soft glow of candlelight. “Well, my dear, since we are gathered in this den of fools for you, I suppose you must be indulged.”

With a theatrical sweep of his hand, he gestured toward the raised stage, where musicians had begun to play. “Shall we, stella mia?”

Before she could respond, he was already pulling her into the first dance of the night.

The celebration was nothing short of extraordinary.

Everywhere she turned, performers spun, twirled, and tumbled in dazzling displays of agility and mischief. Jugglers tossed flaming torches in elaborate formations, fire-dancers painted the air with golden embers, and illusionists wove fleeting specters of light and shadow. The music was intoxicating, shifting from wild and frenzied melodies to soft and lilting ballads that spoke of old, wistful love.

Y/N found herself swept into the revelry, laughter bubbling from her lips as Brant twirled her through the ever-changing dance floor. Each step was effortless, as if they had rehearsed these movements a thousand times in a past life. He was impossibly light on his feet, never missing a beat, spinning her until she was breathless.

At one point, she was pulled into a group of performers who playfully adorned her with flowers and draped ribbons around her shoulders like some mythical queen. She lost track of time between stolen sips of honeyed wine, raucous storytelling, and the occasional daring acrobat whisking her away for a spin through the crowd. And through it all, Brant was never far—his laughter, his teasing quips, the way he watched her with that ever-present glimmer of something unreadable in his pink eyes.

But as the night stretched on, the wild energy slowly began to wane. The fires burned lower, the music softened, and the Troupe members settled into quiet clusters of conversation and lazy, lingering dances. The Elysium no longer roared with revelry—it hummed with the kind of warmth that only came after a night well-spent.

And that was when Brant appeared at her side once more.

“Come,” he murmured, offering his hand. “The night isn’t over yet.”

She let him lead her away from the grand hall, past the velvet curtains and into the winding corridors of the Elysium. The noise of the celebration faded, replaced by the soft, distant echoes of laughter and the occasional flickering lantern guiding their path. Finally, they emerged onto a hidden balcony that overlooked the entire festival below.

The view was breathtaking.

From here, she could see it all—the last embers of the fire-dancers’ flames, the silhouettes of jesters still spinning beneath the lanterns, and the sky above, dark and endless, scattered with stars. It was quiet. Peaceful.

Brant exhaled softly. “Do you like it?”

She turned to him, arching a brow. “Do you even have to ask?”

A grin tugged at his lips, but there was something gentler in his expression now. He reached into his coat, hesitating for the briefest moment before pulling out a small, velvet-lined box.

“I had a thousand ideas for what to give you,” he admitted. “But none of them seemed worthy of you.”

He opened the box, revealing a delicate pendant in the shape of a star, its edges lined with the soft shimmer of moonstone.

Y/N inhaled sharply. “Brant…”

He took her hand in his, lifting it to his lips before gently placing the pendant in her palm. “You are the brightest thing in my world, stella mia,” he murmured against her skin. “And I am but a fool orbiting your light.”

Then, stepping back with a flourish, he placed a hand over his heart and recited:

“A candle in darkness, a whisper in noise,

A light that no storm could ever destroy.

The jesters may jest, the world may scheme,

But you, my love, are my waking dream.”

Heat bloomed in her cheeks. It wasn’t just the poetry. It wasn’t just the way he had set up the grandest celebration she had ever seen. It was him. The way he looked at her—not as a game, not as a fleeting moment of amusement, but as if she mattered. As if she were his world.

Before she could think, before she could second-guess, he took her chin between his fingers, tilting her face up to meet his gaze.

“Happy birthday, cara mia.”

And then, with all the passion of a man who had been waiting for this exact moment, he kissed her.

It was deep and breathtaking, the kind of kiss that lingered long after the music stopped and the candles burned low. A kiss that made her forget the rest of the world existed, that filled her with something warm, something reckless, something utterly dangerous.

And in that moment, beneath the stars and the glow of the Elysium, she knew—no matter how foolish, how reckless—Brant’s love was hers.

_______________________________________ A bit late for my second birthday fic, but it's still my birthday, and I finished another

Thank you all so much for all the bday wishes i received ♡

#x reader #x y/n #x you #brantart #brant wuwa #brant x reader #wuwa brant #wuthering waves brant #brant #wuwa art #wuthering waves #wuthering waves x reader #brant wuthering waves #wuwa #birthday

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cupofteatoyou2 · 2 months ago

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I Loved You Beyond the Law of Gods pt2 (final)

You were born under a heavy sky.

Barcelona was drowning in rain that day — not the soft kind that kissed windowsills and softened the stones, but the kind that hammered down like a warning, soaking the ancient bones of the city to their core.

The nurses said you were too quiet when you came into the world.

No wailing, no thrashing fists.

You only blinked up at the ceiling, your tiny chest rising and falling with a strange, steady calm, as if you had done all this before. And maybe, somehow, you had.

The first cry you gave was not a sound of terror. It was almost a sigh. As if the world, even in its brilliance and brutality, was something you already knew.

The doctors called it a miracle birth — healthy, strong, perfect.

But the old woman who cleaned the rooms whispered another word to herself as she saw you tucked into your mother's arms, your tiny hand curling loosely in your sleep.

Old soul.

You grew up in the veins of the city. Barcelona wrapped itself around you like a second skin — the cracked cobblestones that bruised your knees, the markets thick with spices and shouting, the sea breeze carrying salt and music through the crooked streets.

You were a child of narrow alleys and open skies. A child of murals bleeding down crumbling walls, of sunsets that lit the city gold, of wild, stubborn flowers clawing their way through sidewalk cracks.

You lived a simple life, by all appearances.

Breakfast at the corner bakery where the old men played cards and muttered about football.

Afternoons spent chasing stray cats down sun-drenched alleys.

Evenings curled on your tiny balcony, painting with fingers stained in every color but despair.

You were full of laughter. Full of dreams. But even then, even in your earliest memories, there was always something else too.

A thread of something heavier braided through your days — something you could not name. An ache, an absence, a missing piece you didn’t understand.

It lived in the corners of your mind. It lived in your heartbeat when you stood too long by the sea. It lived in your dreams.

Especially in your dreams.

The dreams started small. Soft. Forgettable.Little flashes of something just beyond reach.

A woman's arms lifting you high into the air, her face hidden by blinding sunlight.

Fingers — not your mother’s — braiding your hair, humming a tune that lingered even after you woke.

A forest you had never seen, heavy with the scent of damp earth and blood.

You told yourself it was nothing. Just dreams. Everyone has them.

You laughed about them with your friends over cheap wine and stolen cigarettes.

You shrugged them off when your parents asked why you sometimes woke crying without knowing why.

You built walls around the dreams. But dreams are patient. Dreams wait. And yours — yours had been waiting lifetimes.

As you grew, so did the dreams. They sharpened. They deepened. They began to carve themselves into you. Whole lives unfolded behind your closed eyes.

A sunburned child racing barefoot across dusty hills toward a village swallowed by war.

A woman weaving baskets by firelight, her hands scarred from a lifetime of work you had never done.

A man’s voice — rough, kind — calling you a name you didn’t recognize, but which made your chest ache with missing him.

You loved and lost and died and lived — again and again and again.

You woke each morning with your sheets twisted around you, your pillow damp with tears you could not explain.

There were nights you woke with the ghost of a blade still biting into your side.

Mornings when you cradled your wrist as if still feeling the shackles of some long-forgotten dungeon.

The memories clung to you like wet cloth, like a second skin you could not shed.

Then came the night that changed everything.

The night the dreams cracked open wide enough to swallow you whole.

You had fallen asleep curled up on your tiny couch, the windows thrown open to let in the restless night air.

The sound of the sea was a lullaby — rough and endless and full of old grief.

The dream gripped you before you even knew you were asleep.

You were standing in the corner of a room you had never seen before — stone walls, heavy with shadows, a fire dying low in the hearth.

The air was cold. The dark pressed against you like hands.

The world felt... wrong. And across the room, you saw them.

You saw yourself — curled in a bed, body small under the weight of heavy blankets.

Sleeping. Breathing. Alive. And beside you —Women. Kneeling. Clutching you so tightly it hurt to watch.

Her face was twisted in a grief so raw you almost looked away.

You tried to move. Tried to run to her, to yourself, to fix something you didn’t understand.

But your feet wouldn't move. You were trapped. Frozen. Forced to watch.

You saw her reach out — trembling fingers brushing hair back from your forehead.

You saw her press desperate kisses against your skin, whispering prayers to a god who wasn’t listening.

You felt the thread snapping before you even saw it.

The door opened without a sound. A figure stepped through — wreathed in shadows, wrapped in the quiet power of something ancient and final.

He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look cruel. He looked inevitable.

You watched as woman scrambled from the bed, placing herself between him and your sleeping body. "Please," she whispered. "Please don't."

You saw him watch her with that same stillness — not hate, not rage — only certainty.

"You knew the law," he said, voice echoing through the bones of the room.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tear him apart. You wanted to leap into your own body and run. But you couldn’t move. You were a ghost, a prisoner in your own dream.

You watched her climb back onto the bed.

You watched her pull your body into her arms, rocking you like something precious, something already slipping away.

You stirred.

Your sleeping self blinked up at her — confused, soft, trusting.

"Alexia...?"

The sound of your voice — so small, so human — broke something in you.

She choked on a sob, pressed her forehead to yours.

"I'm here," she said. "I'm right here."

You watched yourself smile. Slow. Sweet. You watched your fingers reach up to wipe her tears — clumsy, tired.

You watched your hand fall away.

You watched your body sag against her.

And you felt it — even from across the room — you felt it.

The moment you left.

The moment the thread snapped for good.

Woman howled — a sound no human throat was ever meant to make.

She clutched your lifeless body to her chest, rocking back and forth like she could shake you back into being.

She kissed your forehead, your mouth, your cold hands — desperate, broken, refusing to believe.

She whispered your name over and over and over.

You wanted to run to her.

But you couldn’t move. You could only watch her crumble. You could only watch man stand silent at the foot of the bed, unmoved by the ruin he had made.

You could only watch as woman pressed her face into your hair, sobbing, whispering

"Come back. Please. Come back."

But you didn’t move. Not the flutter of an eyelash. Not the ghost of a breath.

You were already gone. And she was already broken.

The dream shattered after that — the room collapsing into shadows, the fire sputtering out, the world folding in on itself.

You gasped awake, the sound torn from your throat like a sob.

Your room — your real room — was dark and still.

Your hands shook.

Your heart thundered against your ribs.

Tears blurred your vision.

You pressed your hands to your face, trying to breathe, trying to forget — but the images clung to you.

Women’s face.

Your own limp body in her arms.

The way she had screamed your name like it was the only thing left she believed in.

You sat up in bed, the sheets tangled around you like a trap, and whispered the only name that was repeating in your mind.

"Alexia”

The halls of Olympus held their breath.

beyond the reach of mortal prayers and mortal dreams, the gods gathered in a circle of marble and gold — and they trembled.

It had been so long since fear touched them.

So long since any mortal had mattered enough to stir the heavens.

But tonight — tonight, the old wounds bled again.

Because a mortal had remembered.

And that — that was dangerous.

Because mortal souls were not meant to remember.

Life and death were supposed to wipe the slate clean.

Memory was a weapon against fate itself — a crack in the cycle the gods depended on to keep the world turning.

One mortal remembering could shift everything: destinies, loyalties, even futures the gods thought were certain.

It could create chaos. It could rewrite things even Olympus could not control.

And so the gods trembled. because the balance they had protected for so long was slipping through their fingers.

Zeus sat on his throne, carved from the bones of dead stars, his body stiff with rage barely contained.

He had not spoken yet.

But the air crackled around him — thunder rumbling low in the stones, lightning flickering in the cracks between the pillars.

Every god present — even the proudest — stood at a distance. Because when Zeus’s fury woke, even the mighty bowed.

It was Hera who dared to break the silence first. Sharp, brittle, cruel. "The mortal remembers," she said, voice echoing through the hollow hall. No gentleness. No sorrow. Only cold judgment. Only blame.

Before the echoes had even faded, Ares stepped forward — his armor clinking softly, the scent of old blood clinging to him like perfume.

"We should have crushed this weakness when we had the chance," he growled. "Before Alexia brought shame to Olympus." His mouth twisted into a sneer. "Love made her foolish. Made her weak."

Hera nodded, eyes hard as obsidian. "This time," she said, "we must show no mercy."

Their words curled like smoke around Zeus — feeding him, sharpening him. And deep inside, the storm began to break free.

But not all voices rose in cruelty.

At the edge of the gathering, in the long shadow of the dying fire, Apollo stood with his golden head bowed.

He remembered. He remembered Alexia — bright, fierce, reckless.

He remembered the way she once sang to the stars, fearless and full of life. The way she once laughed, throwing her head back like she could tear the sky apart with joy.

And he remembered the day that light went out. The night she lost mortal girl. The night the heavens themselves dimmed at the sound of her screams.

Artemis stood at his side, her silver gaze heavy with memory. She had fought beside Alexia — had seen her wield valor and loyalty like weapons no blade could match.

She had loved her sister And she had watched that sister crumble. After your death, Alexia became a ghost. No laughter. No rage. No fire.

Only silence. Only absence. Only a grief so vast it swallowed even Olympus’s endless skies. And Artemis had pitied her — as she pitied her still.

Demeter, kind and patient, felt tears burning behind her closed eyes. She had watched Alexia tend the gardens once —gentle, careful, whispering to wounded flowers like they were her own wounded heart.

She had seen the tenderness no battlefield could destroy. And she had seen it die, piece by piece, when mortal girl was torn from her arms.

Demeter pressed a shaking hand to her chest now, feeling the old sorrow rise again — helpless, useless, heavy.

She mourned not the mortal girl — she had barely known you. She mourned the sister who would soon lose everything, once again.

Even Athena, who prided herself on cold wisdom and sharp reason, frowned. She saw the future unfolding — a tapestry unraveling stitch by stitch — and she saw no victory in it. Only ruin. Only loss. Only another god broken past repair.

None of them spoke against Zeus. Because fear was older than love. And tonight, fear ruled Olympus.

Zeus rose from his throne.

The marble cracked beneath his feet, veins of lightning spidering through the stone.

"We end this," he said. Not shouted. Not barked. Whispered. And it was so much worse. Because it was final. Because it was already done.

From the swirling shadows at the edge of the hall, a figure stepped forward. Broad shoulders. Eyes like cold iron. One of Zeus’s son. A weapon given breath. A god without mercy.

"You will find her," Zeus said, voice low as thunder. "You will silence her."

The son bowed — deep, wordless — and turned away. A sword unleashed upon a world too small to survive him.

For a long, terrible moment, the gods stood frozen. Some bowed their heads — not in loyalty, but in grief. Some turned their faces away — unable to bear witness. Some simply stared into the dying fire, watching the last light flicker out, knowing they had already abandoned their sister. once again.

Apollo’s hands trembled at his sides. He remembered Alexia collapsing, clutching a body grown cold. He remembered the way she screamed your name until her voice broke. He remembered begging her to let you go — and the way she looked at him like he had asked her to tear out her own heart.

He remembered. And he said nothing.

Artemis’s throat ached with the memory of her sister’s silence — the endless centuries where Alexia spoke to no one, smiled for no one.

She remembered. And she said nothing.

Demeter wept silently into her hand.

Athena closed her eyes.

And high above the world, Olympus mourned in silence for a sister they would fail again.

They didn’t know she was there. Tucked into the long shadows cast by ancient marble columns, half-hidden by the restless, shivering light of the dying fire, Alexia stood.

Silent. Unmoving. Watching.

Her hands hung uselessly at her sides. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it was trying to break free.

She had not stood in this hall for centuries. Not since the night her world ended.

She had come here tonight without hope. Hope had been beaten out of her a long time ago. She came because she felt it — the tremor in the air, the old thread stirring between her ribs — the way your soul had whispered her name into the world again.

And because she knew. Deep in her bones, she already knew. What they would say. What they would decide. What they would do to you.

She listened as Hera fanned the fire of Zeus's fury, her voice sharp and cruel. She listened as Ares — as predictable as a blade swung without thought — growled for blood. They spoke your death as though it were a simple thing.

A necessary thing. A correction of an old, shameful mistake.

Alexia was the mistake.

You were the price.

And the worst part — the part that hollowed her out more than any blade — was the silence. The silence of those who should have loved her most.

Her brothers.

Her sisters.

Apollo, golden and bowed with quiet sorrow, but saying nothing.

Artemis, stone-faced, her mouth a tight, bitter line.

Demeter, tears running unchecked down her cheeks, but voiceless.

Athena, wise and ruthless, already looking past the grief to the ruin that would follow.

Not one of them raised their voice. Not one called her name. Not one even whispered a plea for mercy.

They pitied her. They mourned her. But they would not save her.

Alexia pressed her forehead against the cold stone of the column she hid behind. It was easier to stay hidden.

It was easier than looking into their faces and seeing that she had already been buried in their hearts.

They had mourned her a long time ago. Tonight was only a formality. Tonight they were digging the grave a little deeper.

But more than grief, more than betrayal, something colder, more savage, settled inside her chest.

Fear.

Because she knew. If they killed you this time, you would not return. No new life. No new dreams. No rebirth waiting just over the horizon.

The old laws were clear.

A mortal soul touched twice by divine love — twice by divine tragedy — could not be pulled back a third time.

The soul would not sleep. It would not scatter among the stars. It would vanish.

Oblivion.

A silence even gods could not undo.

Alexia clenched her fists so tightly blood welled from her palms.

The blood ran down her wrists and dripped soundlessly onto the cold marble floor. She didn’t feel it. She felt only the crushing, screaming knowledge rising inside her.

This is not just death.

This is annihilation.

This is the end of her world — truly, finally, forever.

There would be no distant stars to wish on. No faint songs carried through the tides of time.

There would be no you.

No memory.

No trace.

She would be alone. Truly alone.

And the universe would go on, blind and deaf and uncaring.

And she would carry your absence like a scar no time could heal.

She watched through blurred eyes as Zeus stood.

As he called forth his other son — the weapon bred for obedience, shaped to destroy without question.

"You will find her," Zeus said. "You will silence her."

The son bowed — a hollow, empty motion — and vanished into the storm gathering outside.

The gods stayed behind, quiet and unmoving.

Not triumphant. Not victorious.

Only weary. Only resigned.

They had already buried her in their hearts.

Alexia didn’t wait to hear their final prayers.

She had heard enough.

She slipped away through the crumbling side halls — places even the gods no longer walked.

The corridors were dark and empty, choked with dust and silence. Her footsteps echoed hollowly against the cracked stone.

The world she had once loved so fiercely had become a mausoleum — a tomb for a life she could never get back.

She passed the shrines she had built with her own broken hands — shrines no one knew existed, hidden in forgotten places.

Shrines built to you.

Not to gods. Not to heroes. Not to kings.

To you.

Each life you lived, honored in marble and flame.

Each name you wore, whispered into the stones like a prayer.

Each face you carried, carved with reverent, desperate hands.

She paused before one of the oldest shrines — a tiny alcove barely big enough to kneel in.

The name carved there was one you hadn't spoken in thousands of years — one even she sometimes forgot in dreams.

She touched the worn stone with shaking fingers.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, voice breaking open in the darkness. "I'm so sorry." And then she straightened. Slowly. Painfully.

Piece by shattered piece, she gathered herself together.

Because grief would not save you. Tears would not save you. Only action would. Only defiance. Only fury strong enough to shake the roots of Olympus itself. She would not lose you again.

Not while she still had breath in her body. Not while the earth could still tremble under her fury. Not while she still remembered how to love.

Two days had passed. Two days since the dreams cracked you open from the inside.

Two days since the old ache had begun to pulse steadily behind your ribs — a second heartbeat, slower, older, heavier than your own.

You barely ate.

You barely slept.

You walked through the streets of Barcelona feeling like a ghost — like the world had gone slightly out of focus around you, like everything was happening underwater.

The dreams did not stop. They only grew worse and better and deeper.

In your sleep you saw. the glint of a sword catching the dying sun, the flicker of golden hair caught in a storm, a hand reaching for yours across a chasm of smoke and ruin.

You woke with your cheeks wet and your hands shaking.

You didn’t understand what was happening to you.

You didn’t understand why everything hurt.

You only knew one thing

You had to go.

You left the city behind without thinking. Without packing. Without telling anyone.

You boarded a bus you didn’t remember choosing.

You got off in a town whose name you didn’t know.

You walked — out of the town, past the crumbling edges of civilization, into the waiting mouth of the forest.

The forest swallowed you whole. It wrapped itself around you, thick and green and ancient.

The canopy above was so dense it drowned the sunlight, turning everything into a cathedral of shadows.

The ground was soft beneath your feet — layers of dead leaves, moss, forgotten stones.

You pushed deeper into the trees without knowing why. Without caring why.

Something was pulling you. Something bigger than memory. Older than thought.

You came to a clearing.

At the center stood a low, crumbling wall — half-buried under ivy and time.

You stepped closer, your breath catching painfully in your throat.

You dropped to your knees, hands brushing the rough, ancient stones.

They pulsed faintly under your fingertips — warm, almost alive.

this was once your home.

The home where you had lived your first life.

The home where you had loved her.

The home where you had died.

The grief hit you without warning.

You folded forward onto your hands, gasping, the earth pressing cold and damp against your palms.

Tears blurred your vision, hot and desperate.

You knelt there for a long time.

The forest around you was silent — no birdsong, no wind, no life.

It was like the world was holding its breath. Waiting.

And hidden deep in the trees, unseen by you, someone else was holding their breath too.

Alexia.

She stood half-shrouded by a thick oak tree, watching you with a gaze so full of broken things it could have shattered the sky.

But she didn’t move. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Not yet.

She was waiting — waiting for the right moment, waiting for the danger she knew was coming.

And it came.

At the edge of the clearing, across the broken stones and tangled roots, the air shimmered — a ripple, a distortion, a wound opening in the world. And from that wound, he stepped through.

Her brother. The son of Zeus. The weapon sent to kill you.

Alexia’s heart stopped. She recognized him instantly.

Broad shoulders, eyes cold and lifeless as winter stone.

He stood there at the forest's edge, watching you with no anger, no cruelty — only duty.

A predator.

A judge.

The end.

Alexia pressed herself tighter against the tree, her hand going instinctively to the hilt of the sword strapped to her back.

Her breath shuddered out of her — silent, frantic.

She could not cry out. She could not warn you.

Not yet.

Not without drawing all Olympus down upon you.

She watched, helpless, as her brother took a slow, deliberate step toward you.

Toward the girl kneeling in the ruins of her own forgotten grave.

Toward the soul that had already been stolen from her once.

Alexia gripped the hilt of her sword so tightly her knuckles burned white.

Hidden in the thick shadows of the trees, she watched the scene unfold before her — helpless, trembling with barely contained rage.

You had lifted your head.

You had heard the footsteps.

You had turned.

Alexia watched your face shift — from confusion, to unease, to polite caution.

You didn’t recognize him for what he was.

You didn’t know the danger standing at the edge of your life.

How could you? You only saw a stranger. A man in the woods. Nothing more.

Her brother smiled at you.

Alexia’s stomach twisted.

He called out to you — his voice light, cocky, dripping with false friendliness.

"Lost, are you?" he said, laughing lightly, as if he were just another hiker, another traveler, as if he didn’t carry divine orders wrapped around his bones.

Alexia watched you shift uncomfortably, rising slowly from where you knelt.

She could see the tension in your body — small, almost invisible, but it was there.

Some part of you knew something was wrong.

Her brother stepped closer — slowly, carefully, like a wolf approaching a wounded deer.

Casual hands tucked into his pockets, shoulders loose, mouth curved in a smirk that set every alarm screaming in Alexia's chest.

You answered him — your voice soft, uncertain — telling him you were just out here exploring, that you weren’t looking for anything in particular.

She heard the small catch in your voice.

She saw the way you took a tiny step back without even realizing it.

Her heart broke. You were trying to be polite. Trying to be safe. But you didn’t understand. You didn’t know there was no safety here. Not anymore.

Alexia’s breath came fast and shallow.

She pressed herself tighter against the rough bark of the tree, the ancient magic singing under her skin,

begging her to act.

Not yet.

She had to be sure.

She had to wait for the moment he moved — the moment his true intent revealed itself.

She couldn’t strike too soon. If she did — if the gods saw her break the law openly — they would descend like wolves.

Not just her brother.

All of them.

Her fingers tightened around the sword.

The blade pulsed faintly against her skin — a weapon forged for war, for defiance. A weapon that had not tasted blood in too long.

She saw her brother chuckle, easy and relaxed, as he circled a little closer to you. Saw the way his body tensed even as he smiled —readying himself for the kill.

She saw you laugh nervously in return, the sound brittle, unsure, your instincts clawing at you to run even if you didn’t know why.

Her vision blurred with fury. You were trying to be kind. You were trying to be human. And he — he was going to slaughter you for it.

Alexia’s whole body trembled with the effort it took to stay still. The blade in her hand sang for release. Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it might shatter the world.

She could not watch you die again. She would not. Not here. Not now. Not like this.

Her brother reached into his coat — slow, casual, as if pulling out a map or a phone — but Alexia saw it. She saw the flicker of divine steel catch the dying light between his fingers.

The killing blow was seconds away.

Alexia moved. Silent. Swift. Deadly.

You didn’t understand what was happening at first.

One moment you were standing in the clearing, nervously smiling at the cocky stranger with something cold and wrong behind his eyes — The next, the world exploded into motion.

The man moved. Too fast. Too sharp. Too inhuman.

You saw the flash of steel in his hand — bright, final.

You didn’t have time to react. You barely had time to breathe. And then — another figure crashed into the clearing, a blur of speed and fury, a blade singing through the air.

Steel struck steel with a sound that split the world apart. Sparks showered the ground between them.

You stumbled back, heart hammering against your ribs. Shock rooted you to the spot — your legs refusing to move, your body refusing to believe what your eyes were seeing.

They fought like storms given flesh. The stranger — the killer — lunged again and again, his strikes brutal, precise, unrelenting.

But the other figure — the one who had come from nowhere — met him blow for blow. Faster. Sharper. More desperate. For a long, endless moment you could only stare. Frozen. Breathless.

Your mind screamed at you to run — but something deeper held you still. Some instinct, some ancient piece of you, knew. You had to see.

The stranger knocked the hood back from the other fighter’s head during a savage blow. And that’s when you saw her.

A glimpse.

Just a glimpse.

Golden hair tangled with sweat and blood. Eyes burning with a fury so fierce it nearly scorched the earth. A mouth set in a line of desperate, furious devotion.

Her.

Alexia.

The world around you seemed to lurch sideways. Your knees nearly buckled under you. A sound tore out of your throat — a gasp, a cry, you didn't even know.

Because in that one glimpse, the dreams you had tried to ignore, the visions you had told yourself were madness, the memories that haunted the edges of your sleep — They snapped into place.

Not all at once. Not perfectly. But enough. Enough to know.

The laughter by the river. The touch of a hand you trusted more than your own breath. The promises whispered against your skin. The final moment — her arms around you, her voice screaming your name into the ruins of the world.

It was all real. It had always been real. You were not crazy. You were not dreaming. You had lived. You had loved her. You had died in her arms.

The ground swayed under your feet. Your lungs burned with the effort of breathing. You could barely feel your body anymore — numb with grief, numb with wonder, numb with terror.

In the clearing, the battle raged on — steel flashing, snarls ripping through the heavy air.

You should have run. You should have moved. You should have screamed. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You stood there, frozen in the wreckage of your mind, watching the past collide with the present, watching the person who had loved you. fighting to save you.

You clutched at your chest, your fingers tangling in your clothes as if you could hold yourself together by sheer force of will.

Tears blurred your vision — hot, helpless, endless.

Because you knew. Because now, you could not deny it no longer.

The dreams were indeed memories.

The love was indeed real.

The loss was real.

The forest cracked open under the fury of gods. You stumbled backward, frozen, watching the impossible unfold in front of you.

The man — the stranger — lunged again, his blade gleaming bright and hungry under the roiling sky.

But Alexia met him with a roar, her sword flashing upward to parry the blow.

The clash of metal rang out like a scream, shaking the ground beneath your feet.

They moved too fast for human eyes to follow — a blur of gold and blood and desperation.

Steel struck steel, again and again — sparks flying, breaths tearing through the thick, heavy air.

Alexia gritted her teeth, driving forward with a brutal swing, forcing him back toward the broken stones at the clearing’s edge.

But he was strong — stronger than her in brute force. He ducked under her strike, sweeping her legs out from under her. Alexia hit the ground hard — her sword slipping from her grasp, clattering out of reach.

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth, heart lurching painfully in your chest.

The man grinned — vicious, sure. He kicked the sword further away and drove forward, dagger flashing from his belt — aimed straight at her throat.

But Alexia was faster. She rolled to the side, grabbing a jagged stone from the earth itself — and as he lunged again, she slammed it into his side.

Hard.

He stumbled, snarling, momentarily thrown off balance.

Alexia scrambled to her feet, blood dripping from her scraped palms, her chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths.

She didn’t hesitate. She couldn’t hesitate. With a cry that tore straight from the center of her soul, she threw herself at him.

Her hands locked onto his wrist, forcing the dagger upward — struggling, twisting, battling him hand-to-hand now.

You could see the muscles straining in her arms, the wild, frantic light in her eyes. You could see the realization, too — She didn't want to kill.

But she would. Because of you. Because if she didn’t — he would bury that blade in your heart without a second thought.

With a savage wrench, Alexia turned the dagger against him.

It happened almost too fast to see. A flash of silver.

A gasp. A burst of blood too dark against the clearing’s mossy floor.

Man froze — eyes wide, shocked — staring down at the dagger buried deep in his own ribs.

Alexia held it there — her hand trembling — her breath tearing out of her in broken sobs.

For a moment, they just stood there — frozen in a horrible, intimate silence.

"You shouldn’t have come," Alexia whispered.

man’s lips parted — but no words came. Only a breath — shallow, disbelieving.

His knees buckled. Alexia caught him as he fell — lowering him gently to the earth, like she could make this less monstrous.

She knelt over him for a single heartbeat longer, her hand trembling over the hilt of the dagger still buried in his side.

And then — slowly, with a shudder that wracked her whole body — she let him go.

He died with his eyes open.

Alexia rose slowly, blood-smeared, wounded,shaking — but alive.

She staggered a step back from the body, her sword slipping from her hand, falling to the ground with a dull, hollow thud.

Alexia turned toward you then — and the world fell away. Her sword slipped from her fingers, falling into the dirt with a dull, final sound.

Her hands — empty now — curled into helpless fists at her sides, as if she was trying to hold herself back, trying not to break apart before she reached you.

She took a single step closer. And then another.

Her eyes locked onto yours — wide, wild, full of a thousand lifetimes of grief, love, guilt, and hope.

It hit you like a storm breaking open in your chest.

Your heart stuttered painfully, like it didn’t know how to beat in the presence of something this real.

You wanted to run. You wanted to fall into her arms. You wanted to scream until the forest itself cracked open and swallowed you both whole.

But you couldn’t move. You could only stand there — trembling, shaking, breaking — as she came to stand before you.

"You're real," you whispered. Barely a sound at all —just a shattered breath in the heavy air. Your voice cracked painfully around the words. Tears blurred your vision again, spilling over before you could stop them.

You shook your head — small, frantic movements —desperate to make sense of it, desperate to deny it, desperate to believe it all at once.

"I thought..." Your voice broke completely. "I thought I was dreaming. I thought I was crazy."

Alexia’s throat worked around a broken, shuddering breath. Her whole body shook with the effort of holding herself together. Slowly — so slowly — her hand lifted.

Her fingers hovered near your cheek, trembling, as if she was terrified that touching you would make you vanish again.

Not touching. Just... close. Close enough to feel the warmth of your skin.Close enough to feel the fragile, fragile hope burning between you.

"You were never crazy," she said. Her voice was low, raw, wrecked beyond repair. Her face crumpled, her mouth shaking as she spoke. A sob ripped from your chest before you could stop it. You swayed toward her — your hands trembling as you reached out, just barely brushing your fingertips against hers. touch so fragile it could have shattered the world. But it didn’t. It anchored it instead.

"Alexia," you whispered, voice broken. Her name on your lips tasted like a prayer — like a home you had been searching for across endless, empty lifetimes.

Tears streamed down your face, hot and unstoppable. You reached up, wrapping your shaking fingers around her wrist, feeling the frantic pulse there, the desperate life still burning inside her.

She stared at you — devastated, awed, overwhelmed — like she couldn’t believe you were real either. And then she moved.

She closed the tiny distance between you, cradling your face in both hands now, her thumbs brushing away your tears even as her own fell freely. You surged into her touch — clinging, needing — feeling yourself collapse into the space between her hands.

The moment fractured. The dam broke. And then she kissed you. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate. It was savage with grief and longing.

Her lips crushed against yours, hot and trembling, and you kissed her back just as fiercely, hands fisting in the fabric of her ruined clothes, pulling her closer, anchoring yourself to her with everything you had.

When she finally pulled back,her forehead pressed to yours again, your ragged breaths tangled together in the cold air.

"I lost you once," she whispered, voice cracking, "I will not lose you again."

Her words wrapped around you like a shield, like a vow stronger than any god’s decree. You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Your hands stayed curled in her clothes, your whole body trembling with the effort to stay together.

Above you, the sky roared — a furious, wounded god waking from his throne. The trees shook. The stones cracked. The world itself trembled.

And from the edge of the clearing, out of the boiling storm and crackling fury, he stepped forward.

Zeus.

The King of the Gods.

The Father of Storms.

The Judge of Souls.

He stood taller than any mortal man, wreathed in roiling clouds, eyes burning like twin suns about to devour the world.

His presence alone nearly knocked you to your knees.

The ground shivered under him. The air itself seemed to recoil.

Alexia stood firm. Between you and him. Bleeding. Breathing hard. Refusing to yield.

"Step aside," Zeus growled, his voice loud enough to shake the trees to their roots. The stones cracked at his feet. The clearing itself seemed to shrink under the weight of his fury.

Alexia did not move "No," she said. The word cut the air cleanly, as sharp and final as a blade.

"You defy me," Zeus thundered. "You break the laws that have held our world together since before your first breath!"

Alexia’s hands curled into fists at her sides. She lifted her chin higher. "I break your laws," she said. "Not the ones written in the blood of love and loyalty."

Zeus’s face twisted into something monstrous. "You chose a mortal," he spat. "You chose weakness over your own blood. You let your heart poison your judgment. You let it corrupt you." His voice dropped lower, sharper. "And now you have murdered your own blood for her."

The words hit like stones. You flinched — shame and guilt surging even though you had no part in it.

Alexia stood straighter. Her jaw trembled, but she didn’t look away. "I didn’t," she said, voice hoarse. "You killed him the moment you sent him after her."

Zeus’s laughter cracked through the clearing — a terrible, hollow sound. "I sent him to protect our realm!" He pointed a hand at you, lightning gathering around his fingers. "Girl must die!"

You gasped, shrinking back. Alexia moved instantly — a shield, a wall, a force that no storm could tear down.

"She’s not a threat," Alexia said fiercely. "She’s my heart." Her voice broke — not with weakness, but with a love so fierce it shook even the storm. "My heart is not a threat to Olympus. But your cruelty is."

Zeus’s face twisted in fury. "You are no longer my daughter," he roared. "You are no longer of Olympus. You are nothing but a traitor. A butcher of your own blood."

Alexia flinched — not from the words, but from the memory they carried. She had loved her family once. But not enough to let you die again.

"If protecting her makes me a traitor," Alexia said, her voice steady even as her heart broke, "then so be it."

Thunder cracked the sky in two. The clouds seethed and screamed above you. "You would throw away eternity," Zeus said, voice trembling with wrath, "for a mortal who will crumble to dust before you?"

Alexia’s eyes burned with a fury to match his own. "I would throw away eternity a thousand times for her."

"You are a fool," Zeus snarled. "And you will die a fool’s death."

The ground split at Zeus’s feet. A bolt of lightning struck a tree nearby, splintering it in a burst of flame and smoke.

The heat washed over you, making you stagger.

Alexia stayed still — a fortress against the coming storm. "You’ll have to kill me first," she said. "And even then — my love will not die."

Zeus raised his hand. The sky trembled. The storm bared its teeth. The first strike was moments away.

The world seemed to hold its breath. The storm tore itself open above you — black clouds swirling in fury, lightning flashing like knives across the sky.

The earth cracked and groaned under the weight of ancient rage. And in the center of it all, they faced each other.

Father and daughter.

King and traitor.

Storm and flame.

Zeus struck first. Lightning poured from his hands — raw, blinding, violent — a spear of white-hot power aimed straight for Alexia’s heart.

She barely dodged. The blast tore up the ground beside her, sending shards of stone and dirt raining down around you.

Alexia rolled, blood smearing the earth where her hands scraped raw against it. She came up low, breathless, but standing.

Another strike — Zeus moved with terrifying speed for a being so massive, his sword flashing into existence in his hand, forged from storms themselves.

He swung it in a wide, brutal arc — and Alexia barely raised her forearm to block it. The impact threw her back again, skidding across the dirt, coughing blood.

You cried out — but your voice was lost under the thunder that roared through the clearing.

Still, she got up. Bleeding. Shaking. But standing.

"You shame yourself," Zeus roared, advancing, his sword trailing sparks where it scraped the stones. "You shame me!"

Alexia wiped the blood from her mouth with the back of her hand. She stood her ground, even as the ground itself trembled under Zeus's fury.

"I don't care about your pride," she spat, voice hoarse but fierce. "I don't care about Olympus." She shifted her stance — injured, weak, but unbowed. "I only care about her."

Zeus’s face twisted with rage. He lunged — a devastating blow meant to split her in two.

Alexia sidestepped, barely avoiding the blade, and drove her fist — glowing faintly gold — into his side.

The shock of it made Zeus stagger — but only for a heartbeat. He turned, catching her by the throat with one massive hand, lifting her off the ground with horrifying ease.

Your scream tore out of you, but you couldn’t move, couldn’t reach her. You could only watch — helpless — as Alexia struggled against the iron grip of her father.

"You would destroy yourself," Zeus hissed, "for a mortal that will never understand what you gave up."

Alexia choked, her hands clawing weakly at his wrist. She bared her teeth in a broken, defiant smile. "I don't care," she rasped. "I would choose her again. And again. And again."

With a roar of frustration, Zeus hurled her to the ground. She hit hard — the sound sickening in the silence that followed. You staggered forward a step, desperation burning through your body.

Alexia pushed herself up on shaking arms. Every movement was agony. Blood dripped steadily from a gash above her eye, soaking into the torn collar of her clothes. She couldn't even fully stand anymore — one knee buckled under her, forcing her to half-crouch.

But she lifted her head anyway. She faced Zeus anyway. She faced death anyway. For you.

Zeus lifted his sword. It gleamed, alive with stormlight, the blade thrumming with the gathered power of a god’s fury. He stepped toward her —slowly, heavily — the ground shuddering under each step.

Alexia knelt there, too broken to rise, but refusing to bow her head. Refusing to surrender.

The world seemed to narrow. to still. the wind died. the thunder paused. even the trees leaned in, holding their breath.

You watched — frozen, sobbing, your heart breaking into a thousand pieces — as Zeus raised the sword high above her.

High enough to kill her in a single, devastating blow.

High enough to end her.

And still — still — Alexia stared him down.

Still she protected you.

Still she chose you.

The blade flashed above her head.

The moment hung there — unbearable — on the edge of time.

About to fall.

About to shatter everything.

The sword moved.

It fell through the air like a sentence already written, too heavy to escape, too certain to be denied.

It was meant for Alexia.

It was meant to end her rebellion, her defiance, her love.

But you moved first.

So small.

So fragile.

So heartbreakingly human.

You threw yourself between her and the storm without a second thought.

Without hesitation.

Without fear.

The blade struck.

It drove straight through you, the impact so powerful it stole the breath from the world.

Your body arched for a heartbeat — a moment of terrible grace — before sagging forward, the steel buried deep in your chest.

Your blood spilled in a rush.

Dark and vivid against the grey of the storm.

And the world broke.

Alexia screamed — a sound so raw it seemed to tear the sky itself open.

She lunged forward, catching you before you fell.

Both of you crashed to the ground, her arms wrapping tightly around your broken body, desperate to keep you here.

Desperate to keep you alive.

"No—no, no, no," she sobbed.

Her voice was wrecked. Her hands fumbled helplessly over your wound, over your face, over every trembling piece of you.

She pressed her hands to the bleeding, to your slowing heartbeat, to the last warmth leaving your skin.

"Please," she gasped. "Please stay. Please stay. Please stay—"

Zeus stood frozen. Sword still gripped in his bloodied hand. He had meant to kill Alexia. He had meant to punish betrayal. He had meant to crush rebellion beneath the weight of law. Sword wasn’t meant for you, Not yet.

He had not expected you.

Not like this.

He thought mortals were selfish. Weak. Driven by fear. Chained to survival at all costs.

He thought — even if you loved — you would run.

You would scream. You would beg for life.

But you had done none of that. You had stepped into death with your head high. You had offered yourself, body and soul, without hesitation. You had thrown yourself into the path of a god's fury. for nothing more than love.

And it shook him.

Alexia cradled you against her chest, rocking you back and forth as if motion could call you back.

Her fingers threaded through your hair, desperate to memorize the softness, the weight, the preciousness of you.

She kissed your forehead, your cheeks, your lips, as your skin grew colder and colder under her touch.

"I love you," she whispered against your brow. Over and over again. "I love you. I love you. I love you—" As if the words alone could build a wall strong enough to keep death away.

But your breath came slower. And slower. And slower.

Your eyes fluttered open one last time. You found her.

You smiled. A small, trembling, perfect thing.

You reached for her cheek with fingers that barely obeyed anymore.

You brushed away her tears.

And you mouthed the words back "I love you." No voice left. Only breath. Only soul.

And then you stilled.

Alexia pressed her face into your neck, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

Her body shook around yours, rocking with the force of grief too large for her to contain.

Zeus lowered his sword. Slowly.

Staring at your still body in Alexia’s arms.

At the love he had tried to destroy.

At the life he had ended.

And for the first time in countless lifetimes, the King of the Gods tasted something bitter on his tongue.

Not anger. Not pride. But shame.

Alexia held you tighter. As if love alone could pull you back. As if her heart could beat enough for both of you.

But it couldn't.

nothing would ever be the same again.

The storm crashed against the world. The rain fell in heavy, endless sheets, washing blood into the earth, soaking into the broken stones where you now lay cold and still.

Alexia knelt over you — her forehead pressed to yours, her body trembling with grief too large for her skin to hold.

When she lifted her head, something inside her was gone. Something human. Something soft.

All that remained was fire. And rage. And a love that refused to die, even as everything else crumbled.

She rose. Slowly. Painfully.

The wind ripped at her torn clothes, at her bloodied hands, but she barely felt it.

Her body was broken, but it didn’t matter anymore.

Nothing mattered anymore.

She screamed — a broken, animal sound — and launched herself at Zeus.

He turned just in time to catch her. Her fists beat against his chest, small and wild and furious.

Magic flickered uselessly at her fingertips, sparks hissing out before they could hurt him.

"Why?" she screamed. "Why did you take her from me?!" Each word was a blow. Each sob was a blade.

Zeus’s jaw tightened. He caught her wrists. Held her struggling form with far more gentleness than his rage should have allowed.

"Enough," he said, his voice low and heavy with something like regret. "This is over."

He shoved her back — not cruelly, but firmly.

Trying to end it. Trying to push her away, to walk away. To leave the ruins of what he had done behind him.

Alexia stumbled, falling to her knees in the mud.

Zeus turned his back on her, starting to walk away into the storm.

The sword hung heavy in his hand. His shoulders bowed low. Like he wanted to forget. Like he wanted to bury what had happened.

But Alexia rose. Broken. Bleeding. Breathless.

But she rose.

Because she had nothing else left. Because without you, there was no purpose. No future. No reason not to fight until her last breath.

She charged at him again.

A flash of gold against the storm.

A cry of pure heartbreak.

Zeus heard her coming. He turned — reflex, not thought — and his body reacted before his mind could stop it.

His hand shot out. A bolt of raw power, wild and unmeasured, leapt from his palm.

It struck Alexia in the chest.

Dead center.

The impact lifted her off the ground, throwing her backward like a broken doll. She hit the stones hard — a sickening, final crack echoing through the clearing.

Alexia lay crumpled where Zeus's blow had thrown her, her body broken beyond healing. Every bone screamed. Every breath tasted like blood.

But she was not dead. Not yet.

Her fingers twitched weakly against the stones, scraping through the mud and blood.

Her vision blurred, the world swimming in and out of darkness.

Her lungs burned for air she could barely drag in anymore.

Her ribs refused to expand. Her legs refused to move.

But still — still — she turned her head.

She saw you. A few paces away. So close, yet So far.

Lying silent and still in the mud, your body soaked through by the endless, uncaring rain. Your hair fanned out like a halo around your head. Your face too pale, too peaceful.

Her heart shattered all over again.

She needed to reach you. She needed to touch you one more time.

If she could just feel your skin, just once more, maybe she could find the strength to follow you wherever you had gone.

With a broken, gasping sob, Alexia dragged herself forward.

Her arms shook violently, barely able to hold her weight. Her legs refused to respond at all, trailing uselessly behind her.

Every scrape of her bloodied hands against the stones was agony. Every inch closer was a battlefield won.

And still Alexia crawled. One hand forward. Pull. Gasp. Collapse. Then another.

Her breath rattled wetly in her chest, each gasp thinner than the last. Her vision narrowed —shrinking down to nothing but you.

Your hand. Just a few inches away now. Waiting. Silent.

She sobbed, a broken sound that twisted the air around her, and reached out.

Her fingers trembled, slick with blood and rain.

Just a little further.

Pain lanced through her chest. Her vision dimmed again. Her heart lurched violently once, twice.

She almost collapsed. Almost gave up. But she didn't. She would never give up on you.

With one final gasp of broken strength, Alexia stretched out her hand. And touched your fingers.

The connection was feather-light, so soft it almost wasn’t real. But it was enough.

Her fingers curled weakly around yours. Not strong enough to hold you.

Only enough to say

I found you.

I love you.

I am coming with you.

Her forehead dropped to the ground, pressing against the earth that cradled your body. A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips. Her body trembled once more.

Then went still.

Zeus stood frozen. Watching. Listening. Feeling — for the first time in an age — the full, unbearable weight of what he had done. The full, unbearable cost of a love he had never understood.

His daughter. His shame. His broken pride. Gone.

The world was smaller now. Quieter. Darker.

And in the center of it all — in the ruin of what had been — two bodies lay together.

Hand in hand.

Side by side.

Together.

Even in death, refusing to be separated. Even now.

Especially now.

Forever.

It was a quiet night. No gods roared. No thunder cracked the sky. Only stars scattered across the heavens, twinkling in solemn silence.

In a small town near the sea, a baby’s first cry rang out — sharp, fierce, full of life.

She kicked her legs wildly, as if already fighting unseen chains.

They named her Alexia.

Her mother laughed through tears, pressing kisses to her damp forehead, whispering promises of love and protection she could never fully keep.

Miles away, across green hills and winding rivers, another newborn blinked up at the ceiling with wide, wondering eyes.

Silent.

Observing.

Her little fingers curled around her father’s thumb — a soft, sure grasp for something she didn’t understand.

They named her Y/N.

Neither family knew.

Neither mother, neither father.

No one knew that inside those tiny bodies lived souls older than cities, souls carrying a love so deep, so stubborn, it had refused to die even when the gods themselves had tried to destroy it.

The world gave them new bodies, new chances. A blank page. A softer beginning.

Alexia learned to run before she learned to speak properly.

Her legs carried her across beaches, through dusty alleys, fast and wild and unstoppable.

There was a fire in her chest even then — an ache she could not name, a hunger to move, to reach, to find something missing. Something... or someone.

Far away, Y/N spent afternoons in fields of yellow flowers, sitting cross-legged in the sun, humming songs with no words. Her mother would ask, "What are you singing, sweetheart?"

Y/N would just shrug. She didn't know. The songs were inside her, old and aching and too big for her tiny body.

Alexia began to dream. Of waves swallowing cities. Of lightning shattering mountains. Of hands — warm hands — slipping away from hers in the dark.

She woke up screaming sometimes, her heart slamming against her ribs. Her parents would rush to her bedside, whispering soft reassurances, stroking her hair.

But she couldn’t explain it. She only knew it felt like losing something she had never really had.

Y/N too dreamed. But hers were softer.

She dreamed of gardens, of laughter she couldn't place, of arms that made her feel safe beyond reason.

When she woke, she cried without understanding why.

One sunny afternoon at a bustling seaside market, their families crossed paths.

Alexia tugged at her father's hand, drawn toward a particular stall — a place thick with the scent of oranges and salt.

Y/N, holding her mother’s hand, skipped past that very stall, laughing at something her brother had said.

For the briefest of moments, their shoulders almost brushed.

Alexia’s head snapped up, her heart tripping over itself.

She looked around wildly, frowning, searching.

But the crowd swallowed Y/N back up before she could see.

Y/N, too, felt it —a sudden shiver down her spine, a pause in her laughter.

She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes scanning the crowd.

Nothing. Only strangers. Only noise.

And so they moved on, carried by the tides of life, two ships passing in the same ocean, never realizing how close they had been.

Alexia was a name starting to be whispered on football fields. Fast. Fearless. Fierce.

She trained until her muscles screamed, played until her lungs gave out. There was a fire in her blood she didn’t know how to put out.

Sometimes, standing on the grass under roaring stadium lights, she felt like she was chasing something she could never quite catch.

Something she was born to find.

Y/N sat at her bedroom window, a guitar balanced on her knees, writing songs by lamplight.

Songs of longing. Songs of missing.

Her friends laughed and teased,

"You're writing love songs about a person you haven’t even met yet!" Y/N only would smile.

Alexia signed her first professional contract.

The world opened before her — wide and brilliant and hungry. And still, at the end of every game, every medal, every headline, she stood alone under the stars and felt the same hollow ache.

She didn't know what it was. Only that she was waiting for something more.

Y/N released her first EP — soft, aching songs about oceans and storms and hands she couldn't hold.

Critics called her a dreamer. She smiled and let them. She didn’t write for them. She wrote for the echo inside her chest.

A charity concert. A football fundraiser.

One of those meaningless little events that no one really paid attention to.

Except fate did.

Alexia stood backstage, waiting for her turn to speak, nervous for the first time in years.

Music floated through the thin walls. Soft. Clear.

A voice like the first breath of spring.

She stopped breathing.

On stage, Y/N sat on a stool with her guitar, eyes closed as she sang.

The song was simple. A song about loving someone across lifetimes.

A song about promises that even time couldn't break.

A song written without knowing why — only knowing that it mattered.

Alexia's legs nearly gave out. Her hands trembled.

Her heart stuttered, then roared in her chest.

And when Y/N opened her eyes and looked straight at her — through the crowd, through the noise, through the years — they both knew.

Without memory.

Without explanation.

Without words.

It was her.

It had always been her.

They fell in love like breathing.

Easily.

Painfully.

Inevitably.

Coffee dates that stretched into sunrise.

Football games with Y/N screaming Alexia's name louder than the whole stadium.

Songs written on scraps of napkins and sung into Alexia’s laughing mouth.

Home.

Finally.

On a warm summer evening,

Alexia sat on a porch swing, a lazy hand running through Y/N's hair as she dozed in her lap.

The sea sighed in the distance.

The stars blinked overhead — the same stars that had witnessed their endings and now, finally, their beginning.

Alexia leaned down, pressing a kiss to Y/N’s forehead.

She didn’t know why, but she whispered anyway

"I've waited my whole life for you."

And Y/N, half-asleep, smiled.

This time, they were home.

Together.

Forever.

(I think this story didn’t go as I expected 😆it’s not good)

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