[kazucee]

📼 ABOUT ME ! MASTER LIST ! SIDE BLOG !

ೀ 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔/𝐂𝐄𝐄 | ADULT (20), THEY/THEM. Your resident star stiched loser, dan heng enthusiast & ruu rug fan & harumasa hater.

★ adopted by the @stellaronhvnters.

I think I'm meant to love 𝖄𝕺𝖀 in every lifetime. my 𝔐𝔒𝔒𝔑, my man. I'm homesick till I'm in your arms again ☾

©PENNED BY 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐂𝐄𝐄 .ᐟ all rights reserved. No form of plagiarism, feeding to AI, or translation will be tolerated.

[usagiarchive]

spar (spear) my heart — tartaglia x reader

. ꕤ ｡ ˚⋆ written for… #TEA99 !! — featuring mila’s blend : a pink cup filled to the brim with matcha tea, served alongside a small portion of caramel flan (fluff/light angst + friendly rivals to lovers + first kiss + mutual pining + "please don't let there be anyone else").

sypnosis. [ 1.57k words ] ajax childe tartaglia x fatui!reader. up above is the can label im ngl. they have history. and they kiss, nothing nsfw.

usagi's note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY SIGMA ALPHA EPSILON FRAT BOY RAHHHHH!!! i wrote in this on the bus, my god being in creatives for any committee is stressful as fuck. enjoy ajax childe tartaglia lvrs!

Ajax had always been your favorite sparring partner.

Not because he was the strongest—though, you'd never admit that because his ego is big enough as it is—but because he was the only one stubborn enough to keep asking for rematches after losing, and cocky enough to demand another after winning.

The only one who fought just as violently and extremely as you did. The other trainees were once warm to you, talking and laughing as you guys started out. 

The delusion changed things. 

With it, you’d felt even more powerful, felt swifter and lighter, moving faster than your fellow trainees can comprehend. Eventually, after getting their ass beat one too many times after being paired up with you, they chose to keep their distance.

That’s when Tartaglia—Childe as you call him—showed up.

You found an opponent who would have no problem injuring you, treating every fight as if it were a real one, but would laugh with you after, gushing over new moves you’d learned and bug you long enough for you to agree to teach him.

You found a friend who pushed you to your limits so you’d improve and would ground you to recognize the progress you’ve made along the way.

Childe brought an unexpected kind of competitiveness and recklessness out of you, one that sometimes shocked even you. He would give every fight his all, relishing in the bloodshed that came with military training.

He wouldn’t go easy—couldn’t, rather, and that excited you.

Wherever he would go, whoever he was paired with, fatality would always follow.

Soon enough, you’d graduated from training and he’d been recruited into the Eleven Fatui Harbingers, being the 11th and youngest member of the group.

Despite it all, he still retained his weekly spars with you.

Childe seeked you out. Taking time out of his busy schedule to see you and eat dinner with you after scuffling.

Both your competitiveness and hunger to do better in spars became the foundation and skyscraper for your friendship. 

12 to 13 became 38 to 40, which became 65 to 63, which led to having over three hundred fights within a few years, and over time, the score had become something of an inside joke between the two of you.

…

153 to 155, in Childe’s favor.

He'd often tease you about it—like you said, big ass ego.

"You're still behind."

You'd raise your brow, "By two."

"I'm literally winning."

"Oh, barely."

"You let me win the last one,” he sing-songs.

You roll your eyes, "Because you wouldn't stop whining about getting more spars in just 'cause you're leaving for Liyue the next morning!—” you stop, abruptly.

A knowing, annoying grin spread across his face.

"So you did let me win."

"..."

"I knew it."

He'd laughed so hard he'd nearly dropped his spear.

You never did correct the score before he left.

You kind of liked that he was ahead by two.

It gave him something to brag about while he was away, and it gave you fuel to await his return to turn the tables.

…

When Ajax finally returned home to Snezhnaya after months in Liyue, the first place he went wasn't his family's home in Morepesok.

Not even the Tsaritsa's office to report.

It was the training grounds.

He'd imagined finding you exactly where he'd left you.

Waiting, complaining that he'd been gone too long, asking for your rematch.

But instead—

He found you in gear, grinning as your sword met someone else's.

Steel rang through the crisp Snezhnayan air as Alexei blocked your strike, both of you laughing before immediately throwing yourselves back into another exchange.

Ajax stopped.

His smile slowly faded.

He stood there for another minute.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like a hunter deciding what to do with prey.

Watching Alexei grin at something you said.

Watching you shove his shoulder after he landed a lucky hit.

Watching someone else occupy the place he'd always had.

Then he quietly turned around.

…

He wasn't avoiding you.

He told himself he wasn't.

He was just… thinking. Yeah, let's say that.

Which was, arguably, much worse.

So when, later, you heard news of him returning from his assignment, you quickly ended training for the day and went looking for him.

…

You found him later that evening sitting behind his office desk inside headquarters, elbows resting on his hands and unusually quiet.

You frowned.

"You're back."

"...Yeah."

Your frown deepened.

"...That's all I get?"

He smiled, barely.

"...How long have you been sparring with Alexei?"

You blinked, confused how he knew that.

"A few weeks after you left. Why?"

His face dropped all emotion.

"Oh."

It worried you.

"...Ajax?"

He picked absent threads from the sleeve of his coat, a habit he never got rid of even during your trainee days.

"What can he do that I can't?"

You stared at him.

"...What?"

He looked up.

Those impossibly blue eyes held none of their usual mischief. None of the teasing, not even challenging. Only uncertainty, and something you couldn't quite name that made you weak in the knees.

"Childe, what are you talking about?"

He suddenly reached over, taking your hand before you could step away.

With one tug, you stumbled forward.

"Childe—"

You landed right in his lap.

One arm instinctively circled your waist to steady you.

His other hand still held yours.

He looked up at you with an expression you'd never seen on him before.

Despite being taller and stronger—what! who said that?—than you, in this moment, Ajax looked so impossibly small.

As if he were that kid in the Abyss again.

As if he was powerless.

"Please," he finally said, his voice wavering, "Don't let there be anyone else."

"Ajax..." his real name finally slipped from your lips, "—What?"

His grip on you tightened ever so slightly.

"Don't replace me."

His voice cracked.

"I know I leave a lot," he swallowed, "I know I get sent away."

"But I won't leave for long."

His lips wobbled.

He bit down on them before the trembling became obvious.

"I will always come back home to you."

His eyes had begun to gloss over.

"...So please."

His hand flexed around you, as if making sure he really was holding you in his arms.

"Please don't let there be anyone else."

Your heart absolutely shattered.

You reached up without thinking, gently taking his face into both of your hands.

His cheeks were cold from the snow.

"You stupid..." you sighed, your thumb brushing against where he'd bitten his lip, "Idiotic..."

Another thumb brushed beneath the corner of one eye before any tears could escape.

"Reckless man."

His shoulders sagged.

"...There is no one else."

He stared.

"It's only ever been you."

"..."

"Ajax," you said softly, "I've never looked at anyone the way I look at you."

His breath hitched, and you smiled warmly.

Then leaned down and pressed the gentlest kiss against his lips.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Like both of you were afraid breathing would ruin it.

When you finally started pulling away—

Ajax chased after your lips almost immediately.

Another kiss.

Short, sweet, and soft.

Followed by another tiny one that made you laugh into his mouth.

"...Had to make sure," he mumbled.

"Oh, did you, now?"

"Mhm."

"Well, this isn't a dream, Harbinger."

He simply looked entirely too pleased with himself.

The two of you stayed there for a while, foreheads pressed together, simply smiling and basking in each other's presence.

Basking in the afterglow of your newfound relationship.

Then Ajax pulled away.

"...Wait."

You hummed.

His brows slowly knitted together.

"Why did you have to find a different sparring partner, then?"

You stared at him.

"..."

You sighed dramatically, "...You really are an idiot."

"Your idiot, I hope," he grinned.

You couldn't help but laugh and cradle his face.

"My handsome idiot."

The flush that bloomed across Ajax's face gave you immeasurable satisfaction. For a man so charming and so effortlessly smooth, the way he looked now was almost unfair, looking as bashful as a teenager hearing his first confession.

He hid half his face behind the collar of his coat.

"...Don't look at me like that."

Your head tilted, half in teasing, half in amusement.

"Like what?"

His eyebrows knitted together.

"Like that."

You giggled, pinching both of his cheeks.

"Ajax, I only trained with other people so I could get better by the time you came home."

His eyes widened.

The idea that, all this time, while he was thinking you’ve replaced him, while he was moping around, seeing you with Alexei—that rat, you were out there thinking of him.

Getting better for him. 

"...Oh."

"Mhm," you nodded, "you owe me about thirty-six spars, you know."

His entire face lit up.

"Thirty-six?"

"Minimum."

His grin stretched impossibly wider.

"Well..."

He stood, lifting you effortlessly with him before setting you back on your feet.

"Guess I should start paying off my debt."

"You really missed sparring with me. It's so adorable."

"And you're still losing by two."

Your eyebrow raised.

"Big words for someone who almost cried because he thought I had replaced him with another sparring partner."

"..."

"..."

"...We're never speaking of that again."

You only laughed.

"Whatever you say, my handsome idiot."

usagi's note: i need to sleep. i need to wake at 2am tomorrow... tags: @amorsial i had a hard time between choosing urs or stelle's for this ginger's bday fic oh my lawd ><

@usagiarchive 2026. do not repost, translate, or use for AI. reblogs, likes, and comments are very appreciated!!

[kazucee]

📼 ABOUT ME ! MASTER LIST ! SIDE BLOG !

ೀ 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔/𝐂𝐄𝐄 | ADULT (20), THEY/THEM. Your resident star stiched loser, dan heng enthusiast & ruu rug fan & harumasa hater.

★ adopted by the @stellaronhvnters.

I think I'm meant to love 𝖄𝕺𝖀 in every lifetime. my 𝔐𝔒𝔒𝔑, my man. I'm homesick till I'm in your arms again ☾

©PENNED BY 𝐊𝐀𝐙𝐔𝐂𝐄𝐄 .ᐟ all rights reserved. No form of plagiarism, feeding to AI, or translation will be tolerated.

[yuechihua]

☾ - title: a strange case of bangboos

☾ - summary: Harumasa brings exact Bangboo replicas of you and your Section Six coworkers to the office. For some reason, his Bangboo won't leave you alone. ☾ - pairing: asaba harumasa x reader ☾ - word count: 3.7k ☾ - tags: spoilers and references for Section Six special episode, fluff ☾ - author's notes || read on ao3 - ☾

There are a few things you’ve come to expect from your coworker, Asaba Harumasa: falling asleep at his desk during the middle of the day, sneaking requests for time off work alongside his pile of overdue reports, and walking into the office several hours late with a ridiculous excuse.

So when Harumasa strolls into the office for once, on time, with a light step and casual wave, it’s enough to make you look up from your flood of paperwork with a confused glance as he throws you a wink.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says cheerily, hand on his hips, stopping just short of entering the office. “I have a surprise for you all!” 

Soukaku and Miyabi, who have been diligently working (read: eating snacks and playing tic tac toe on official bureaucratic documents), are the first to run over. Yanagi remains at her desk, and the two of you exchange wary looks. 

“They’re so cute!” Soukaku says with childish delight, crouching down to mess with something half-hidden behind Harumasa and the open office doors. 

“How lifelike,” Miyabi muses, arms folded.

It’s at this point that you and Yanagi can’t resist striding over to see what Harumasa’s surprise entails. You’re greeted by the sight of several Bangboos crowding behind him. They appear to be custom-made: one in blue, one in black, one in white, and one in your favorite color—they’re the exact same as the Bangboo forms you and your colleagues had taken during a virtual reality attack from a hacker group. 

Soukaku is patting her Bangboo, her eyes bright as the Bangboo (Soukaboo, you decide it should be called) makes happy noises. Miyabi and her Bangboo (Miyaboo would be a good name for it) simply stare at each other without blinking, though after a moment, Miyabi nods, as if coming to some sort of internal decision.

“Bangboo?” Yanagi murmurs. “But why?”

“You can interact with them, you know,” Harumasa interjects.

“Interact with them?” you ask. 

At the sound of your voice, your Bangboo tilts its head at you. It appears to be sizing you up in the same way you’re observing it, with the same measured detachment. It’s a little eerie how similar it is to you, your mannerisms captured in a robot. 

Harumasa’s Bangboo (Asaboo, you dub it in your head) takes a few steps towards your Bangboo and tries to nuzzle it, only for your Bangboo to swiftly sidestep its advances, turning its body away in a clear sign of rejection. Asaboo lets out a sad little sigh, synthetic ears drooping, before it immediately perks up when its gaze alights on you.

“Ehn-nah!” Asaboo says, its mechanical voice sounding like the cheerful jingle of a bell.

Its body is chubby and white, smooth and sleek like the shell of a fat egg, and it preens under your newfound attention. Asaboo spins in a circle, revealing a little red target and arrow on its butt, and it takes all your self control not to throw your arms around it. 

There’s one thing you can’t deny: these Bangboo are absolutely adorable.

“It’s so much cuter than Harumasa,” you say out loud, arms crossed, as Asaboo beeps a little “eh-nah” in agreement, shuffling closer to you as it does.

“I agree,” Yanagi says. “Perhaps we could consider replacing Harumasa with this Bangboo. I imagine reports would come in a much more timely manner if we did.” 

“You know I can hear you, right?” Harumasa says, a faux wounded expression on his face.

“I know,” you say dryly. “But what’s the point of bringing them over? Don’t these look like the time we were turned–”

“It’s a change of pace,” Harumasa interrupts. “I figured we needed our own mascots, don’t you think? Think of the merchandising we can do. And they would brighten up the office.” 

“Yeah?” you say, unconvinced. “Since when did you care about that?”

“Well…” he continues, “There was also a deal at the shop I went to where if you bought one, you could get one free. Why wouldn’t I take advantage of such a good deal?”

Miyabi is watching Harumasa with a contemplative expression, her ear twitching slightly at his words. Before you can ask her what she’s thinking about, Asaboo suddenly tugs at your leg.

You glance down, and its chubby arms are wrapped around your calf, its little face peering up at you with its wide eyes.

“Eh-nah?” it asks, in the cutest, most innocent voice imaginable. 

You can’t stop yourself from reaching down and patting the top of its head. It wiggles at your touch, reaching up its little hands, as if trying to feel the spot where you just pat it to capture your warmth. 

“It’s so cute,” you say fondly. 

At your words, Asaboo jumps up and down in excitement. 

“And it’s oddly attached to you,” Yanagi remarks. “Asaba, what does the AI data for these Bangboos look like?”

For the first time this morning, Harumasa looks abashed, but that doesn’t stop him from responding, “Well, these Bangboos are modeled closely on our personalities.”

“Harumasa, is there something you want to say to me?” you tease. “I don’t recall you being as desperate for my attention as this Bangboo.”

“I think this is very telling, Asaba,” Yanagi says, crossing her arms. 

“What on earth are you two talking about?” Harumasa says, widening his eyes, neatly sidestepping your questions and avoiding your gaze. “Telling in what way? Deputy Chief, don’t tell me you’re feeling left out. Should I order one for you, too?”

“No,” Yanagi says wearily, “That won’t be necessary. I’d rather you save your money for something useful.”

“This is useful, though! It’s excellent for team morale! Don’t you think they’re cute, Soukaku?”

“Hm…” Soukaku looks down at Soukaboo, who does a little hop. “They’re cute! I like them.”

“Don’t drag Soukaku into this!” Yanagi says. 

“I think my Bangboo will make an excellent training partner. I haven’t had a chance to spar with myself yet,” Miyabi interjects in a thoughtful voice. Miyaboo nods its head in agreement.

“Chief, not you, too!”

“I think it’s harmless, Yanagi,” you say. “It’s one of Harumasa’s better ideas.” As you speak, Asaboo tugs on your leg again, looking up at you with a pitiful expression. “Oh, are you feeling left out?”

You reach down and run your gentle fingers along Asaboo’s head, rubbing alongside its ears. It has a smooth, rubbery texture, but if you press down harder, you can feel the vibration and stabilized heat of its whirring machinery beneath its exterior.

Harumasa watches you with a conflicted expression. “Why aren’t you this nice to me?”

“You’re not as cute as Asaboo,” you say resolutely, and Asaboo lets out a little “eh-nah” of agreement. 

Harumasa purses his lips. His eyes narrow at Asaboo, and it’s the exact same expression he has  right before he lets loose an arrow aimed for an Ethereal’s core. “I’m starting to regret this purchase.”

“You’re the one who brought them over. Asaboo hasn’t done anything wrong,” you say. 

“But you’re taking its side!” Harumasa protests. “Against me, your loyal partner! Our bond is forged through countless adversities in the Hollows, against the worst Ethereals New Eridu has ever seen! And you’re choosing a Bangboo over me!”

“Our relationship is strictly business. This is different,” you say, fingers dancing over the top of Asaboo’s ears as it lets out a content sigh. 

“Harumasa’s been replaced,” Miyabi murmurs.

“He’s been replaced,” Yanagi agrees. “Harumasamasa has been replaced!” Soukaku says cheerfully.

“There’s no need to rub it in…” Harumasa glances at your Bangboo, which is peacefully sitting on the floor in a patch of sunlight, staring out one of the windows, oblivious to the chaos around it. He crouches, and holds out his hand, as if to pat its head. “Hey there.” Your Bangboo immediately jumps up and scampers away without looking at Harumasa, resuming its vigil farther away.

“Rejected, even by a Bangboo,” Yanagi murmurs. “Asaba, I’m starting to feel bad for you.”

“Tsukishiro, if you say that, that’s just going to make me feel worse, you know?” Harumasa says ruthfully. “But it’s fine. We can just let them run around a little longer.”

The newest members of Section Six settle into the office with relative ease. The Bangboo are given free range around the office, though you notice that Soukaboo likes to sit near anyone with visible snacks, and Miyaboo is found in increasingly odder positions: on top of the door, hidden in a bookshelf, or tucked under a desk. 

Your Bangboo, on the other hand, is perfectly content to help deliver paperwork or coffee around the office, though it’s not immune from Miyaboo and Soukaboo pulling it into sudden games. Asaboo has no similar luck with your Bangboo, which seems to ignore Asaboo’s attempts to get close. There’s a hint of dissatisfaction in your Bangboo’s expression, though you can’t tell where it’s coming from. 

So Asaboo ends up waddling after you, settling right next to the side of your desk. Whenever you get up to grab a cup of coffee, discuss confidential information with other officers, or simply to stretch, Asaboo immediately jumps up to follow.

“Not interested in playing with the other Bangboo anymore?” you say. The other Bangboo are hopping around in the distance, bouncing a ball Soukaku pulled out from her desk back and forth.

“Eh-nah!” it says, puffing out its chest.

“Well, I’m happy to hang out with you, too.” You pat its head once more, and it gives a wiggle of delight.

“I’m also happy to hang out with you,” Harumasa adds. His desk is right next to yours, so it’s easy for him to see everything that’s going on. You glance at him, with his chair pushed back from his desk, feet propped up on the table, ankles crossed.

“Sure, but you’re not voluntarily spending time with me. We work together,” you respond dryly. You don’t miss how his mouth tugs into a pout, looking for all the world like a displeased cat which has been denied its favorite meal. 

Around lunchtime, when you pick up your packed lunch to head to the break room, Asaboo jumps up and down in the air, holding out its hands.

“Oh? Do you want to carry this for me?” you say, holding the package aloft.

It nods enthusiastically, ears flopping, and you gently place your lunchbox into its hands. Asaboo clutches the bundle to its chest like its most precious treasure, though it’s nothing more than some plastic containers set in a carrying case, with a handle that pops out that Asaboo loops its hand through.

“I could carry that for you,” Harumasa adds. His head is down on his desk, gazing at you through the fringe of his dark eyelashes. They’re unfairly long and pretty.

“Are you sure?” you say, raising your eyebrow. “I thought you said you weren’t capable of lifting anything heavier than a single sheet of paper.” 

“Well, I’m feeling a burst of strength today, so–” Harumasa raises himself from his desk and reaches out towards your lunchbox, but Asaboo leaps back before his hand can even graze it. 

“Eh-eh-nah!” it says defiantly. 

“Oh, you little–”

“Don’t bully Asaboo,” you scold, moving to stand in front of it. “Come on, Harumasa. It’s just a cute little Bangboo.” 

“It just made a face at me,” he says indignantly, throwing his hands up helplessly.

“Well, like you said, the data for its personality is based on you.”

With that, you and Asaboo head towards the break room, Asaboo wobbling behind you cheerfully the entire time. The break room itself is surprisingly spacious, with floor to ceiling windows, tasteful plants tucked in corners, and clusters of tables and cushy chairs scattered about. Various gleaming, stainless state of the art kitchen appliances are huddled in the corner. It’s one of the nicer break rooms you’ve seen, and you have HSO budget to thank for that.

Asaboo quickly runs to a table near one of the windows, and hops up to place your lunchbox on the table. It’s a quiet spot, away from the other officers, and the sunlight pleasantly warms the area.

“Did you choose this place on purpose? You’re so thoughtful,” you coo, and Asaboo ducks its head, raising its hands to cover its face in embarrassment. Really, when it reacts like that, it’s hard to imagine Asaboo derives its personality from Harumasa. It’s not as if Harumasa isn’t thoughtful; in fact, you have a feeling the presence of the Bangboo is his roundabout way to make everyone happy, somehow. 

But Harumasa, clinging to your leg, or following you everywhere? It’s hard to imagine. Is that how he really wants to act around you, or is it simply that Asaboo has its own individual quirks, separate from the influence of Harumasa’s personality data? Despite Yanagi’s earlier comment about how “telling” Asaboo’s reactions are, your own teasing, and Harumasa’s reticent response, it’s not a clear marker for Harumasa’s own feelings. 

You’re not sure you want to use Asaboo to measure Harumasa’s feelings, either. That brings up its own complications, especially regarding your own emotions towards Harumasa. It would be a lie to say that Asaboo being Harumasa’s Bangoo doesn’t make you extra sweet to it. Well, that and the mischievous desire in you to see Harumasa pout. After all, it’s payback for all the teasing you’ve endured from him since the two of you joined Section Six.

You enjoy a quiet lunch with Asaboo, though once you’re both back at the office and you’re settled at your desk, Asaboo lets out a little “eh-nah” when it sees Soukaku holding up a picture to her Bangboo, a crayon drawing of her and Soukaboo in a field of flowers, holding hands. It immediately leaps up and heads out the door. You don’t have time to wonder at its behavior, though, not when you have a mountain of tasks that’s piled up since you were away at lunch.

“Your loyal companion left. Want me to take its place?” Harumasa offers.

“Get back to work, Harumasa.”

Ten minutes later, you’re interrupted from your workflow by the patter of mechanical feet and something tugging at your leg.

You look down to see Asaboo, covered in mud and grass stains, a trail of dirty footprints behind it, and a proud expression on its face as it clutches a flower in its hand. In contrast to Asaboo’s appearance, the flower is pristine, with soft, pure yellow petals.

“Eh-nah!” Asaboo says. It holds the flower in your direction.

“Oh, Asaboo, where did you get this? Is this for me?” you ask. You gingerly take the flower from its hand, and Asaboo looks proudly at you.

“Eh-nah. Ehn-nah-nah!” It jumps up and down for emphasis. 

“I’ll cherish it forever,” you promise, and carefully place the flower on your desk. You’ll ask Soukaku to help you press it later so you can preserve it. Was that why Asaboo had been looking at Soukaku’s drawing? Because it was thinking of you?

“If you want flowers, I can give you some, too, without ripping up the building’s lawn,” Harumasa says. He looks at you sleepily, with that familiar pout curling around his mouth.

“Then why haven’t you?” you tease him. “Besides, think about it. If Asaboo gives me a flower, isn’t it essentially the same as if you gave me the flower yourself?”

“It’s completely different,” he protests. “It’s not like I knew you wanted flowers. And Asaboo isn’t me. If anything, it’s…” He brings a hand to his tie, which already hangs loose from his collar, and unconsciously slides the knot lower. 

“It’s what?” 

“The Bangoo weren’t meant to do any of this,” he says. 

“I thought you said these Bangboo were bought on a whim,” you say.

“I did. That’s not exactly wrong, but…” Harumasa hops up on your desk, perching on a spot free from papers or office supplies. He crosses his legs, and you swing your office chair in his direction. “Sometimes, if you have a bitter memory, you can overwrite it by facing it over and over until you get used to it and it’s no longer so painful, right? Like exposure therapy.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Asaboo, at some point, has slowly run off to find the other Bangboo. They circle each other and jump around, an innocent dance of happiness, though Asaboo is watching your Bangboo more intensely than anything else in the room.

“Are you talking about the time we were turned into Bangboo?” you venture. It’s a memory whose threat has faded with time, becoming less of a menace and more of a funny office story to relay to coworkers. Dangerous situations and odd circumstances come part and parcel with your job.

Still, you can remember the sensation of being a Bangboo with startling clarity: the virtual buildings of Lumina Square inflating in size around you, wobbling on legs you weren’t used to, unable to wield a weapon. When you lifted your hands, a shock would jolt through you to see metal and not limbs and fingers. It’s a feeling of helpless you aren’t eager to return to.

“I was the first to turn into a Bangboo,” Harumasa says ruthfully. “And I couldn’t do anything. I had to watch everyone fight, knowing every second we wasted was a second closer to death. I had to watch you put your life at risk to keep me safe, and I couldn’t do anything at all. Everyone here is strong, but…” He taps his fingers on your desk. “You all pretend to be fine when you’re really not.”

How long has this been on his mind? It must have been what Miyabi noticed right away, from the very moment Harumasa started showing off the Bangboo. You slowly cover his hand with one of your own, entangling your fingers together. The heavy fabric of his gloves brush against your bare fingers, but you can still feel the bump of his knuckles, the curve of the back of his hand.

No one else in the office can see the two of you right now, the front of your desk with your computer and stack of books and folders acting as a barrier from the rest of the world.

“Harumasa.” You dip a finger under his glove, to feel the tender, warm, uncertain flesh underneath and trace designs on the back of his hand. His breath hitches. “You don’t need to take on everything yourself. You also like to pretend you’re fine when you’re not; you can rely on us a little more.”

“So the Bangboo weren’t a good idea, huh?” The joke comes out light-hearted and weak.

“No, they’re very cute,” you say. “I really like them, even if you don’t. But if you want to overwrite bitter memories, I think we should all do it together.”

A heated intensity steals across Harumasa’s face, his attention on you as unwavering and steady as a shaft of blazing summer light. “Together? Do you promise that?”

He bends his head a little closer, and you tilt your head upwards in response. Whatever it is he offers, you’ll accept.

However, before either of you can make another move, there’s a great crash, metal slamming on cold tile, and you instantly rise from your seat to seek out the source of the noise. In the middle of the offic, you see Asaboo collapsed on the floor, sprawled over like a fallen egg on its side.

“Oh no,” you murmur. But before you can rush over, something astonishing happens. Your Bangboo, which previously has ignored Asaboo, immediately leaps to Asaboo’s side, patting its head with its hands.

“Ehn-nah,” your Bangboo says worriedly.

“Eh-ne-ne,” Asaboo says back in a faint tone.

Your Bangboo cradles Asaboo’s hand in its own as it helps Asaboo stand. Asaboo leans on your Bangboo, though you can’t help but feel Asaboo’s steps are a little too energetic as your Bangboo guides it out of the door, their hands entangled together the whole time, probably to find a charging port or a mechanic. 

“Huh? I thought their Bangboo didn’t like Asaboo!” Soukaku says. She jumps up from her chair. Miyabi and Yanagi are clustered around Soukaku’s desk, ostensibly discussing some business that’s been interrupted by the Bangboo drama. “It didn’t want to play with Asaboo before!”

“I wonder if their Bangboo was just shy towards Asaboo,” Yanagi theorizes. “Or it’s possible it was jealous, too, of Asaboo clinging to someone else.”

“It’s most likely both,” Miyabi says. “I believe it’s always cared for Asaboo, and Harumasa by extension, but would loathe to let everyone know the extent of its feelings.”

Your face heats up as everyone’s gazes swing towards you, like bright stage lights revealing you to an audience you didn’t realize was there. You don’t even want to look at Harumasa, still perched on your desk, because you can already imagine the smug, overly pleased expression on his face. 

“I think we should talk about something else,” you suggest hastily. “Don’t you think Asaboo’s behavior was a little strange?”

“As Asaboo’s owner and foremost expert,” Harumasa says, one hand cupped around his chin, “I think it’s obvious Asaboo was faking its sudden bout of dizziness in order to get the attention of your Bangboo.”

“Why does that sound exactly like something you would pull off?” you say. “Like owner, like Bangboo.”

“Speaking of… I feel a little faint… I think… I need to lean on you…” Harumasa, with no attempt to hide his theatrics, begins to lean strategically in your direction, face landing on your shoulder, slumping his entire body so his weight falls on you.

“Asaba Harumasa, can you at least pretend to hide your intentions?”

“Can’t hear you… Still dizzy… We need to hold hands or I’ll fall…” 

Harumasa reaches for your hand with surprising speed, but you tuck it behind your back so he can’t hold it. He takes the opportunity to wrap his arms around you instead, and it takes all your willpower not to shove him off and onto the floor. 

You can still feel the gaze of your other coworkers upon you, and hear the whisper of their conversation, though they aren’t making any effort to hide their comments.

“They’re embarrassed,” Miyabi says quietly.

“They’re very embarrassed,” Yanagi says.

“Super embarrassed!” Soukaku chirps. You close your eyes, face still hot. From now on, you’re not going to underestimate Harumasa’s or Asaboo’s capacity for cunning. As cute as the Bangboo are, maybe they are more trouble than they’re worth.

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⟢ OFF THE GRID ┊ PHAINON

synopsis. being the race engineer for formula one's most reckless driver is no walk in the park. especially when you two have a relationship that probably (definitely) breaks several hr protocols. unfortunately for you, phainon is a natural at making you want more than you should.

✦ content. 13k words. phainon x afab!reader. modern au. formula one au. unprofessional work relationships. cat-and-dog banter in public, fucking around in private. coworkers with benefits. light angst. explicit smut (minors dni).

✦ foreword. this lovely piece was commissioned by beloved mae @elysiumae, my fellow f1 connoisseur who is the chillest person ever even if i blatantly told her that i lowkey wish for the downfall of her favorite team /silly BHSFHBGJDN thank you for your patronage and the abject trust that i can bring this to life UEUEUEU you witnessed just how harrowing the writing process was firsthand T_T

BEFORE YOU READ you might want to consider viewing the f1 crash course for dummies i put together, which also doubles as the accompanying extended author's note for this fic! i wrote this in a way that should be comprehensible to non-f1 fans, but if you're curious about some of the terminologies that i used in the fic, that's a nice post to browse first!

Lushaka in midsummer is unforgiving.

The humidity seeps into your clothes, the scent of fuel clings to your hair, and the comms line hasn’t been quiet for a single minute since dawn. You feel the weight of every eye in the grandstands waiting to see if your team can hold its crown.

Chrysos Racing’s garage breathes with the same tension as it always does. Mechanics and engineers bustle about in their gold-trimmed uniforms, and the air is dense with the tang of fuel and scorched rubber. Screens flicker, telemetry scrolls, radios hiss. At the center of it all sits you, the race engineer directly wired into your driver’s radio.

Phainon’s car is already out on track like a streak of gleaming sunlight against the dark curve of the circuit. He drives as if Lushaka itself bends to him, attacking the corners and shattering sector times like it’s something he always does on the weekends—the picture of reckless brilliance as always.

The roar of his engine cuts through the audio feed, vibrating in your chest so loud you swear you can feel it in your teeth. As he blazes down the back straight, the telemetry data spikes red and your pulse stutters. He’s pushing harder than he should, earlier than he should, and you already feel the strategy unraveling under his hands.

“Phainon, you’re burning through the tires,” you mutter. “Back off two-tenths and box this lap.”

He doesn’t radio back in right away. There’s always a pause—that infuriating pause, as though he savors leaving you suspended between obedience and rebellion. But before you can repeat yourself, his voice threads through the static, smooth enough to curl around your ribs.

“Sounds like you don’t trust me to bring her home.”

You close your eyes before inhaling sharply through your nose. “It’s not about trust. It’s about strategy. If you keep this up, you’ll be crawling behind Dan Heng by the final stretch.”

A low chuckle vibrates through your headset like honey over gravel. He’s smiling—you can hear it even over the howl of his car. “You’re grumpier than usual today,” Phainon comments as he veers down a tight chicane. “Didn’t you get enough sleep last night?”

Your hands freeze over the keyboard as the data starts to blur on-screen. Heat sparks straight to your throat, not from embarrassment, but from the sharp edge of memory: tangled sheets, his mouth at your neck, the press of his body keeping you awake long past midnight. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He always does. The words are innocent enough to pass for banter over the radio, but the weight of them is for you alone.

“Just come in for a pit stop or I might actually strangle you.”

“As you wish, Chief,” he chuckles.

Of course, he ignores you completely and sails past the pit entry at blistering speed, tires screaming as he plunges into another lap.

Not for the first time, you wonder how he doesn’t crash. By every metric, Phainon is the more erratic of Chrysos Racing’s golden duo. Mydei tempers his car like a blade, never stepping beyond what can be controlled. Phainon, though—he gambles with physics. He flirts with disaster and threads the needle where no sane driver dares. But damn him, he makes it work. There is genius inside the madness, precision tucked beneath the recklessness, and a brutal elegance that lets him pull off miracles Mydei would never attempt.

So when the checkered flag drops, and he crosses the line in third despite his constant delinquency, you aren’t surprised. But even if it should feel like a victory, it doesn’t.

When the podium ceremony is over, and the photo-ops are finished, you’re waiting for him in one of the back rooms of the garage for a one-on-one debrief. The scent of hot rubber clings to the air when he finally strolls in, fireproofs peeled down to his waist and sweat streaking his temples. He’s glowing with the kind of reckless triumph that makes you want to throttle him right then and there.

“Not a bad day,” he says, leaning against the wall as though the room belongs to him. “A podium’s a podium, right?”

You step closer with your jaw set with annoyance. “You could’ve taken first if you’d listened to me. Your tires were shredded, your braking was messy, and you bled seconds off every lap. You cost yourself points. Again!”

Phainon tilts his head, watching you with that infuriatingly calm gaze. Then he smiles. “Strange. I don’t recall you minding when I ignored you last night and kept going.”

Now that punches the breath out of you. “You—”

He doesn’t let you finish. The devil himself closes the distance between you in a few strides, cupping your jaw delicately before his mouth slants against yours.

Phainon tastes like salt and adrenaline, stealing the words right out of your throat as he backs you against the wall. You push at him, nails catching against the damp fabric of his undershirt, but when he groans against your lips you pull him closer, caught in the undertow despite your simmering rage. The garage is still buzzing on the other side of the walls, but in here, it’s only him, the grip of his hands, and the thrum of your pulse answering the race he just ran.

A knock splinters the moment.

“Phainon,” a staffer calls through the door. “They’re waiting for you to film something with Mydei. Is it okay to steal you away for that?”

His forehead rests against yours, breathing raggedly and unwilling to move. “Tell them I’m busy,” he mutters, his mouth brushing yours again.

“Go,” you hiss even though your fingers are still twisted in his shirt.

Your reckless driver both on and off the track laughs low in his chest, and you feel yourself shudder from the mere vibrations of it. He kisses you once more—slower this time, as though he's making a promise. Phainon pulls back with a smirk curling at his lips as he slips toward the door.

“Don’t run off, yeah? I’ll come find you.”

And then he’s gone, leaving the room thick with gasoline and the taste of him as your heart hammers faster than his car ever could.

If anyone told your younger self you’d end up on the pit walls of several Formula 1 Grand Prix, calling strategy for one of the most volatile drivers on the grid—you would’ve laughed. Race engineering was never the plan. You were supposed to build, not babysit. Temper engines, not egos.

But fate had other ideas.

Your childhood friend, Aglaea, the ever-golden face of Chrysos Racing’s public relations, called one evening and said it like it was no big deal: “We’re looking for a new race engineer. You’re more than qualified.”

You sat on the decision for weeks. Because deep down, you knew she was right, and that terrified you. You’ve seen paddocks in streams you caught on TV. They were all littered with men in polos and pressed trousers, sporting practiced smiles and assumptions sharper than steel. These were people who dedicated their entire lives to the skill of the drivers representing their team.

When you visited Aglaea at the circuit at her insistence, you didn’t miss the way several eyes slid over you when you trailed behind their PR manager like some lost puppy. Like a woman in the paddock was an accessory, not a mind worth adding onto the roster.

So when the offer letter came through from Chrysos Racing, you’d almost turned it down.

Until you met Anaxa.

The team principal of Chrysos Racing wasn’t the type to mince words. He’d lost an eye in an unfortunate explosion during his early years as a car designer, and rumor has it, he saw things others couldn’t—weak points, hidden angles, potential buried under noise. When you shook his hand for the first time, he looked at you like you were a puzzle he already understood.

“I don’t particularly care what the rest of them think,” he said. “I’ve read your research and evaluated your work thus far. You don’t need to prove you belong here. You just need to show me that you can keep up with the way we do things.”

You marched into their main office the next day to submit the necessary paperwork.

Since then you’ve lived up to Anaxa’s expectations—over and over again. You spent countless nights studying how to interpret telemetry data until your eyes blurred, learned how to read Phainon’s driving style like an evolving language, and pulled strategy from chaos when even Mydei’s side of the garage faltered.

But the whispers never really stopped.

Lucky hire. Anaxa’s pet project. Pretty face with good connections.

It didn’t matter how many races you optimized or how many precious milliseconds you scraped off a lap—every time you walked through the paddock alone, the air shifted. Conversations dimmed. Glances lingered a little too long before sliding away. The same old narrative followed you, as persistent as engine oil beneath your nails.

You learned not to care. You were here to do your job. The only person you were meant to build any real rapport with was the driver whose voice filled your headset for two hours straight every race weekend.

Somewhere down the line though, you might have built said rapport a little too well.

You were the one who set the rules.

No touching where others could see. No visiting hotel rooms after ten. No calls that weren’t about work.

Phainon laughed as you listed them out. “You make it sound like I’m the problem.”

“You are the problem,” you told him. “And I like my job, so don’t make me lose it.”

You tell yourself it works. You were careful. Professional, even. But control has a strange way of dissolving when it’s three in the morning, when the data from free practice won’t line up, and Phainon’s sitting beside you in a hotel room in the Luofu wearing a dri-fit shirt that smells faintly of his favorite cologne.

His knee brushes yours once, twice, until it’s no longer an accident. You try to keep talking about tire degradation and entry speeds, but then he leans in with one hand braced on the mattress, his voice tinged with something deeper than desire.

“Show me again where you think I’m losing time.”

You point at the screen to explain the angle, the split second of hesitation on Turn 8. But he isn’t looking at the video anymore. His gaze drifts to your mouth, sparkling blue in the low light. You can feel the question forming in the air between you like a dare neither of you ever say out loud.

And you always know what happens next.

Phainon kisses you with your laptop still prepped on your thighs—the heat permeating through your sweatpants as his lips move in tandem with yours. You’re unsure of how and when he got you to this point, where you’d respond to his shameless advances so willingly, it almost feels like instinct.

His lips part, and his tongue sweeps a slow, intoxicating path over yours. The kiss deepens, becoming greedy and desperate and entirely him. All thought of those silly data metrics evaporates like steam. The knot of anxiety that was tightening in your chest all night over the free practice numbers finally loosens into pure, unadulterated sensation.

Your laptop—that crucial, data-filled anchor of your control—is suddenly a hot, inconvenient barrier. Phainon seems to agree. He pulls back just enough to look at it, a faint smirk playing on his lips, his eyes heavy-lidded and blazing blue.

"You'd let me into your hotel room for more than just our briefings, won't you?" he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip.

Your pride wants you to bark out in protest, but instead your lips wrap around his thumb as you suckle and lick, which only makes his self-satisfied smile curve wider. With his other hand, Phainon reaches down, his fingers brushing over the hot aluminum shell of the computer. With a decisive thump, he flips the screen shut and shoves it roughly toward the foot of the bed, where it lands with a soft bounce on the comforter.

You don't even protest.

Phainon leans back in to ease you gently down onto the pillows as his thumb prods at the flat of your tongue. His body weight is a welcome pressure against yours, and when he withdraws his hand, the press of his lips on yours is encompassing—a demanding blend of heat and taste as the scent of him drowns you in heady ecstasy. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, needing him to erase the last vestiges of your self-control.

You shift, trying to get closer to the warm, smooth skin of his chest beneath the dri-fit material. He takes the hint and breaks the kiss only to drag the hem of his shirt up and over his head, tossing it somewhere into the dark silence of the room. Phainon's skin is warm and flawlessly defined from years of keeping himself in shape. His hands slide from your face to the curve of your hip, just shy of the waistband of your sweatpants.

The contact reminds you that you are a professional, but only sometimes.

Tonight, you are just his.

The heat building between you is instantaneous, driven by his touch. You gasp into his mouth when he kisses you again, and Phainon seems to take it as a cue to pull his lips from yours. He trails a searing line of kisses down your jaw and across the soft curve of your neck, making your fingers curl desperately in his ivory tresses.

As he moves lower, he settles his head by your hip, his breath a humid puff against your skin where your midriff just sits below the hem of your own shirt. The sudden loss of pressure makes you whine, reaching instinctively for him, but before you can pull him back up, Phainon simply smiles.

"Shhh," he murmurs against your stomach, the sound muffled by your top. He uses his forearm to prop himself up, his eyes locking onto yours before he shamelessly says:

"Sit on my face."

Your eyes widen, momentarily pulling you out of the haze of desire. The suggestion is so blunt, so utterly Phainon, and so far outside the bounds of your careful, professional life that it’s almost funny. You try to pull back as a flush of pure, mortified surprise rushes over your cheeks.

"Are you serious?" you manage. "That's... that's not happening."

He just grins wider, the cocky, self-assured smirk that has won him three championships and put him on countless magazine covers. He reaches up and gently rests his hand against your inner thigh.

"Why not? Don't tell me you’re worried about my neck," he challenges, his tone dripping with mock injury. He leans closer before his voice drops into a low, seductive rumble that is meant for your ears alone. "Chief, I can withstand the lateral G-force when I'm taking the fastest corner on the circuit. I can handle a few more pounds of your pleasure, I promise."

The sheer audacity and the way he uses his professional fitness to justify his demands, is infuriating. And yet... the reminder of his physical strength, his absolute control over his body, only fuels the reckless, dissolving control in your own. You chew the inside of your cheek as you meet his challenging gaze. You hate that he knows exactly how to break you down, how to leverage your shared world into this private one.

"Fine," you grit out, the word thick with reluctant surrender. "Just don't you dare bite me."

Phainon’s eyes flash with victory. "Never."

When you reluctantly manage to kick off your sweatpants, he gives you a gentle tug on your thigh, a clear instruction. You push yourself up and maneuver over him. Your heart is hammering against your ribs as you plant your knees on either side of his head. When you settle yourself over his face, guided by the slow, firm pressure of his hands on your hips, embarrassment coils with anticipation.

His grips grounds you, keeping you locked in place, and you close your eyes as the rhythmic, focused drive of the world's fastest driver is now entirely dedicated to getting you off. Phainon is utterly meticulous. There is nothing soft or hesitant about his work.

His mouth is a hot, wet vice. He starts with a savage, deliberate sweep, his tongue lashing at your slick folds like a piston. He drills his tongue in tight, tight rings around your already swollen clit until a desperate half-grunt, half-whimper is bellowed from your lungs. His grip on your hips becomes unforgiving, slamming your pelvis against his face as the pressure concentrates. You can feel the sharp bone and muscle beneath your thighs—rooting him to the spot like an anchor, refusing to let you escape.

He starts to use his teeth—a rough, controlled graze that rips a jolt of fire through your core. He alternates between that shallow, grinding friction and deep, obscene suction that sends your hips thrashing mindlessly into his mouth.

Your hands are flat against the headboard, the only goddamn thing keeping you from shattering into pieces. You try to lift off him and away from his sinful tongue, desperate to break the contact, but Phainon's hands clamp down in firm and utter dominance. You can feel the ragged effort in his breathing; he’s pushing his own limits for this.

"You want this," he snarls, his voice vibrating against your wet skin. "Stop fighting. Let go and break for me."

The control you prized so much snaps. You stop fighting the sound, letting out a raw, guttural moan as the pressure inside becomes a screaming siren. Your hips slam down onto his face, a desperate, animalistic reaction to the brilliant pleasure he's coaxing out of your skin.

Your climax hits like a lightning strike. Every muscle in your body convulses, your toes spasming as the shockwave shreds through you. You drop your head back, fingers digging into the headboard as you are utterly consumed and devoured by the shattering sensation.

Phainon doesn't stop. He holds you right there, maintaining the relentless, punishing rhythm as he drives you further up the wall. He works the sensitive peak with the savage concentration of a conqueror, demanding every last desperate drop of your surrender. He punishes the final, violent tremors, the deep, focused suction pulling you apart until your hips finally fall slack against his face.

He lets out a satisfied sound of conquest before he finally eases up, not pulling away, but simply licking your aching slit clean in a way that has you shuddering. He shifts his weight and you slide off him, collapsing onto the pillows in a slick, utterly ruined heap.

He rolls over instantly, hauling you against his damp, hot body, his arm clamping around your shoulders like a permanent shackle. You lie tangled together, your breath hitching, the metallic tang of lust and his cologne thick in the quiet room.

"See?" he rasps, his spit-slicked lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Pure, optimal performance. You just needed the right driver."

You don't have the strength to argue, only enough to bury your face into his skin and inhale the scent of his shirt. You hate that he can unravel you that easily. You hate even more how you let him.

Because when it’s over, it’s you who’s the first to pull away. You set your laptop upright and play the video pretend like nothing’s changed. He just lies there, half-smiling despite the obvious tent in his sweats, eyes tracing you like a secret he intends to keep.

“Back to work already?” he teases.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t crash tomorrow.”

He laughs softly. “You say that like you aren’t the reason I push harder.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you parse through the footage, the two of you watching the ghost of his car dance through corners on replay. He leans over your shoulder, fingers brushing your wrist as he points at map of the circuit flashed on the screen.

“If I take this line tighter next race—”

“You’ll spin out.”

He hums, unconvinced. “Or I’ll overtake Dan Heng.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you, thrumming hard enough that you fear he can hear it himself.

This—whatever it is between you—exists somewhere between precision and chaos. The same line Phainon drives on track. The same one you pretend you aren’t already following him across.

You never meant to attend the fellowship event.

Evenings after race weekends were meant for data reviews, simulation tweaks, and obsessing over split-second sector times—not networking in banquet halls dressed up like opera stages. But Aglaea has a way of bulldozing past your excuses with the grace of a wrecking ball wrapped in silk.

“Networking builds longevity,” she tells you, adjusting the drape of her gold lamé gown in your hotel room mirror. “You can’t hide behind your data spreads forever.”

“I’m not hiding,” you mutter before tugging at the hem of your far more modest dress. “I just don’t like… people. Especially all those F1 moguls.”

Aglaea smirks. “You seem to like Phainon just fine.”

You choke. “That’s different.”

“Mm. Sure it is,” she says, entirely unconvinced, then hooks her arm through yours and marches you out before you can even think of retreat.

This special fellowship is set in a glass-domed pavillion overlooking the neon sprawl of Xianzhou Luofu, where the air is thick with thrum of strings and conversation—executives, engineers, and drivers mingling beneath soft amber lights that glinted off champagne flutes. The room smells faintly of perfume, money, and the sweet, antiseptic scent of success.

You feel like an impostor in a dress that doesn’t fit right and shoes that hurt. Everywhere you look, people talk in numbers and contracts, in performance margins and brand partnerships. You understood every technical term that left their lips, but you still feel like a translation out of sync.

“Smile,” Aglaea whispers as she presses a wineglass into your hand. “You look like you’re about to file for resignation.”

“Because I might.”

She grins. “At least do it after the dessert course.”

You try to keep up with Aglaea as she glides through the room. She’s in her element among the polished glass and velvet conversations, all charm and poise and practiced warmth. You, meanwhile, are doing your best not to trip over your own heels.

It’s easier to blend into her shadow. You sip quietly, ears half-tuned to the thrum of conversation, as you drift to the checklist on your phone for tomorrow’s race sim.

“The bright mind behind Chrysos’ latest tech upgrade, yes? Anaxa must be proud,” someone says in passing.

You manage a polite nod. “Something like that.”

They’re already gone before your words settle in the air. You exhale softly. Perfect. Let them keep talking to Aglaea—she thrives on the attention. You thrive on the quiet.

You’re halfway through calculating corner entry deltas in your head when a shadow falls beside you.

“New race engineer for Chrysos, aren’t you?”

The voice is low, smooth, and just rough enough to draw your gaze. When you turn, you’re met with the unmistakable sight of Jing Yuan—the Silver Lion of High Cloud Racing. Even off the track, he looks the part: silver hair perfectly disheveled, posture languid yet sharp, eyes the color of late afternoon sun through smoke.

“Ah—yes,” you manage, gripping your glass tighter. “That’s right.”

“I thought so,” he muses, eyes flicking over your face with idle curiosity. “You were the one who helped reconfigure Chrysos’ aero balance this season. Clever adjustment. I was wondering who’d had the nerve to override Anaxa’s preferred model.”

You blink. “You… noticed that?”

Jing Yuan smiles. “Hard not to, when it shaved three-tenths off Phainon’s lap in Edo Star.”

You laugh awkwardly. “Most people remember the driver, not the one crunching data behind him.”

“Then most people don’t understand how the world works,” he says simply, tone carrying an easy confidence. “The best engines in the world still need hands to tame them. And the best drivers need minds that can keep up.”

The compliment catches you off guard. You open your mouth to deflect it, but he’s already leaning a little closer, his voice dipping low enough that it threads through the music.

“Tell me, do you ever tire of trying to contain a storm like him?”

You meet his gaze, heartbeat hitching. “Is this how High Cloud Racing recruits?”

“Recruit?” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “No. I prefer to think of it as… recognizing potential.” His smile turns almost feline. “And letting it know there’s someplace else waiting for it.”

You shake your head, though your pulse betrays you. “That’s not really something you should say lightly, Jing Yuan.”

He hums. “You’re right. It isn’t. Good thing I never say things I don’t mean.”

Jing Yuan pauses just long enough for the silence to tighten. “If you ever decide you’d rather focus on cultivating talent instead of taming it, you’ll find High Cloud’s doors open. And I’m not just talking about a job offer.”

The last line lands like a spark against dry kindling. You can’t tell if he’s teasing, or if that slow, measured drawl is exactly what it sounds like—an invitation wrapped in metaphor.

Your lips part, searching for something clever, something safe to say, but all that comes out is a faint, “You’re quite bold for someone I just met.”

“Age has its privileges,” he chuckles. “So does admiration.”

For a fleeting second, it’s almost easy to forget the world beyond this little pocket of stillness—the soft hum of music, the heat of his gaze, the faint brush of his sleeve against yours when he sets his empty glass down beside your untouched one.

Then Jing Yuan steps back, bowing his head slightly—a gentleman’s farewell disguised as retreat. “I do hope you think about it, Engineer.”

He leaves you with nothing but the ghost of his cologne as he disappears into the crowd. But before you can let your thoughts overwhelm you, Aglaea gets to you first.

“There you are,” she sighs, tugging you back into the crowd. “I turn my back for five minutes and you vanish. Who were you talking to?”

You hesitate, fingers tightening around your glass. It would be so easy to tell her. Aglaea, of all people, would know what to make of a casual conversation with Jing Yuan. She’d dissect it, turn it into something neat and manageable like a bullet point in a team briefing.

“Just someone from High Cloud,” you say lightly. “Small talk.”

Aglaea gives you a knowing look. “Right, yes. And your face is red because…?”

“It’s humid.”

You are spared further interrogation when the room itself seems to shift—voices dipping, attention pulling toward the entrance. The double doors part in a wash of light and murmurs.

Phainon and Mydei have arrived.

Even in a room full of power, they have an allure that gravitates everything toward them. Mydei in his sharp obsidian suit; Phainon beside him donned in blue and ivory, his expression the perfect blend of poise and distance. The gold lights caught in his ivory hair, glinting off the small pin at his lapel—the Chrysos insignia.

Aglaea is saying something, but you barely hear her. Because Jing Yuan’s offer is still buzzing faintly under your skin. You aren’t the type to be swayed by flattery. Chrysos gave you a chance, a platform, a purpose. You were fine here. More than fine.

Yet, as Phainon’s crystalline gaze finds you, your pulse skips.

Maybe that was the problem.

Before your first ever race as Phainon’s race engineer, Castorice (Mydei’s race engineer, and one of the few women in the entire pit lane who wasn’t constantly underestimated) told you about your driver’s… habits on the track.

“He’s not reckless,” she said in a way that kind of suggested otherwise. “He’s just instinctive. Problem is, his instincts scare the hell out of everyone else.”

You nodded along, of course. You’ve done your research. Watched every onboard, memorized every twitch of Phainon’s steering wheel and every clipped apology he’d uttered after spinning out in the middle of a fight for position. All the information you needed was practically etched in the back of your eyelids. You were ready.

Or so you thought.

“Box box,” you told him through the radio, keeping your tone even despite the chaos unfolding on-screen. “We’re changing the front-wing configuration.”

“Copy that.”

Your eyes were glued to the data feed, waiting for the expected dip in speed that would mean he’d entered the pit lane. Instead, his delta time turned green.

“Phainon,” you radioed in again as your gut starts to twist. “You missed the pit entry.”

“Did I?” he mused playfully, like he was amused. “Just want to see how the car holds up in clean air.”

You exhaled sharply, watching his telemetry spike through the high-speed chicane. He was meant to be collecting aerodynamic data, not running Practice 1 like it was Sunday already.

By Practice 2, you’d learned two things: one, Phainon had an almost supernatural ability to make people like him, even when he was driving you insane. And two, he treated limits like vague suggestions rather than rules.

“Phainon, brake bias to the rear. You’re losing stability into Turn 9.”

“Gotcha—oh. You mean this turn?”

The telemetry spiked yet again. You could practically hear the tires screaming.

“Don’t you dare—”

Too late.

He drifted. Perfectly. On purpose.

The entire garage erupted in half groans and half cheers. From across the divider, Castorice yelled through her mic, “You’ve got your hands full over there, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You were too busy recalculating tire degradation and questioning every career choice you’d ever made.

Practice 3 wasn’t much better. Phainon had taken to calling you “Chief” over the radio and every instruction you gave was met with either stubborn experimentation or outright mischief. When you told him to lift and coast, he sang a few bars of some pop song instead.

By the time qualifying rolled around, you’d stopped expecting miracles. You just wanted a clean session. Of course, you didn’t get one.

Phainon pushed too hard. His final lap was sloppy in Sector 2, costing him enough time to drop to P5 on the grid. Mydei, calm and clinical as ever, secured pole position. The cheers on his side of the garage were deafening. You forced yourself to smile, to clap, to look like you weren’t quietly imploding.

The next few circuits passed in a blur of half-wins and hollow podiums.

At the Vonwacq Grand Prix, you’d rewritten your entire strategy sheet overnight, anticipating every one of Phainon’s worst habits. You thought if you could just outthink him, you could rein him in. But the moment the lights went out, he slipped free again—taking risks on the tightest corners like he’d made a deal with gravity. He placed fourth. You didn’t sleep that night.

Then came Pegana. The humidity there turned the track into a sauna where engines practically boiled beneath the glare. You’d told him to conserve his tires. He’d agreed, sounded obedient, even until Lap 38, when he dove into a battle he didn’t need to win and nearly clipped the barrier. The car came out intact. You weren’t sure you did.

And then Amphoreus, Chrysos Racing’s home track and crown jewel. The one circuit they could always count on to deliver. Double podiums, year after year.

It should’ve been perfect.

In some ways, it was—Phainon second, Mydei third. Aventurine from IPC Racing took the win with a performance so clean it made Anaxa grind his teeth. The press still called it a victory for Chrysos, but you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. Phainon had brought the car home, yes. But you knew that he could’ve done better if only he’d listened.

You stared at the telemetry transcripts that night long after the garages emptied and you retreated into your own hotel room. Every line of data felt like an accusation.

You’d done everything right. Why didn’t it feel enough?

That brought you to Anaxa’s office the following weekend, when there weren’t any races to pore and ponder about. He was already there at seven in the morning bent over a stack of reports, as you knew he would be.

He didn’t look up when you entered. “Problem?”

You hesitated at the doorway. “Am I doing something wrong?”

That made him glance up. His one good eye glinted in the lamplight, sharp and unflinching. “Define wrong.”

You stepped closer, fingers tightening around the folder in your hands. “Phainon doesn’t listen. Every call, every instruction—it’s like he’s hearing me, but not really listening. I’ve rewritten strategy after strategy, but he still does whatever he wants.”

Anaxa set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “And yet he finishes.”

“That’s not the point,” you said before you could stop yourself. “It’s like—like he’s daring me to lose control. How am I supposed to lead someone who refuses to be led?”

“You’re not supposed to.”

You frowned. “What?”

Anaxa steepled his fingers. “You keep trying to manage him like a system. But Phainon isn’t a system. He’s a storm. The more you fight it, the more it tears you apart.”

You stared at him, caught between frustration and disbelief. “So you’re saying I should just let him do whatever he wants?”

“I’m saying,” Anaxa said, voice quiet but firm, “that you need to coexist with him. Don’t box him in—read him. He drives on instinct. You think in numbers. You’re both right, but neither of you will ever work if you don’t learn to speak the other’s language.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying you like he had the first day you met. “That’s why I hired you. Not because you’d control him, but because you’d adapt to him. The others tried to tame him and burned out but you? You might actually be able to keep up.”

That night in Anaxa’s office became your quiet turning point.

You carried his words with you through every late-night strategy revision, every 2 a.m. call with the tire engineers, every frantic adjustment you made mid-session when Phainon decided to improvise again.

It wasn’t easy. Phainon was still frustratingly impossible to pin down. But the more you watched, the more you began to see the logic in his chaos. The way he’d brake early not out of caution, but to bait an overtake. How he’d stay out a lap longer on worn tires just to test a theory you hadn’t even realized he’d formed.

When it worked—when your data matched his instincts—you’d catch him smiling in the debrief room, helmet still tucked under his arm as he whispers, “Nice call, Chief. You read my mind.”

Sometimes, he’d even thank you. It was never dramatic or loud. Just quiet, sincere gratitude that left you staring a little too long at the way his eyes crinkled when he said it.

The team noticed the difference. Chrysos was finally finding rhythm again. And for a while, you convinced yourself that was enough—that you could balance professionalism with the strange gravity Phainon carried around him.

Until Belobog.

The post-race celebration for that GP was supposed to be harmless. A team night out, nothing more. You’d spent most of it tucked in a corner booth with Mydei and Castorice, letting the bass thrum through your bones while the others danced and drank under the pulsing blue lights. It was colder that time of year, so you had no problems downing pint after pint just to keep yourself warm.

By midnight, you were tired—half-drunk, half-dazed, and wholly ready to call it a night when Phainon appeared out of nowhere.

“Leaving already?” he asked, with a smile that promised nothing but trouble.

You turned to squint at him, unsure if he was actually there or if this… hot mess in front of you was a trick of the light. His tie was undone, shirt collar open, cheeks just as flushed as yours probably are. The club’s lights washed him in flickering indigo and gold.

“Yeah,” you grumbled. “I’ve got a meeting in the morning. Unlike some people.”

He grinned. “You worry too much.”

“Because you drive like you’re immortal.”

“Maybe I am.”

You rolled your eyes and brushed past him, but he followed—lazy steps, hands in his pockets. You didn’t realize where you were headed until the hallway narrowed, the noise fading behind the two of you as the low hum of the heaters filled the space instead.

When you turned to say goodbye, he was already close enough that you could smell the hint of gin and citrus on his skin.

“Phainon,” you warned, but it came out softer than intended.

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize something. “You’re the only one who ever makes me feel like I’m not losing control out there.”

“Don’t say things like that,” you whispered.

“Why not? It’s true.”

You should’ve stepped back. Should’ve reminded him of every line you weren’t supposed to cross. Instead, you froze—heart stuttering when his hand brushed your cheek with featherlight tenderness.

Then you kissed him there. Or maybe he kissed you. You’d never be sure.

It wasn’t careful or slow—it was too much, too sudden, the kind of thing that shouldn’t have happened but did anyway. The world narrowed to heat and heartbeat and the faint scrape of his calloused fingers against your skin. His tongue plundered the cavern of your mouth like all he wanted was to take and take and take. And you let him because you have the alcohol to blame, and not the low, simmering heat that has been burning for him since you first met those eyes of endless blue.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathing hard. The hallway felt smaller somehow, as if it knew what you’d done.

Phainon smiled, a little soft, a little dazed.

It should have ended there.

You should have laughed it off and bid him good night before returning to your room just a few floors up. But instead, your fingers fisted the front of his unbuttoned shirt as you kissed him again. And again. And again. Until you ended up beneath him in the secret hush of his hotel room, having changed the trajectory of your relationship for good.

Salsotto race weekend is upon you in a blink.

The air is too thick and the wind carries the faint hiss of engines long before the cars ever reach the straight. You’ve grown used to long days like this—sunset bleeding over the circuit, the whir of machinery mixing with the sharp tang of fuel. But lately, even routine has started to feel precarious.

Practice was uneventful the day before, but not in the way that reassured you. Phainon had been distant. No jokes, no teasing between turns, no lazy comments about the weather or the setup. His voice came through the comms clipped, precise, and stripped of all the warmth you’d grown used to.

And today, during qualifying, it was worse.

“Out lap looks clean,” you say into the mic. “Brake balance at minus two, watch the crosswind into Turn 8.”

“Copy.”

You frown slightly. The single word was flat, almost mechanical. You mark it down mentally, though there was no time to dwell. The car speeds into its first timed lap, and for a few minutes, everything falls into rhythm—the pulse of data, the flicker of green deltas, the steadiness that came when the world narrowed down to pure calculation.

Then it begins to slip.

You catch the hesitation in Sector 2—the faint delay in throttle, the early turn-in. A deviation you recognize instantly because you’ve seen him drive through chaos with less margin for error.

“Phainon, reset brake bias. You’re losing time in the mid-corner.”

No response.

“Phainon, do you copy?”

“Yeah,” he radios in. “I hear you.”

You press your lips together. “Then adjust. You’re—”

The telemetry spikes red.

You see the lock-up into Turn 12 happen before the feed catches up. The plume of smoke, and the jagged line on the data readout where everything went wrong. It all makes you close your eyes in quiet prayer.

“Abort the lap. Box this one.”

“Negative. I can make it work.”

“You shot your tires—”

“I said I’ll make it work.”

The words come sharper than you’ve ever heard from him. The line goes silent after that, filled only by the sound of static and your own pulse hammering through your headset.

When he finally crosses the line, the timing screens tell you everything: P17.

Seventeen.

You take off your headset slowly, fingers trembling against the weight of it. Around you, the garage buzzes with a noise you couldn’t quite place—pity, maybe, or disbelief. Mydei’s name shines steady at P2 on the livestream rolling in the paddock TV. The rest blurs.

You don’t see Phainon until hours later.

He completely avoided you in the paddock. But the night folds soft and warm around the hotel when you catch him in the hallway of your shared floor. He changed out of his uniform—loose shirt, loose sweats, hair still damp from a quick shower. For once, he didn’t look untouchable. Just tired.

“Phainon,” you call, stopping him before he reaches his door.

He turns, the faintest curve of a smile forming as though he’d been expecting you. “Evening, Chief.”

You search his face. “You want to tell me what that was today?”

“Bad day, I guess.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He looks at you then, and it is the first time since landing in Salsotto that he’d met your gaze for longer than a heartbeat. His voice, when it came, is soft enough to break you.

“We all have bad days,” he mutters. “Guess this was just mine.”

You want to argue, to demand something more, but the words die on your tongue. He smiles again, small and aching, before stepping back and reaching for the door.

The latch clicks shut behind him with an echo of finality.

When race day comes, the morning sun glitters along the asphalt, and despite everything, you let yourself believe that today will be different. Mechanics swarm the garage, cameras flash along the pit lane, and you force your nerves into the rhythm of pre-race checks, tire temperatures, last-minute calibrations.

You told yourself last night that whatever weighed on Phainon would pass. He’s weathered worse storms. He’s the driver who could thread a needle at two hundred miles an hour, who laughed through downpours and brake failures alike. Seventeenth place or not, you believed he’d find a way to climb. You believed in him.

When the race begins, he does exactly that. The first few laps are clean—measured aggression, controlled overtakes, that effortless precision that used to make your heart ache with pride. By Lap 15, he’s already in tenth, hunting the next gap with his old, steady fire. You catch yourself smiling, even daring to exhale.

But then Lap 20 arrives.

The DRS zone opens, and everything happens at once. A flash of silver in his mirrors, a twitch of the front wing, and everything spins out of control. You don’t even see the impact so much as feel it. Carbon shrieks against barriers and a violent bloom of smoke and debris erupts across the straight.

“Phainon—!” You fumble for the mic, your voice catching on instinct. “Phainon, are you okay?”

No response. Only the scrambled feed of the crash replay looping on the monitors, the safety car already screaming down the lane. Your heart stutters, cold spreading through the hollow behind your ribs. Around you, people are running and shouting but all you can hear is your own breath echoing in your headset.

You picture him in the hotel hallway last night. The weariness in his eyes. The way he smiled, small and tired, before walking away.

“Phainon, do you copy?” you try again, your voice breaking.

For a long, unbearable moment, nothing.

Then, through the static—a crackle, a sharp inhale, and a voice rasping back.

“…No.”

The smell of antiseptic hits you the moment the infirmary doors slide open.

It’s smaller than you expected—no more than a handful of curtained rooms, each buzzing faintly with the low rhythm of medical machinery. The air-conditioning hums over the distant roar of engines outside, a reminder that the race hasn’t stopped. The world moves on, even as your pulse hasn’t caught up.

You reach the check-in counter with Anaxa and two other managers, still in your team jacket, still half-shaking. The medic glances up from her datapad, expression neutral.

“He’s fine,” she says before anyone can ask. “Minor contusions, light bruising along the ribs, no fractures. He’s been cleared for discharge once observation ends.”

The words make your knees nearly give out from relief.

“The car’s totaled,” one of the others mutters under his breath, scanning a tablet. “Millions of credits down the drain.”

Anaxa only hums, folding his arms. “Cars can be rebuilt. Drivers can’t.” His gaze shifts to you. “Per infirmary protocol, one visitor at a time. Go ahead and check on him.”

You blink. “What? Why me?”

“You’re his engineer,” he reminds. “You’ll need to hear what happened firsthand. Experiences like this…” His good eye narrows, not unkindly. “…they make you steadier. Better.”

You want to protest—to insist that he’s the senior, the one who should be handling it—but the words catch somewhere between your throat and your chest. The others are already turning back toward the exit, talking in low, brisk tones about parts inventories and data recovery.

That leaves you.

The medic gestures toward the last door on the left. You thank her before letting your feet carry you to your destination.

The light inside is soft, washed pale by the filtered sun through frosted glass. Phainon sits propped against the bed’s headrest, still in his race undershirt with a few dark smudges of bruising visible near his collarbone. His hair is tousled, his summer blue gaze fixed on nothing in particular.

When he notices you, his lips curve faintly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Well you nearly made me one.”

Phainon huffs a breath that might’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so frayed at the edges. “Guess I should be flattered you care that much, Chief.”

You ignore the nickname, stepping closer and taking a seat at the foot of his bed. “You scared everyone. The team thought—” You stop yourself, fingers curling at your sides. “What happened out there, Phainon? You never crash. Not like that.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze drops to his hands, bruised knuckles flexing restlessly over the blanket. “My head’s just… not been in the right place lately.”

“Since when?”

He shrugs, a sharp little motion that doesn’t hide the tension in his shoulders. “Since a while.”

You tilt your head, watching him closely. “I’ve noticed. You’ve been off since practice. You know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right? If it’s the car, I can take a look—”

“It’s not the car,” he cuts in.

“Then what is it?”

Phainon exhales slowly, the kind of sound that comes from somewhere deep. He mutters something under his breath—too soft for you to catch. You narrow your eyes and shift closer, refusing to let him retreat into his usual walls. “Say that again.”

He glances up at you, blue eyes rimmed with exhaustion, something unreadable flickering behind them. For once, he doesn’t hide.

“There are rumors that High Cloud’s been trying to poach you.”

You blink. “What?”

He gives a half-laugh, half-sigh. “You didn’t know?”

“How did you even hear about that?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Phainon says, eyes flicking away. “Word gets around.”

You stare at him incredulously. “You mean to tell me you’ve been off your game because of some rumor?”

He doesn’t answer right away—just presses a thumb against the bruise blooming along his knuckle, like he can will it to disappear.

You stare at him for a long moment, torn between exasperation and disbelief.

Of all the things he could’ve said, this—this rumor, this ridiculous, baseless thing—was what had him unraveling on track? What cost them a car, a small fortune, and nearly your sanity?

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him. “You could’ve just asked me.”

Phainon doesn’t rise to it. He just sits there, shoulders slightly hunched, gaze fixed somewhere past your knee. His hair falls into his eyes, soft and unruly from sweat, and for a heartbeat, you catch the faintest downturn of his mouth—the kind that looks too much like a boy who knows he’s done something wrong.

The sight tugs at something deep in your chest, something traitorous and too tender for this place. Your annoyance dulls to a sigh.

“You really thought I’d just… leave?” you ask quietly.

He hesitates before speaking. “All my life, people have said the same thing about me,” he says slowly, as if he’s forcing the words through his teeth. “That I’m all instinct and no restraint. All talent, no direction. They called me a storm that no one could tame.”

Your breath stills.

“My race engineers used to last a few races, maybe half a season,” he goes on, eyes flicking to the corner of the room. “They’d try to manage me, box me in, until it all fell apart. But you—” His voice softens, almost reverent. “You never tried to control me. You learned how to read me. We work because you don’t fight the storm—you ride it. You’re the best engineer I’ve ever had.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Your throat feels too tight for words.

So you settle for the easiest thing: a breathy, disbelieving laugh. “If that’s how you feel,” you murmur, “then why do you keep purposely pissing me off?”

Phainon’s mouth twitches—the smallest flicker of a smile, but it’s enough to soften everything. “Because I wanted your attention,” he admits, shameless and fond. “I never said I wasn’t a nuisance.”

That earns an honest laugh from you, low and helpless. It spills into the quiet like something fragile but real. The space between you narrows without either of you meaning to, until the edges of your knees brush, until you can feel the warmth of him radiating through the sterile air.

Then, slowly, his hand finds yours.

It’s bruised and rough and calloused from years of work, but warm. So impossibly warm. He holds it like it’s something he doesn’t quite trust himself to keep, thumb brushing over your knuckles with a hesitance that feels achingly unlike him.

“Phainon,” you start, trying to make sense of the ache building in your chest. “High Cloud did make an offer. But it’s not something I was planning on accepting anyway.”

He looks up, searching your face like he’s afraid to believe it.

You squeeze his hand once. “You really think I’d walk away from this? From you?”

Something flickers behind his eyes—relief, maybe, or something far more dangerous. The corner of his mouth lifts, but the sound that escapes him is a low, uneven exhale.

“Didn’t mean to crash the damn car over it,” he murmurs. “I just… couldn’t focus. Kept thinking about how it’d sound—hearing someone else’s name on your radio comms instead of mine.”

Your heart stutters.

There’s no witty comeback, no lecture sharp enough to break the spell of the moment. Just the sound of theb infirmary air conditioner, of his trembling breaths, of the cars still speeding beyond the walls.

You exhale slowly. “You’re impossible.”

“I know,” he says softly. “But you’re still here.”

You don’t let go of his hand after that.

Not for a long while.

The final race of the season feels like standing on the edge of a blade.

The paddock buzzes with nerves and static, engines screaming through the cool dusk air. It’s not just another circuit—it’s the decider. Phainon and Mydei, same team, same machines, separated by only a handful of points. One race left to settle everything.

You stand by Phainon’s car as the last of the mechanics do the finishing touches. Beyond the garage, the track gleams under the floodlights, silver and sharp, like a living thing about to wake.

“Last one,” you say, checking his telemetry readouts one last time. “No mistakes today.”

Your driver stands beside you, already suited up with his visor propped open. There’s a calm about him that borders on dangerous—that particular stillness that always comes before he does something breathtaking.

“You sound nervous, Chief.”

“Of course I’m nervous,” you mutter, scanning the numbers again even though you already know them by heart. “Do you realize what’s at stake?”

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours through the half-shadow of his helmet. “World championship. Eternal glory. The usual.”

“It’s been years since a title fight was this close between teammates. Everyone’s watching.”

His lips twitch in a quiet, knowing smile that only ever shows itself when it’s just the two of you. “Guess we should give them something worth watching, then.”

You huff a soft laugh, shaking your head as he exchanges a brief, heated glance with Mydei from the other side of the garage. However, just before Anaxa yells for both of them to strap in, Phainon steps closer, lowering his voice just enough that no one else can hear.

“If I win this, will you give me a reward?”

Your stylus stills mid-air. “…A reward?”

His grin sharpens, the kind that could melt steel. “Something to look forward to at the finish line.”

“Focus on the race then we’ll talk,” you deadpan.

“Oh, I will,” Phainon says cheekily, slipping his visor down with a click. “You just gave me all the motivation I need.”

Minutes later, the lights go out and the race begins.

What follows is fifty-four laps of relentless precision—twenty drivers pushing their machines, their nerves, their trust to the limit. Every call you make, he responds to without hesitation. Every adjustment, every risk—executed flawlessly. You can almost feel the rhythm of his heartbeat in sync with your own.

Mydei holds pole for most of the race, but Phainon’s patience is razor-sharp. On the final lap, he dives inside the last corner with a move so clean it looks effortless. The checkered flag waves. Phainon crosses the line in first place.

Cheers erupt across the paddock. The engineers, the pit crew, the crowd—everyone’s shouting his name. You stand there frozen for a second, headset slipping around your neck as the roar sinks in.

He did it.

Then his voice filters through the radio, low and soft beneath the static.

“This one’s for you, Chief.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow a laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Copy that. Now get back here soon—you’ve still got a podium to stand on.”

Phainon laughs. “Can’t I cash in on that reward first?”

The radio crackles again, and you know every word is still being broadcast live. You inhale slowly, trying to ground yourself as laughter and cheers erupt in the background.

“Fine,” you say him exasperatedly, despite the smile creeping on your face.

“But you better make it quick.”

The podium gleams under floodlights and champagne spray, but it feels strangely incomplete. Mydei and Jing Yuan, who came in second and third respectively, raise their trophies as camera flashes pop from every angle. The crowd roars, commentators scramble to fill the gap with excuses—“delayed interview,” “team debrief,” “perhaps a technical issue.”

But everyone knows what they’re really thinking.

Where’s the one in first place?

Phainon’s portrait blares across every monitor, every banner—Champion of the Season, they already dubbed him—yet his place on the top step stands empty, the trophy waiting on its pedestal, gleaming and untouched beneath the lights.

But somewhere in a hotel room with its lights still off, he’s receiving a more worthwhile prize.

When the door clicks shut, Phainon doesn’t hesitate. His hands find your hips with the same precision he’d used to control a car at two hundred miles an hour. The wall meets your back a second later, the breath stolen clean from your lungs as his mouth crashes into yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s all heat and adrenaline, the taste of victory still sharp on his tongue. His fingers dig into you like he’s anchoring himself, grounding the rush that hasn’t yet left his veins. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your pulse thrumming in your ears like the engine he’d commanded to glory only half an hour ago.

His fingers find the collar of your uniform, tugging until the first button gives, then the next, each sound making your chest prickle with anticipation as he helps peel it off your body. The cool air hits your skin, chased instantly by the heat of his palms as they slide up your sides.

“Been hard since the last lap,” he murmurs against your mouth. His hips press forward so you can feel the truth of it, thick and insistent against your thigh. “Kept thinking about you moaning all pretty for me, taking my cock deep in your guts.”

The words send a jolt through you, heat pooling between your thighs at his shamelessness. Your breath hitches as his lips trail to your jaw, nipping hard enough to make you gasp.

“Phainon,” you mumble, hands fisting in his half-unzipped fireproofs, “s-slow down...”

He laughs, a low, wicked sound that vibrates against your skin.

“Slow down?” His voice is rough, dripping with the arrogance that carried him through every win. “Chief, haven’t I been patient all season, listening to you in my ear, telling me to brake, to push, to win?” His hands roam behind you to unclasp your bra and discard it onto the floor. With your tits bared, his thumbs circle your nipples until you arch against the wall with a soft whine.

“I’m just claiming what was promised to me.”

Phainon’s hands are relentless, shoving your pants and underwear down in one swift motion. After you kick them off, you’re left bare against the wall, trapped by the heat of your driver’s body. He doesn’t waste a moment. His palm slides between your thighs, finding you slick and ready, and he groans as his fingers tease you open.

“Fuck,” he quite nearly whines, rutting against you like he can’t wait another second. “Gonna make you feel so good, just like the moment you made me a champion.”

The heat coiling in your core threatens to swallow you whole, his voice fanning it higher with every word. But then that spark inside you catches, sharp and defiant. You’ve spent all season steadying his chaos, steering his storm. You’re not his prize. You’re the one who kept his career intact.

You’re here to remind him of that.

In a blink, you duck under his arm, catching him off guard. Phainon’s taller, stronger, but you know his rhythm too well—how he overcommits when he’s too sure of himself. The next thing he knows, it’s him against the wall, breath knocked out of his lungs in a startled laugh.

“Huh.” He grins, cock twitching against his racing suit. “You’re not usually this dominant.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, despite the same need burning through you. Your free hand yanks at his fireproofs, shoving them down just enough to free his thick length. It springs free, hard and heavy in your palm and Phainon tips his head back against the wall with another groan. The effect you have on him sends a rush of something addicting straight into your head, prompting you to bring your lips to his ear.

“I told you to slow down, didn’t I?”

You don’t give him time to answer. Dropping to your knees, the cool marble bites into your skin as you wrap your hand around the base of his cock. He’s thick, veins pulsing under your fingers, the tip already glistening with a pearly white sheen. You glance up to catch the way his jaw clenches, his summer blue eyes locked on you, pupils blown wide with want. He looks wrecked already, and you haven’t even started.

You lean in, dragging your tongue along the underside of his length and savor the shudder that runs through him. His hand flies to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands, not quite pulling but holding on like he’s anchoring himself to the world.

“Fuck, Chief,” he breathes, voice cracking as you swirl your tongue around the head, tasting the salty tang of his precum. It coats the back of your throat as you take him deeper, lips stretching around his girth, the weight of him heavy on your tongue.

You hollow your cheeks and his hips jerk forward as a choked moan spills from his lips. Phainon’s head tips back against the wall, exposing the taut line of his throat, sweat-slicked and flushed from the race and now this. His grip in your hair tightens; not forceful, but desperate, as though he’s fighting to keep control.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you push further, the stretch making your jaw ache. You breathe through your nose, fighting the reflex to gag because the salt and musk of him is overwhelming but intoxicating. Your hand works what your mouth can’t, stroking the base in time with the bob of your head, slick sounds filling the quiet suite. His moans are obscene and each one sends a fresh wave of heat between your thighs.

Unable to help yourself, one of your hands slips down your own body, fingers finding your clit already slick from how turned on you are. The sight of Phainon unraveling—his parted lips, the way his chest heaves, how he’s gripping your hair like a lifeline—makes you ache. You rub tight circles into your pulsing nub, moaning around his cock as the vibration draws another wrecked sound from him.

“You’re so good for me,” he pants, hips bucking harder now, chasing the heat of your mouth.

Tears streak down your cheeks, mixing with the mess of spit and precum as you take him as deep as you can. His hand fists tighter in your hair, guiding you faster, his control slipping with every thrust. “Gonna—fuck—gonna ruin you for anyone else,” he growls, eyes locked on the way your lips stretch around him and the way your eyes glint with tears and defiance.

Your fingers move faster against yourself in a steady, delicious stream of pleasure. His hips stutter, cock twitching in your mouth, and you know he’s close. His whole body is tensing like he’s about to hit the apex of a corner at full speed. You pull back just enough to tease the head with your tongue, sucking hard, and he breaks into a litany of broken curses, his grip in your hair almost painful now.

“Chief,” he gasps in warning, but you don’t pull away. You want him to fall apart, to see the champion you’ve guided all season come undone because of you. Your fingers press harder against your clit, moaning around him, and next thing you know, the sound pushes him past his limit. His hips jerk one last time, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he spills into your mouth, hot and thick, the salty taste flooding your palate.

You swallow what you can, some of it dripping down your chin as you pull back. Phainon slumps against the wall with his chest heaving and his hand still tangled in your hair. He looks down at you, all wrecked and flushed as a lazy grin spreads across his face.

“I can’t…” he mutters hoarsely. “You’re gonna kill me before the next season starts.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, smirking as you rise, legs shaky but steady enough to stand. “Good. Means you’ll listen to me next time.”

Phainon’s grin sharpens with the spark of a challenge flickering in his summer blue eyes. He moves fast, shedding the rest of his fireproofs in a blur of motion, the material pooling at his feet until he’s gloriously bare—all lean muscle and race-honed power. Before you can catch your breath, his hands find your thighs, lifting you with effortless strength and your legs instinctively wrap around his waist. The show of raw power makes your core clench, slick gushing from your cunt as he holds you like you weigh nothing.

His mouth crashes into yours, sticky with the remnants of his cum, and you moan into the kiss, the taste of him mingling with the heat of his tongue. It’s sloppy and desperate as he carries you across the room, your arms looping around his neck to hold on. Your eyes flutter shut, expecting the soft give of the bed, but instead, a shock of cold glass presses against your back, jolting you alert.

“Phainon,” you gasp, breaking the kiss when you realize you’re by the floor-to-ceiling window. “People might…”

You trail off, the words dying in your throat as you catch the look in his eyes. His pupils are blown wide, absolutely fucked out in a haze of lust and triumph that makes your stomach swoop. Of course. Phainon, the reckless bastard who thrives on adrenaline and eyes on him, would love the idea of the world seeing you like this—his engineer, his partner, his everything, pinned and panting for him.

“You’ll let me have you right, Chief?” he mumbles against your lips, taking your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging just hard enough to make you whimper. His hips shift, his hardening cock dragging along your wet slit to tease your entrance as he presses you harder against the glass. The cold bites into your skin, a stark contrast to the heat of his body, and you shudder, arousal spiking as he ruts against your pussy. “Need to cum in you. That’s my prize, isn’t it? Getting to fuck you senseless?”

You know you should protest, insist on the bed, on privacy, on anything but this reckless exposure. But his voice wraps around you like smoke, making your head spin and your resolve fray. His mouth latches onto your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark, and you tilt your head back, moaning as he grazes his teeth over your pulse.

“Phainon,” you breathe, half-warning, half-plea, your legs tightening around his waist as he grinds against you, his cock slick with your arousal.

“Say it,” he growls, one hand sliding down to grip your ass, angling you so the tip of him catches at your entrance. “Say you’re mine, Chief. Let me have you.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders, the city lights blurring beyond the glass as your body screams for him. “Okay,” you gasp, lightheaded and aching. “I’m yours. Take me, please.”

With a groan that sounds like victory, he surges forward, sinking into you in one deep, brutal thrust, filling you to the hilt. You cry out, head tipping back against the glass, the world outside forgotten as he sets a relentless pace, claiming you as his true prize.

“So fucking warm for me,” he moans into your ear as his hips piston into you. “I think I would’ve lost my mind if you… hah—left for fucking High Cloud….”

His cock stretches you perfectly, every inch dragging across your gummy walls and hitting spots that make your vision blur. You’re delirious, lost in the burn of him and the way he splits you open with every thrust, your cunt clenching around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper. The team will have questions about why you both vanished from the podium ceremony. The FIA will throw fines, the media will speculate, but fuck if his cock doesn’t erase every shred of logic and reason from your mind.

You curl into him, thighs locked tight around his waist as he keeps you hoisted, his strength unwavering even as he fucks into you with a rhythm that’s all instinct and need. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the hotel room, mingling with your gasps and his low, filthy groans. The glass at your back rattles with every thrust, cold against your fevered skin, and it grounds you just enough to keep you from spiraling completely.

“Feels so fucking good,” Phainon rasps, his breath hot against your neck. “This cunt’s mine, yeah? Been dreaming of having you every time since I first laid my eyes on you.” His hips snap harder, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your toes curl, your moans pitching higher. “Gonna fill you up, make you drip with me. Let everyone know who you belong to.”

His words hit like fuel to a fire, your nails raking down his back, leaving red trails he’ll wear like trophies. You whimper as your head starts to spin, your body arching into him while he pounds into you. “Fuck, don’t stop, please.”

“Stop?” He laughs, rough and breathless. His grip on your thighs grows tighter. “Not a chance, Chief. Gonna fuck you till you can’t walk, till you’re screaming my name loud enough for the whole city to hear.” His cock drags out slow, then slams back in, the stretch so good it makes your eyes roll back, your walls fluttering around him.

Then, abruptly, he stops, pulling out entirely and leaving you clenching around nothing. You whine, a desperate, broken sound, as he sets you down on wobbly legs, your thighs trembling from the sudden loss of him. Confusion clouds your face, your brows knitting as you look up at him, panting, aching, and utterly wrecked.

“W-what—”

Phainon doesn’t let you finish. With a swift, practiced move, he spins you around, his large hand splaying flat across your spine, pressing you forward until your tits squish against the cold glass of the window. The shock of it makes you gasp, your palms slapping against the surface for balance as your breath fogs the pane. The city sprawls below, lights twinkling like a sea of stars, and the reality hits you hard—people could see you, bare and pressed against the glass, fucked senseless by the champion who ditched his own podium.

“Phainon,” you start, voice shaky with a mix of arousal and alarm, but before you can get another word out, the head of his cock catches at your slick, abused entrance. He sinks back into you in one brutal thrust, filling you so completely your back bows and a helpless whimper spilling from your lips. The new angle is devastating, his cock dragging deeper, harder against your tight walls, hitting that spot with every stroke until your legs threaten to give out.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groans, leaning over you, his rippling chest pressed tight against your back, dwarfing you with his size. His lips find your neck, pressing breathy, open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. “Taking me so well. This pussy’s gripping me like it doesn’t wanna let go.” His hips snap forward, relentless, the wet slap of his skin against yours echoing louder now, filling the room with the raw, filthy sound of it.

You’re beyond coherence, moans tumbling from your lips as he fucks into you, the cold glass against your breasts a stark contrast to the heat of him inside you. The thought of being seen—by anyone, by the world below—should terrify you, but it only makes your cunt clench tighter around him, slick dripping down your thighs. You gasp his name, barely able to form the syllables, and your head lolls back against his shoulder as he drives into you.

“Love how you sound when you’re like this,” he murmurs against your ear, one hand sliding up to cup your breast to give it a tender squeeze. “All fucked out just for me. Bet you don’t even care who sees, do you? Let them watch. Let them know you’re mine.” His other hand grips your hip, pulling you back to meet his thrusts, the angle so perfect it has you seeing stars.

You should care. You should be thinking about the team, the fallout, the questions waiting when you both show up late, disheveled, and reeking of sex. But his cock is too good, stretching you so perfectly, dragging against every sensitive spot until you’re trembling, your mind blank except for the overwhelming need for him.

“Please,” you whimper, not even sure what you’re begging for, your body arching further into the glass, chasing the pleasure that’s building, coiling tight in your core.

“That’s it,” he growls, his teeth grazing your shoulder, his thrusts growing harder, more erratic. His hand slides from your hip, slipping between your legs with a precision that’s almost embarrassing. His fingers finding your clit in an instant. It’s a testament to how well he knows your body, every curve and trigger point mapped out over months of stolen moments like this. You don’t have time to dwell on it, though, because Phainon starts to rub tight, relentless circles against your slick, swollen nub, and you’re so fucking close you can taste it.

“Come for me,” he rasps, licking a hot, wet stripe along the curve of your neck. “Soak my dick like a good little engineer. Show me how much you love this.” His hips snap harder, his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you, and his fingers don’t let up, pushing you closer until the coil in your core snaps.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your vision whiting out as you cry out and your walls clench tight around him. Your legs shake so violently you’d collapse if not for Phainon’s strong arms wrapping around your waist, hoisting you up against the glass to keep you upright. Your palms press hard against the window, fingers splaying as you ride out the pleasure. Almost embarrassingly, your cunt pulsing around his cock as slick drips down your thighs in a messy, obscene rush.

But Phainon doesn’t let up. He fucks you through it with deep, brutal thrusts, chasing his own release.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he babbles, his voice a wrecked, incoherent stream of filth. “So fucking tight, squeezing me so good—gonna fill this pussy up, make you mine, fuck, I love you so fucking much—” The words slip out in the haze, raw and unguarded, but you’re too lightheaded, too lost in the aftershocks of your climax to process them fully. His hips stutter, his grip on you tightening, and with a final, guttural groan, he buries himself deep, his cock pulsing as he spills inside you. The white-hot warmth of his release floods your core, satisfying in a way that makes your toes curl and your body tremble against the glass.

He holds you there, both of you panting, his chest pressed to your back, his arms still wrapped around your waist as you both come down from the high.

And in that split second when your brain finally kickstarts again—

“So,” you pant. “You love me so fucking much, huh?”

Phainon laughs, breathless and rough, the sound vibrating against your skin. He tilts your chin back with a gentle hand, his summer blue eyes glinting with something softer now, though still edged with that reckless spark.

“Don’t think about it too much,” he murmurs, before capturing your lips in a long, passionate kiss that steals what little air you had left. His tongue moves sweetly and slowly and you melt into it completely.

You pull back just enough to smirk, your voice playful despite the haze in your head. “Big words for a guy who just ditched his own podium ceremony. Gonna have to explain that one to the team, loverboy.”

He chuckles, unbothered, his hands sliding down to scoop you up princess-style, cradling you against his chest with that effortless strength that still makes your core flutter. “Let them talk,” he says, carrying you toward the bed, his voice low and warm. “Worth it for this.”

You stare dumbly at him, having expected to start cleaning up. After all, you both should be rushing back to the circuit, damage control already spinning in your mind. But instead, Phainon lays you gently on the mattress, the crisp white sheets cool against your overheated skin. His spend leaks from your soiled cunt, a warm, sticky trickle that stains the fabric. You prop yourself up on your elbows, ready to protest, but then you catch sight of him crawling toward you, those unfairly beautiful blues dark with intent.

“Phainon,” you start, voice tinged with disbelief, “don’t tell me—”

He doesn’t let you finish. His hands nudge your thighs apart, spreading you open as he settles between them, gaze fixed on your dripping core with a hunger that makes your breath catch. “

“Not done with you yet, Chief,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, before he leans in, his tongue dragging a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds. The sensation is overwhelming, his cum and your slick mixing as he laps at you, cleaning you with a reverence that feels almost obscene. You gasp, your head falling back against the pillow, your fingers gripping the sheets as he works you over, his tongue relentless, dipping inside to chase every drop.

All of a sudden, the year flashes through your mind in fragments—taking the job as Phainon’s race engineer, the late nights poring over telemetry, the tension of every radio call, guiding him through corners and chaos. He was a wildcard, a driver who pushed every limit, on the track and off it. You’d clashed at first, his arrogance grating against your precision, but somewhere along the way, the lines blurred.

Stolen glances in the garage, brushes of hands during debriefs, the first time he kissed you in that afterparty in Belobog. It’s been undefined, messy, a secret kept between hotel rooms and quiet moments, but as he worships you now, his mouth working you with a devotion that makes your heart stutter, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The podium ceremony can wait. The fines, the questions, the media frenzy—they don’t matter. Not when Phainon, the most insatiable man on the grid, is between your thighs, his eyes flicking up to meet yours as he brings you to the brink again.

You’re his, and he’s yours, and in this moment, nothing else exists.

✦ afterword. you made it to the end, congratulations! have a glass of water bc writing the smut scene definitely warranted several gulps LOL i just want to take the time to thank didi for proofreading and giving her most honest thoughts on this piece as usual! i wouldn't have mustered the courage to finish writing this piece during the entire month i spent slaving over it if it weren't for her constant support. mae was also very understanding and encouraging every time i told her about my woes and shared snippets over discord :') honestly, this might be the last time in a while that i'll write for phainon bc honestly i've run out of juice for my amphoreus baddies </3 nonetheless, thank you so much for supporting me and my work! i hope to still see you guys in my next fic, whatever fandom i end up wandering in HAH!

[osarina]

LIFE IS STRANGE

FEATURING: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!reader

SUMMARY: A prince washes up on the shore outside your cottage, and you must decide whether you’re going to leave him to his fate or save his life. Either way, you know there will be consequences. 

WARNINGS: fem!reader, commoner!reader, eventual dragonseed!reader, jace lives, eventual smut, class differences (jace is obviously a prince and reader is a commoner). Reader is not too fond of him at first because she is from Sharp Point. This is a bit of a mix of show canon and book canon in that Jace went to the Gullet to save his brothers and Rhaena still claimed Sheepstealer

AUTHOR'S NOTES: i HADDDD to do a fic for our beloved boy </3 i miss you jacaerys velaryon, prince of dragonstone, heir to the iron throne. I will truly never move on from this death </3 so we need a world where he does not die. I'm saur excited for this because it's my first time writing a reader who comes from a commoner background, AND I finally get to write the dragons ... originally she was not supposed to be a dragonseed, but I just cannot help myself. If I'm going to be writing a hotd era fic, our girl is going to have a dragon. ANYWAY I hope you guys enjoy! please leave a comment or reblog mwah mwah

You wonder whether it is chance or divine intervention that a Targaryen prince washes ashore beside your cottage.

By the time you get to the edge of the sea after catching a glimpse of the corpse from your porch, it is half buried in the wet sand, lying limp at your feet, and there is a lump in your throat that you cannot seem to swallow away. 

You do not know how you didn’t notice the sigil sooner.

It should have been the first thing that caught your eye, considering it was only a fortnight past that the Prince Aemond brought the great dragon Vhagar over the town you were raised in and razed it to the ground. The green and gold banners have been flying over the area since, and soldiers from the Reach have been constantly patrolling the roads, seeking out rebels and sympathizers.

You know better than to involve yourself in the affairs of any man that dons the three-headed dragon, you tell yourself, trying to will yourself to walk away from the corpse before anyone can catch you standing near it.

Red or gold, black or green—it does not matter to you, the wars of nobles are graves for common folk, and you have no desire to meet an early one. You have done well enough for yourself since your father passed. You refuse to squander the life you’ve built because a prince washed up on the shore near your home.

The boy at your feet is young, you cannot help but notice—your age, perhaps—dark of hair and fair of skin. At a distance, he had looked like any other body the sea had decided to return, and your first instinct had been to rush toward him rather than avert your gaze and pretend you had seen nothing.

Your hands tremble at your sides, and you have to forcibly still them as you take in a deep breath.

This is war, you recall the soldiers saying when the survivors demanded to know the reason for the tragedy that took place at Sharp Point—mothers with tears in their eyes and no bodies to bury, fathers who had lost their livelihood and the children for whom they built it, your neighbors, your friends. They say Lord Bar Emmon sits on the usurper’s council, so all of the commonfolk who were unfortunate enough to be born beneath his banners have been made to pay the price of his loyalties, allies of a queen they have never seen and casualties of a war they never chose.

This is war, they will tell you the same as they cut off your head if they see you kneeling beside this corpse and call mercy treason. Because it is always the burden of the commonfolk, paying the price of noble quarrels. Princes speak of honor and succession, of rights and oaths and stolen crowns, and it is fishermen and farmers who have to bury their dead. They will not care to hear what you have to say if they think you're affiliated with the Black queen and her supporters, just as the Prince Aemond did not care whether the people of Sharp Point had declared for the Blacks or merely happened to be born beneath the wrong lord.

But now, a prince lies dead upon your shore, and you wonder if this is how it begins again. 

You should leave him.

The thought comes immediately, sensible in light of the circumstances, even if it does make your stomach flip. You should turn around and go home, bolt your door, and tell no one what you saw. The sea will reclaim him, or the crabs will pick his bones clean; maybe the patrol will stumble upon the body before the tide rises, and they can parade it through the streets the same way you heard they did to Princess Rhaenys’s dragon.

By the morning, he will be gone one way or another, and you can move on with your life as though you never saw him at all. He will be somebody else’s misfortune, or more hopefully, no one else’s at all. 

It is a corpse, anyway. The boy has not moved since you arrived, and his chest does not seem to be rising and falling. There are two arrows through his shoulder, and a blueness to his lips that you’ve only seen in the dead, so—

As though to mock you, he lets out a wet, ragged cough, water bubbling at his lips, lashes fluttering just enough for you to catch sight of dark, hazy eyes that slip over you once before they slide shut again.

You feel sick to your stomach.

He does not stir again. One side of his face is bruised an ugly purple, his dark hair plastered to his brow with seawater and blood. He cannot be much older than you—the traitorous thought crosses your mind again. There is something terribly young about him, lying there half-drowned in the surf, one hand curled weakly into the sand as though, even unconscious, he is still trying to cling to something.

He does not look like a prince, you think miserably. He looks like a boy who is going to die.

The sea foams around your boots, and his body twitches as it threatens to reclaim him—the only feeble resistance he’s capable of in his state. You do not know how he still breathes—the fires might still burn on the Gullet, but the fighting ended days past. How long has he been floating about, dragged around by vicious currents and tossed by waves? It doesn’t even seem as though it should be possible, as though the Seven themselves intervened and—

—and dropped him on your shore, in your hands, and you are contemplating leaving him to die.

The thought is unpleasant, a heavy stone in your chest in place of your heart.

You are not a cruel person. You have cared for gulls with broken wings, and you leave scraps outside your door for the old orange cat that wanders the area. During the winter three years prior, you spent a fortnight nursing a lamb that did not even belong to you because you could not bear the sound of it crying.

And now there is a boy at your feet—bleeding, drowned, scarcely clinging to life—and because there is a dragon sewn onto his chest, you are trying to convince yourself to let the sea finish what arrows and war could not. 

His lashes are dark against his cheek. Young, you think again, even more traitorous than the last, no older than ten and nine, if even. There is salt crusted at the corners of his mouth and blood soaking through his tunic in sluggish, rusty streams that stain the pale sand beneath him.

He looks cold—traitor, traitor, traitor.

He looks like a prince, you try to insist. A dragon prince, fire and blood and ruin, dangerous. 

Cold. Hurt. Dying.

You need to walk away, you tell yourself again, desperate this time, because the longer you stand there staring at him, the more you fail to convince yourself of the correct path. 

A prince's life is worth more than yours, more than your cottage and your little patch of land and the fishing boat your father left you. It is worth armies and dragons and castles and men willing to kill for a name. 

If this boy lives, others will come looking for him. 

And if the soldiers discover him in your home, they will not ask questions. They will not care that you found him by chance or that you never bent the knee to Queen Rhaenyra—that you could not even tell anyone why one half of House Targaryen wishes the other dead. They will see the three-headed dragon on his breast and the roof over his head, and that will be enough to condemn you.

Worse, the Prince Aemond and the dragon Vhagar could return. You think of Tom, the miller’s son, pulled from the boiling river after dragonfire reached the gristmill. You think of little Grace’s face as she searched the ashes for her mother. You think of all of your neighbors, all of your friends, who hardly survived the first time fire rained from the sky, and you think of all of those who didn’t. 

He is not worth it. He is not worth the risk. A prince is only a man born with a special name, there’s no reason you should save him and condemn countless others—he bleeds the same, he dies the same, and when the Stranger comes for him, he is no more spared than any other man.

Except, he didn’t, did he? 

He should be dead—any other man would be dead.

Two arrows through the shoulder, half-drowned, tossed upon the sea for days on end—there is no surviving that. Yet he breathes still, ragged and shallow though it may be, his fingers twitching every now and then.

The Stranger came for him and left empty-handed.

The Stranger came for him and left him with you. 

Why?

There are no prophecies in your life, no gods whispering in your ear. You are a fisherman's daughter with a cottage by the sea and enough coin to keep yourself fed through winter if the catch is good. You know little of the gods save for the prayers your father taught you as a child and the candles you light for him on his nameday. The Seven did not save your father or your town; they did not save Tom or Grace’s mother or any of the others who screamed as dragonfire turned their homes to ash.

So why? Why this boy? Why this prince? Why should the gods spare a dragon's son when they had not spared children and fishermen and mothers? Why have they left him for you?

You do not have an answer. The only answer before you is a body on the sand, breathing when it ought not to be.

You stare down at him, furious and distressed and so, so unsure. He looks dead again—still as driftwood, cold and pale, stiff. His lips are blue like the dead, and his chest hardly rises and falls. You wonder if you imagined what you saw before. If your guilt conjured a cough where there had been none, if your conscience simply could not bear the thought of walking away even from a corpse.

Slowly, you sink to your knees beside him, damp sand clinging to your knees, the sea foam wetting your trousers. Your hand is still trembling in spite of all efforts to still it. You lift it to his throat, hesitating only for a moment. 

If there is life, you will do what you must.

If there is not, you will turn and walk away. 

You have never prayed for someone to be dead before. 

Please, you think now miserably. Please.

Your fingers brush the skin of his throat—it is cold. He must be cold. So cold, that for a brief, terrible moment, hope flares in your chest, and then—

There is a flutter—it is weak and uneven, so faint that you almost miss it, but it is there.

Your head hangs forward, and you blink away the tears that prick in your eyes, because you know this action will have consequences. You know that there is no going back once you have entangled yourself with dragons. You know that every story told of House Targaryen ends in blood and fire and ruin for everyone foolish enough to stand too close them.

You know that this boy could be the death of you.

The soldiers could discover him. Your neighbors could discover him—as much as they care for you, they fear Vhagar more. If word spreads that a prince of the black faction lives and is hidden beneath your roof, you could hang for it. They could burn your cottage to the ground. They could drag you through the streets and call you traitor.

Worse still, he could recover.

Because then he would not be a half-dead boy on the sand. He would be a prince again. A son of the house of the dragon. He would leave, and the war would continue, and perhaps one day you would hear his name in some tavern and learn that he had mounted a dragon and burned a town much like your own.

The sea rushes forward again, cold water washing over your boots and his legs alike. He does not move. He is so cold.

“Why did you have to wash up here?” you breathe out—frustrated, angry, resigned, because you have never been one to turn your back on someone in need. 

His pulse flutters once more against your fingers, and he does not stir. 

Then, because the gods have a cruel sense of humor and because your heart has always been softer than your head, you slide your arms beneath the prince’s shoulders and knees.

With a soft curse and the sea at your heels, you gather the dragon prince into your arms and carry home your ruin.

—————————

He is Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne. 

Three days have passed since you found him on the shore, and he has hardly stirred since you dragged him into your cottage. You have been riddled with anxiety since, jumping at every sound and fearing the worst when someone addresses you. It is only a matter of time—whenever a rider passes on the road beyond the trees or the patrol sweeps down your shore, you think they care coming for him. Coming for you. 

You spend the first day trying to keep him alive. 

You drag him home, soaked to the bone and half-frozen, laying him atop your bed as you get a fire going and wrap him in your blankets. For a while, you can only stand there staring at him, because it is one thing to decide not to leave a boy to die and another entirely to realize you have no idea how to save him.

You have to cut away his tunic to remove it, and it makes it easier to breathe once the three-headed dragon is out of sight, but then you have to address the monstrosity beneath it—bruises darkening one side of his ribs, yellow and purple and black, cuts everywhere, salt crusting his skin and body a ruin of blood. 

You wonder how many rocks the currents slammed him into before he finally washed to shore. The sea around Sharp Point is, well, sharp. Jagged rocks and narrow inlets line the coast, and more than one fisherman has vanished into the sea after his boat drifted too close to reefs beneath the tide.

It is a cruel stretch of sea—crueler still to a boy half-dead and alone. 

And then there were the arrows. 

The shafts protrude from his shoulders at awful angles, the flesh around them angry and swollen. You cry while removing them, because you have never done something like it before, and your hands cannot stop shaking. A part of you wonders if the gods left him for you so that his blood could be on your hands instead, and you cannot fathom what you’ve done to deserve this.

You expect him to wake once you start removing them. At the very least, you expect him to scream. The first shaft pierced cleanly through his shoulder and is easy enough to ease out, but the second lodged itself deep in the flesh, refusing to budge until you brace your foot against the bedframe and pull with both hands. 

It should have been agony—any man would have cried out. 

The prince does not so much as flinch.

You remember staring at him afterward, the arrow clutched in your hand and your own cheeks wet with tears, wondering if he had died while you were removing it. You press your fingers to his throat with a panic that borders on hysteria, and you aren’t sure if you’re relieved or disappointed when you feel the fluttering pulse still there. 

A traitorous part of you wishes that he had died. 

A corpse is a tragedy, but a tragedy can be dumped in the sea and abandoned. A tragedy will not bring more war to your ravaged home.

A living prince, on the other hand, is a catastrophe that you do not know what to do with. Your home has already faced ruin once, and the longer he remains in your care, the more at risk you will be of bringing it upon you all again, because if he is captured in your care, then that means war and blood and fire and more dragons. The whole town, all of the survivors, everyone will be branded traitors to the crown.

But the prince lived, so you can only hope that he will heal quick enough and be gone before you have the chance to regret helping him.

The fever comes on the second day, and the corpse in your bed finally gives to life. 

You notice it when you are wiping the blood from his face, and your hand brushes his forehead. It’s as though all of the cold of the sea had fled his body at once and left only fire behind. It’s what you expect of a Targaryen prince, really—the burning heat, closer to dragon than man— it feels more natural than the cold, but you are scared anyway. 

You do not know much about treating battle wounds, but you do know about fever. 

Your younger brother died of it during a long winter a decade past—no matter how hard your mother worked to keep it at bay, he was dead by nightfall. Your mother passed in the same moon, to the same sickness, as did half of the children in Sharp Point, because fever does not care whether you are young or old, rich or poor, prince or peasant.

His skin is flushed, sweat beading along his brow and soaking the dark hair at his temples as he twists in the sheets violently, threatening to reopen the wounds you just stitched close. His breathing changes too—no longer the slow drags of air, shallow and erratic, like he had spent days at sea only to begin suffocating on dry land.

You fetch water from the well until your shoulders ache. You lay cloths upon his brow and change them whenever they grow warm. You feed the fire, then fear you have made him too hot and let it die down, only to panic that he would grow cold again and build it back up.

Every few minutes, you find yourself pressing your hand to his forehead or his throat, checking for fever and pulse alike. There is never a change—still alive and burning, and you don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified. 

At one point, he begins muttering. You cannot make out most of it—the words are slurred, little more than broken sounds spilling from fevered lips. Names, you think. Places, maybe. Some do not seem to be spoken in the common tongue.

Once, very clearly, he whispers, "Mother.”

You have to change the cloth on his forehead afterward and pretend your eyes are not stinging with tears. You curse the gods throughout that second day—you wish that you’d never left the cottage at all the morning you found him, you wish you’d left him to die, you wish, you wish, you wish, as though any of it matters anymore. 

You sleep little that night, sitting beside your bed and watching him breathe. Terrified every time his breathing slowed, and equally terrified every time it quickened. You count the moments between each breath until dawn creeps through your shutters, and by morning, you feel like you have lived a lifetime in a single night.

The third day—today—you have to make the trek into town.

You have used the last of your willow bark, and there is only a heel of stale bread left, a few onions, and enough drinking water to last another day if you’re careful. You need fruit and vegetables, more barley, and you have a catch that you never got the chance to bring to the market to trade the morning you found the prince. 

You cannot put it off any longer, much as you may wish—the prince needs supplies, and unfortunately, so do you.

You do not like going into town. You have never liked going into town—you have always been fond of your neighbors and your friends, but you were not fond of the way they circle and crowd you whenever you make your weekly appearance for trade. You got overwhelmed too quickly, and you didn’t know how to make an exit without seeming rude, so you ended up staying there for hours when there were many chores you had to get done at home.

Now, it is like a graveyard. The destruction following the Prince Aemond’s attack on Sharp Point has yet to be cleared. The soldiers are too busy with war and patrols, and the survivors are too busy trying to salvage what they can of their ruined lives. 

When you enter the town, you can still smell charred flesh and death. 

The children usually run to you when you arrive, chattering about the games they’ve played and the rumors they’ve heard, if you saw the wild dragon Grey Ghost while you were out on your boat this week, and you smile and nod along with them. But all of the children are dead now, and you are not crowded by friends and neighbors eager to make conversation with you, because most of them are dead now too.

It is in the market when you overhear green-cloaked soldiers talking about the battle that took place in the Gullet, and you finally put a name to the face of the prince in your home. You try to pretend that you’re not eavesdropping, fingers shaking terribly as you sort through the fruits and vegetables that Wylem carted in from his farm, because you need to know if they have figured out what you’ve done, if they know the prince is in your care, under your roof.

But they only laugh as they speak of dead dragons and a mourning pretender queen. They say the Blacks have lost two dragons, and the bastard prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is dead. Any man who can find his body washed up on the shore to deliver to the King will see unfathomable riches. 

Momentarily, you are angry at yourself because the royals brought this war and have caused all of this suffering, but when your lashes flutter shut, for a split second, you can only picture the haunted look on your mother’s face as she held your dead brother in her arms. You think of Miss Ellyn, who tossed herself into the sea when she found out her son had been killed on the Kingsroad. You think of your friend, Marie, who you found screaming, fisting her infant daughter’s ashes after the burning of the town. You think of them, and then you think of the black queen on her throne, and you feel the same lump in your throat.

Then you remind yourself that this is her doing. 

Her doing, her half-brother’s doing, the other nobles’ doing. They brought this war to Westeros, they brought death and destruction, fire and blood, and you force yourself to shake your head and push it all away, trading some of the fish you caught for fruits and vegetables and barley with a watery smile that you’re sure Wylem took notice of. 

There are more important things to worry about: if there is a bounty on the prince’s body, everybody will be searching for him. Not just soldiers, the people too—your friends, your neighbors, everyone. Many starve, more struggle, so if there is an opportunity for gold, they will all be on the hunt. You need to burn his cloak and tunic when you get back to the cottage, anything that associates him with House Targaryen. 

You nearly trip over your own feet racing back to the cottage, second-guessing every conversation you had in the town. Wylem asked you why you were getting twice as much food as you usually get—you do not remember how you responded. 

Did you imply that you had a visitor? Why can’t you remember? What excuse did you give? Did the soldiers overhear? Are they following you? Do they know? Why can’t you remember? You’re scared—you do not think you’ve ever been so scared in your entire life. 

You look over your shoulder every five steps, worried that they’re going to come charging after you, demanding you to bring them to the Prince Jacaerys before taking your head. You’re not cut out for this—you’re the daughter of a fisherman. There’s no world where you should be worrying whether soldiers are going to hunt you down for saving a prince. 

There are tears in your eyes when you make it back to the cottage, and your fingers are trembling around the bags Wylem packed for you. You shut the door behind you, and it takes you three tries to bolt it properly. When you finally do, you rest your forehead against the wood and let out a trembling sigh.

You—

“Who are you?”

There is a knife to your throat.

You stare at the crack in the wood of your door, breath catching, desperately trying not to move lest you risk the knife slicing through your skin. The crack appeared last winter, you remind yourself, trying not to focus too much on the fact that you can feel the cool edge of the blade. Your friend, Evander, was meant to fix before the next, but Evander is dead now, and you may well be too, if the knife at your throat presses any deeper. 

“Answer me, who are you? Where am I? Wh—” the prince—Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne—falters suddenly, and you can only breathe again when the knife drops from your neck, and you feel the presence at your back disappear. “You—you are a woman.”

You do not turn to look at him immediately, eyes sliding shut as you fight to steady the frantic beating of your heart, drawing one slow breath after another until your shaking eases enough to trust your legs. Your fingers tighten on the bags cradled in your arms before you force yourself to turn around.

Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stands three paces behind you, one hand braced against the edge of your table, pained, pale, barely conscious. He is bare from the waist up, and the stitches you painstakingly worked through his torn skin have pulled loose, fresh blood soaking the bandages and dripping down his chest and back. 

You see more clearly in the light of the afternoon sun just how ruined his body is, bruises and cuts—you think his ribs must be broken, you did not notice just how bad off he was when you had him lying in the dim corner where you keep your bed. 

For a moment, you forget that you are face-to-face with a Targaryen prince—it is only the boy you dragged in from the sea and spent hours trying to keep alive. 

Your lips curve down into a deep frown, brows knitting together. You exhale as you say, “You reopened your wounds. It took me an hour to get them properly closed.”

The prince stares at you. 

As soon as the words fly from your mouth, you remember who it is before you. The son of a queen. The heir to the Iron Throne, if one listens to his mother. A pretender's heir and bastard, if one listens to her enemies. You do not know which of them is right, nor do you particularly care. Such questions belong to lords and knights and people with far too much time to argue over crowns. 

To the likes of you, prince is title enough for you to keep your mouth shut and your head bowed.

He does not immediately respond, gaze flicking around your cottage uncertainly. Your bed, stained with his blood. The dying hearth. The table where you left out the last bits of the bread, just in case he awoke while you were gone and was hungry. The bandages you left at his bedside. The basin of pink water you forgot to empty before leaving for town.

His lips, dry and cracked, part as he stares at you and murmurs more to himself than to you, “You tended my wounds.”

You hesitate, then nod, swallowing once. “I found you on the shore a few days past, my prince—” Your Grace? What is the proper way to address a prince? My Lord does not seem grand enough for the heir to a queen. Prince feels the safest—whatever he may be, no one seems inclined to dispute that part. “—I… you should probably be resting.”

“I need to know what happened,” he says instead, stepping closer to you. He is too pale, sweat beads at his forehead, dark curls matted to his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils dilated the same way you’ve seen in men mad with grief or fear or fury, moments before lashing out at the nearest person. You find yourself tensing instinctively. “What do you know of the battle that took place on the Gullet? Did Baela make it back to Dragonstone? And Rhaena—she was on that wild dragon, and—my brothers, did my brothers make it back? How long has it been? Where are we? How far is it to Dragonstone? I must return immediately, I—”

The prince only just seems to realize how you’ve drawn away, back pressed against the door to your own home, arms tightening around the sack in your arms whenever he comes closer. His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, gaze flicking to the knife he dropped onto the floor and the fear in your face. 

Shame crosses his expression instantly.

“I—” His expression twists as he puts space between the two of you again. You wonder whether it’s from pain or from struggling to force out an apology. Both, likely. He continues, “You have helped me—saved my life, most like—and here I am frightening you. I… I thought I’d been captured. I woke in an unfamiliar place. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was a prisoner or if the battle had been lost. I heard the door open and…”

He trails off, and you stand there awkwardly, tension easing slowly from your shoulders. He is still on guard, but he does not seem so inclined to pull a blade on you again. Your lips part to tell him where he is, what little you know of the battle on the Gullet. 

Instead, you ask, “Do most enemy strongholds look like a fisherman’s cottage, my prince?” 

You are mortified the moment the question spills from your lips—he is a Targaryen prince, they are known for blood and fire and madness, dragons and crowns, and you speak to him as though he’s one of your peers. 

Prince Jacaerys stares at you for a long moment, and then, to your astonishment, his gaze flicks around the inside of your home again, and something suspiciously like embarrassment crosses his face. 

“I suppose not.”

The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself, and you let out a soft puff of air through your nose before making your way across the room to place the sack you’ve carried from town onto the table. You will have to sort all of what you’ve got later; for now, you need to get the prince resettled before he opens up any more of his wounds.

You turn to look at him again, faltering when you see the pained expression that crosses his face, so sudden that it steals all the color from his cheeks. His hand shoots to his side, fingers digging into the bandages wrapped around his ribs.

“My prince?” you ask hesitantly, taking half a step forward, arm only slightly extended. It is one thing to carry him to your cottage and treat his wounds while he’s unconscious; it is different now that he’s awake.

Prince Jacaerys inhales sharply through his teeth. He is swaying on his feet, breath gone shallow—he looks as though he’s moments from collapsing hard onto your wooden floor. Still, his jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck tighten as he draws himself upright through sheer stubbornness.

“I am fine,” he insists.

“You should sit, my prince.”

“I am standing,” he replies with a tight smile, as though a bead of sweat isn’t rolling down his temple from strain to remain upright and his lips aren’t trembling with pain.

“Barely.”

The prince blinks as though caught off guard by the response, casting a look that is partially confused, and mostly offended in your direction. Your lashes flutter shut as you brace yourself for a volatile reaction, because he is a prince and you are a fisherman’s daughter, and you are arguing with him as though he is an equal and not one of those dragon-riding royals people compose songs about. You think you must have lost your wits entirely these past few days. 

Instead, he shoots back, with all the dignity he can muster while visibly swaying, "I have endured worse."

You stare at the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, uncertain if you believe him. You say with less heat, "That is not the same as being well, my prince."

His jaw tightens, and you fight a sigh. Gods, he actually looks as though he is preparing an argument. 

You wonder, briefly, what your life has become. Three weeks ago, your greatest concern had been whether the currents would ease up enough for you to take the boat out of the shallows to catch some fish. Now, Sharp Point has burned and you are standing in your cottage, arguing with a dragon prince about his injuries. 

The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, wondering if perhaps this entire ordeal is some fever dream brought on by bad fish and Leila’s uncle’s dubious ale. 

Then, Prince Jacaerys’s left leg buckles. 

He reaches for the table and misses, injured shoulder slamming into the edge hard enough to wrench a strangled cry from him, and before you can think better of it, you're moving.

You let go of the sack of fruits and vegetables and barley you were keeping steady on your table; it topples over, and all of your pristine apples go rolling across the floor of your cottage, but you barely notice, panicked when you realize that he careening right toward the hardwood floor.  

You catch the prince around the waist just as he starts to fall, but he is heavier than you expect.

You brace yourself, convinced that he is going to take you down with him, but you manage to steer him sideways toward the chair beside the table. He collapses into it heavily, breath hissing through clenched teeth as pain flashes across his face.

Momentum carries you forward with him—far, far too forward.

One hand lands against the uninjured side of his chest to steady yourself, the other gripping the arm of the chair. For a horrifying second, you are practically sprawled across the heir to the Iron Throne’s lap. You jerk away so quickly you nearly trip over one of the escaped apples, face burning and hands shaking.

"Sorry," you blurt, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry, I did not mean—”

“I believe,” Prince Jacaerys begins with a grimace, “that was my fault.”

You do not respond, flustered, trying to put more distance between you to calm yourself down. Your gaze flicks back over to him, but he is too busy grinding his teeth as he glances down at his wounds to pay you any mind. You let out a soft puff of air through your nose before you look at the apples rolling about your floor, and then reach for one still on your table—you might have lost some sense over the past three days with the little sleep you’ve gotten, but you are not about to feed a prince food off your floor.

You make your way back over to him and hold the apple out to him. He blinks once at it before his gaze lifts to yours questioningly.

“I do not know when last you ate—a while, certainly,” you tell him quietly. “You should get something in you while I redress the bandages. I’ll cook some stew once I’m certain you’re not going to bleed out.”

Prince Jacaerys exhales through his nose before he takes the apple from you, rolling it between his fingers. You step past him so that you can move the basin of water closer to where he’s sitting, grabbing a clean rag and the bandages that you left next to your bed. 

You come to stand in front of him again, hesitating before you motion to the wounds on his shoulder. You ask, “May I?”

His dark gaze flicks up to yours briefly before he nods, and your throat tightens as you shift closer, fingers fumbling a bit as you grab for the edge of the bandages to unwind them from around him. It is much more intimidating doing this while he’s awake, inches away from you, and eyes tracking your every move.

“I found you three days ago, my prince,” you tell him at last, trying to remember all of the questions he asked earlier so that you can busy your mind with something other than the fact that you can feel his skin hot against yours. “Before that, the fighting died another three. In truth, my prince, I do not know how you survived so long at sea.”

Prince Jacaerys says nothing in response. His attention remains fixed somewhere beyond the wall behind you, expression distant. You suspect he is counting the days since the battle, the hours his family has believed he is dead, the minutes his mother has spent mourning him. You keep your gaze trained on his shoulder as you unwind the last of the bandages and set them down on the table. 

You press your lips together when you see that the stitches have loosened at the back of his shoulder—where one of the arrows had dug deep, but not deep enough to pass cleanly through. Pulling it free had torn through muscle and flesh alike, leaving a ragged injury that had taken you nearly an hour to clean, stitch, and stop bleeding.

You exhale as you run the pad of your finger briefly over the stitches, trying to figure out if you can salvage what effort you already put in or if you would have to pull them out and redo them entirely. 

“And my family? My younger brothers? Baela and Rhaena? Have you heard what has become of them?” the prince asks, and you glance up just enough to see how his jaw tightens when your finger brushes over the wound. “Did we win the battle?”

“I do not know if anyone can be said to have won that battle, my prince,” you answer quietly, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you finally start to get to work at reclosing the wound. Your gaze slips to the side when he finally starts to eat the apple you passed to him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, as though he’s only just realized how hungry he is. “Both fleets were decimated. The dead still wash up on the northern shore.”

How did Prince Jacaerys make it to your shore, then? 

Not for the first time, you have to wonder if the gods themselves placed him directly into your hands. 

Most of the rest of the dead have washed up on the northern and western shores of Sharp Point, as it is where the currents run strongest, but the prince somehow made it to where your cottage sits on the eastern shore. If he had washed up anywhere else, the patrol would have certainly found him by now. You've heard they have spent the last several days combing the beaches, hauling bloated corpses from the tide and turning them over with the tips of their spears, searching for the dragon prince they are certain the sea claimed.

Prince Jacaerys’s breath hitches when you tug lightly at the stitches holding the skin of his shoulder together. Already, he’s finished the apple you handed him, absentmindedly turning the core between his fingers while his thoughts remain leagues away. 

It is only when the last bite is gone that he seems to notice, and his gaze drifts toward the table. He hesitates, and you think it is almost comical—this is the heir to the Iron Throne, a dragonrider, a prince who has flown into battle, and he looks as though asking for another apple might be an imposition too great to make when he’s been floating at sea for at least a week. 

You hold the stitches carefully with your right hand so that you can lean forward and grab another apple from your table to pass to him. His cheeks color slightly when he realizes that you noticed.

“I did not mean to stare,” he murmurs, taking the apple from you and cradling it carefully between his hands. He asks again, “Have you heard what has become of my family?” 

You shake your head, focusing on tending to his wounds again. You think that you’ll be able to salvage your work. It is good, you think—you can get him resting and then cook some stew for the two of you. You didn’t eat much yesterday, frazzled by the fever and trying to keep him comfortable, and you’re starting to feel a lightness in your head. 

“I’ve only heard what the soldiers say in town, my prince,” you murmur, trying to figure out how to go about speaking the news he certainly won’t take well. The last thing you need is for grief to send him bolting for Dragonstone before he can so much as walk across your cottage without collapsing. If he does not kill himself by straining his body when it is not ready, then the patrols will certainly catch him and have his head—and then yours. 

You let out a soft sigh as you tie off the stitches on his shoulder blade and lean down to wet the clean rag before lifting it to his bloody skin. You’re careful around the edges of the wound, trying not to disturb the stitches, working slowly at the dried and wet blood from the curve of his shoulder, over the collarbone, down the length of his back. 

You try not to think too hard about what you’re doing. 

If you do, it begins to feel far too intimate. 

It is one thing to drag an unconscious stranger from the sea. It is another to stand so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, to brush your fingers across the line of his shoulders. You have spent three days tending him without much thought, because there had been no room for embarrassment while the Stranger lingered at his bedside.

Now he is awake and watching you, and every accidental brush of your knuckles against his skin seems to linger a heartbeat too long. He is a prince of the realm, and you are a fisherman’s daughter—people like you are not supposed to touch people like him, and yet—

You exhale through your nose harshly. You busy yourself with the rag, scrubbing a little harder than necessary at a streak of dried blood along his collarbone simply to distract yourself, and his jaw pinches.

“Sorry,” you say quietly.

“It does not hurt,” he replies—a lie, surely, any man would be in agonizing pain. But maybe not; any man also would have died in the sea. Maybe the rumors are true: the Targaryens are closer to god than man; they do not feel pain or have to fear the Stranger the same way people like you ought to. “What have you heard from the soldiers in town? Where are we?”

“Half a league from Sharp Point, my prince,” you answer, still evading the question, which he seems to realize from the way he glances at you over his shoulder, gaze sharp and accusing. He knows you are withholding something. You exhale lightly through your nose and then say hesitantly, “They say two dragons fell over the Gullet. I could not tell you which.”

“Two?!” Prince Jacaerys demands, immediately rising to his feet, so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, and you fear he might rip back open the stitches. He whirls on you, eyes wide, pupils large as coins, and you almost flinch. “Two dragons?”

You swallow thickly as you nod. “My prince—”

“One must be—” His voice catches. He cannot finish the thought. For the first time since he awoke, real grief overtakes him completely. It drains his face of what little color had returned, leaves him staring at nothing as though he can already see the answer waiting for him. “I need to know the second. Whose was it? Which dragon fell?”

It unsettles you how close he sounds to pleading when moments before, you had been wondering whether the stories of the Targaryens’ deism held some weight, because gods do not look like this. They do not stand in a stranger’s cottage with fear plain on their face, hands trembling as they wait for an answer they already dread. 

The same lump forms in your throat now that did when you heard the soldiers mocking a grieving queen and couldn’t help your thoughts from turning to your own mother, to Miss Ellyn, to your friend, Marie. For a moment, he is not a Targaryen prince or a dragonlord; you see a son and an older brother. A boy your age who knows there are only a handful of dragons flying over the Gullet, and every one of them belongs to someone he loves.

“I do not—”

“I need to return home,” he says immediately, as though his face isn’t white with pain and his stitches don’t strain every time he moves. His eyes glaze over you as though you’re not even there, and he takes a step toward the door to your small cottage. “Sharp Point—there must be passage to Dragonstone, there—”

Panic flares in your chest when he makes as though to leave. It is noon, and the patrols have become more frequent along the shores outside your cottage. They’ve spent a week carding through the western and northern shores, and they’ve been sending more and more men to the east—you worry they’re becoming desperate. The longer they go without finding a corpse, the more they may fear that there isn’t one.

If they have an inkling that Prince Jacaerys is still alive, they’ll start kicking down doors, and if they start kicking down doors, they will find him, and your life will be forfeit for harboring him. 

“You cannot,” you say before you can think better of it, lunging forward as though to grab his wrist, but you stop yourself before you can make a terrible mistake, stopping a hairsbreadth from brushing his skin. 

What is wrong with you? you think furiously. You need to rest tonight before you do something you cannot take back. Already you have gotten snide with and you have argued with a prince of the realm—now you have commanded him and nearly tried to seize him. You would have been lucky to only lose your hand in any other circumstance. Had he been standing in a hall instead of your cottage, surrounded by knights instead of rough-hewn furniture, you might have lost your head. 

“I cannot?” Prince Jacaerys turns to you, bafflement momentarily eclipsing the fear that had consumed him only seconds before, as though he cannot quite fathom that someone has just told him no. 

“My prince, you can scarcely stand,” you say. His gaze drops to where your hand is still hovering near his arm, head cocking to the side and brows lifting, and you snap it back to your chest immediately, heat flooding your face. “You have lost a lot of blood, you have barely eaten in a week, your wounds have only just been stitched again, and there are patrols searching for you every road between here and the sea.”

He continues to stare at you, disbelief riddling his expression. You have the distinct impression that no one has ever spoken to him this way before—certainly not a fisherman’s daughter. You force yourself to press on while he’s silent, hoping to make your point and rid him of this futile endeavor before he gets you both killed. 

“The Prince Aemond burned Sharp Point’s harbor. There are no ships capable of navigating the currents of the Gullet, and the water still burns besides. I do not have a horse for you to ride to Stonedance. You could not get to Dragonstone even if you were not hurt,” you insist. “I will return to town tomorrow to try to get more information, but please, my prince, you mustn’t leave. You will only be putting us both at risk.”

For a long moment, you think that he will invoke his title or duty and insist upon leaving anyway, or maybe he will simply walk out the door despite everything you have said, and there is nothing you could do to stop him. 

Then, his expression changes, twisting into something pained as he looks away, a shuddered breath escaping his lips. His shoulders, held tense since the moment you uttered the word two, sink ever so slightly. The panic that had driven him to his feet has nowhere left to go, draining from him all at once, leaving only exhaustion behind. 

One hand drops back down to his ribs, pain crossing his face. Whatever strength carried him to his feet abandons him just as quickly as the panic, leaving him swaying where he stands. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he reopens them, the panic has been replaced by a type of defeat that is infinitely more difficult to look at.

You step forward cautiously when you see how his body is trembling, hand hovering uncertainly between the two of you, silently asking permission to help him. Prince Jacaerys stares at your outstretched hand, then at the bed on the far side of the room; you think, for a second, that he will attempt to cross on his own, but then his nostrils flare as he exhales, inclining his head just enough to grant you the permission his pride refuses to voice aloud.

Carefully, you slip beneath his uninjured arm, taking care to avoid the fresh bandages. He is warm—still warmer than he ought to be—and you can’t help but wonder if his fever has returned or if this is just how hot dragon prince’s typically run. 

He leans into you only slightly, weight settling lightly against your shoulder—you suspect he is trying very hard not to. The journey from the door to your bed is scarcely a dozen paces, but it feels much longer. 

“We were supposed to win this victory for her,” Prince Jacaerys says after a moment, voice breaking, the words slip free before he can stop it. You do not think the admission is meant for you, so you stay quiet. His throat works as he swallows. “We were supposed to—”

He cuts himself off, looking away again as you help him ease back down into your bed. As soon as he is seated, something close to relief crosses his face, lashes fluttering; the pain is still there, but not quite as terrible as it was when he was straining on his feet.

“The fact that you are alive at all is a victory, my prince,” you say quietly, even though you do not think the words will be of any reassurance. “You should rest. The sooner you are well, the sooner we can figure out a way to get you home. I’ll cook up a stew and wake you when it’s finished.”

He exhales again, jaw tightening as he looks away with a resigned expression. You turn your back on him to deal with the mess you made of the kitchen area, grimacing slightly at everything spilled across your floorboards and the table. 

“What is your name?” Prince Jacaerys asks you suddenly. “I think I ought to know the name of the woman who saved my life.”

You let a soft breath, glancing over your shoulder at him. He is pained still, but there is an earnest look in his eyes that makes you falter—you remember how close you were to leaving him to his fate, and you have to look away again before he can catch the guilt that crosses over your face.

With a shaky exhale, you give the prince your name, and you cannot help but feel as though your life has irrevocably changed, and you do not think for the better. 

————————————

The sea is on fire.

Jace cannot tell where the flames end and the water begins. Ships burn around him, masts collapsing into the waves with deafening cracks; men scream as they’re consumed by the fire, and dragons let out terrible shrieks as they dive low to bring down another ship full of Myrish mercenaries. 

He tries to focus.

He chases after the rogue dragon, hoping to kill the rider before the dragon can burn any more of the Velayron fleet—or worse, catch Baela and Moondancer. But there is panic clawing at his chest, and smoke and salt clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. He’s screaming at Vermax to fly faster, to kill the rider, and then—then he sees Rhaena. 

He sees Rhaena atop the wild dragon, and she is screaming, crying, desperately trying to get it under control, and Jace is confused, reeling as he yells at Vermax to stop at the last second. He and dragon both diving down away from the chase before Vermax could breathe fire on his cousin.

Rhaena does not have a dragon, he thinks, trying to figure out what is happening, and Rhaena is supposed to be with his brothers, and his brothers are captured by the enemy, and he isn’t sure if Stormcloud and Aegon made it to shore, and there is too much going on, and—

—and Vermax is falling. 

Vermax is banking hard, being dragged down into the sea, and Jace’s stomach lurches. He’s yelling—begging—Vermax to fly, and Vermax is trying, he’s trying so hard, wings beating smoke through the air. He shrieks as another bolt catches him in the wing, and Jace feels the pain himself—he feels the pain, the primal fear, everything that Vermax does, because Vermax is his, and he is Vermax’s, and they are bonded, and Vermax is drowning, and the water is so cold, and Jace cannot feel his legs or his hands or his face.

He fumbles as he tries to unhook himself from the saddle, choking on water and air, maybe a sob, as Vermax sinks into the sea, a stream of bubbles rising to the surface as he cries for Jace, slowly disappearing into the dark waters. Jace desperately tries to dive after him, as if he has the strength to hold them both above the sea, because Jace has already lost Luke, and he—he cannot lose Vermax. 

Not the dragon who had slept beside his cradle before he was old enough to walk, the hatchling he had grown up alongside, whose neck had once fit beneath his arm, whose first uncertain flights had ended with both of them tumbling into the sandy shore of Dragonstone while his mother laughed herself breathless.

Jace does not know a life without him—he does not want to know a life without him. His earliest recollections are not of nursery songs or wooden swords, but of warm green scales beneath tiny hands and the deep, rumbling croon that had lulled him to sleep when he was scarcely more than a babe. 

When Jace learned to walk, Vermax learned to fly; when Jace’s voice deepened, Vermax’s roar had too. 

There has never been a Jacaerys without Vermax.

But Jace’s lungs are burning, and he cannot see the familiar green scales anymore, and his body is reacting, seizing and spasming because there is no air left in him and water all around. He does not know which way is up and which way is down, the water is too dark and too cold, and he cannot think, but—but he sees the bubbles. He sees the bubbles, and he follows them, and even as Vermax sinks to the bottom of the sea, he saves his rider one final time. 

He reaches the surface with a gasp, gulping the smoky air, and everything hurts. His arms ache, his chest is too tight, his eyes burn, and he cannot breathe, because Vermax is gone. He can feel that Vermax is gone; there is a gaping hole in his chest where his dragon used to be, and Jace does not know what to do, he does not know how to live anymore, and he wants—

He wants his mother.

He just wants his mother. 

He hears the cheers before he feels the first arrow, gaze lifting to the sky as he searches for Baela and Moondancer—they are not too far, he thinks, she'll come for him.

And then, there’s a dull throb in his shoulder blade as he pulls himself over a floating piece of driftwood, but he hardly takes note of the pain, because everywhere hurts, because Vermax is gone, because he wants his mother. He turns when he hears the cheering, and he sees the men on the ship, and he sees the crossbows and the bows and the Myrish banners, but he does not see anything at all, really, blinking once, staring.

The second arrow catches him closer to the chest.

And then—then all he remembers is sea. 

White foam and bubbles, vicious currents and sharp rocks. He thinks he is dead more than he thinks he is alive, but there is so much pain. There is pain and emptiness, and Jace just wants—

“... prince, the stew is ready.”

Jace startles awake, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His body tenses immediately, because he does not remember where he is—he remembers the sea and the waves and rocks and pain and Vermax, but he does not remember…

The cottage. Waking up alone. The door opening, the fear—was he captured? Where is he? Where are his brothers? Where is Baela? What was Rhaena doing on the wild dragon? Mother, mother, mother—

You avert your eyes suddenly, an awkward expression on your face, and Jace suddenly remembers. He remembers you, the apple you passed him as you tended to his wounds; how he held a knife to the throat of a woman who is risking her own life to save his. He remembers that he is stuck bedridden in the bed of a commoner while his mother thinks he’s dead and fights for her throne alone.

He opens his mouth to apologize—to tell you that he will leave as soon as he is able, that he will ensure you’re properly compensated for saving his life—but he falters when he feels something hot and wet drip down his face.

He lifts his hand to his cheek and wipes at his face, looking down at the wetness smeared on his fingertips. For a long moment, he does not understand—seawater, maybe? But he is no longer being tossed around by the sea. He is warm in your cottage, the hearth burns low and your blankets are tangled around him. He blinks once, and another fat droplet of water rolls from his eye down his cheek.

Is he crying?

Heat rushes to his face so quickly he thinks it rivals the fever. He wipes away furiously, not sure if it’s more or less humiliating that you’re pretending not to notice for his sake, turning your back to him to ready the table. 

Jace has wept before, more than most ought to—for the father who taught him fishing and sea shanties, and the other who passed before either of them could speak the truth out loud, for the grandfather he never truly knew, for the brother who felt less like a brother and more like his other half—but never, never in front of a stranger. 

Jace promptly clears his throat and pulls himself together. He glances at you, praying that his face does not betray him, an excuse on his lips as takes a deep breath. Then he falters, mouth watering instantly, gaze cutting to the side where you are busy ladling stew into two chipped wooden bowls, back politely turned, as though you never noticed anything at all.

Jace doesn't think he’s ever been this hungry. He has dined in castles all his life—roasted swan, lemon cakes, arbor wines. He has consumed the finest meals Westeros has to offer and found them lacking, but he almost feels dizzy with need and pleasure at the scent of the stew you made.

“It—” Jace’s voice is hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he clears his throat again to try to even it out. “It smells good.”

You look at him over your shoulder with a small smile and murmur demurely, “I’m sure nothing compared to what you’re used to, my prince.”

“I do not know that,” he says lightly as he forces himself to his feet, grimacing as pain immediately shoots through his body. 

Everything aches—his chest, his shoulders, his legs, his arms, his head. In truth, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep more; he cannot bear to keep going. Not now. Not after Vermax, after Luke, after making such a terrible mistake that he might have cost his mother her throne. His stomach flips at the thought, and he fights a shuddered breath.

He needs to keep going—there is no other choice. He needs to get back to Dragonstone as soon as possible.

You pause in the middle of setting the bowls on the table at his words to give him a questioning look. “My prince?”

“I have not tasted it yet,” he tells you, forcing levity into his tone, because you have saved his life, tended to his wounds, and now stand over a pot of stew you cooked for him, worrying that it is not good enough to satisfy a prince. The least he can do is ease your mind. "It would seem unfair to compare a meal I have not eaten yet.”

You blink at him once, and then you smile slightly—it’s a genuine one, not like the small one you forced in his direction just before—and Jace tries his best to return it as he crosses the small room. He shuffles the last few steps toward the table with considerably less grace than he would have liked.

“Perhaps” you reply softly, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before you do as well. 

You do not immediately lift your spoon, and Jace hesitates—for a brief moment, an old childhood lesson surfaces. Do not eat until someone else has tasted it. Feasts at King’s Landing and supper at Dragonstone had been meticulous about such things—cups were poured and tasted before his mother, and plates were sampled before any of them took a bite of their food. The paranoia claws at him and disappears as quickly as it comes.

You had dragged him half-dead from the sea, spent days stitching his wounds and breaking his fever, and gave up your bed so he could sleep comfortably. If you wished him dead, you need only have left him on the shore. 

“I never thanked you for what you’ve done for me,” he says at last, fingers grazing the wooden spoon dipped into the broth. “When I return to Dragonstone, I shall speak with my mother. She will see you properly rewarded.”

“There is no need,” you murmur, finally taking a sip of the stew when Jace lifts the spoon to his lips. 

The broth is hot enough to sting his tongue, but he scarcely notices. It is a simple meal—carrots and celery, chunks of what he thinks is rabbit. It is the plainest thing he has eaten in years, and yet somehow, the best meal he can remember.

His stomach twists painfully as warmth settles into it, and before he can stop himself, he takes another spoonful, then another, the hunger of the past week overwhelming whatever restraint court etiquette had once led him. It is only when half the bowl is gone that he realizes how quickly he is eating.

Embarrassed, he forces himself to slow, lowering the spoon.

“My apologies,” he says, clearing his throat. “I fear I may have forgotten my manners.”

“You haven’t had a meal in over a week, my prince. You’re allowed to be hungry,” you say with a faint smile.

Jace lets out a half-hearted huff of amusement through his nose, though his smile fades as quickly as it came, returning to conversation to try to force himself to slow down and show a modicum of etiquette before he embarrasses himself further. 

“There is every need for reward,” he disagrees, leaning forward slightly to look at you. For the first time since he woke in your cottage, he actually observes you—you cannot be much older than he is, beautiful certainly, but there’s a weariness in your expression that Jace cannot help but feel as though is his fault. “You saved the life of the heir to the Iron Throne. You surrendered your bed, tended wounds that would have killed most men, and risked the wrath of the Greens simply by allowing me beneath your roof. I cannot allow that debt to go unanswered.”

You stare at him for a moment, a conflicted expression on your face, and Jace shakes his head slightly as he presses.

“I do not possess enough coin to repay such a debt myself—” nor, he suspects, does anyone “—but my mother will. You needn't live here any longer if you do not wish to. We could see your cottage rebuilt if the fighting has damaged it, or grant you land elsewhere, if that is what you'd prefer. Whatever you ask, so long as it is within my power, I will see it done.”

You are quiet for a long while as Jace finishes off the stew, but he expects hesitation as you mull over what to ask for: gold, land, a better ship, perhaps. Your gaze drifts off to the side, and Jace’s follows it, faltering when he realizes that you’re looking in the direction of what remains of Sharp Point.

That’s right, he remembers—you mentioned your cottage was less than a league away. 

From where he sits, he can just see the destruction through the small window. The town is little more than scorched foundations and splintered timbers now, dragonfire having reduced generations of work to ash in the span of a single afternoon. He cannot look at it for long, stomach twisting so unpleasantly that he fears the stew you just cooked him might come right up. 

You stay silent for so long that Jace wonders if you have not heard him, and his lips part to repeat himself futilely. 

“We used to think they were beautiful, you know?” you say, voice barely over a breath. “We would watch your family fly from King’s Landing and Dragonstone. The children would cheer and call out the names of whatever dragon and royal was passing overhead, even though they knew you could not hear them.” A wistful smile tugs briefly at your lips, and Jace suddenly feels a rock in his stomach, a heaviness that he cannot seem to push away. “There is a wild dragon in these parts—we call him Grey Ghost. He hunts fish along the eastern shore. I see him frequently when I take my father’s boat out. We lived alongside him for years—sometimes he swoops down close when we have a big catch, but he never bothers us. My father always said he was curious—shy, but curious.”

You exhale suddenly as you rise to your feet; Jace wonders if he should ignore the unshed tears in your eyes the same way you politely did for him.

“Then the Prince Aemond and Vhagar came,” you say at last. “The only thing I want, my prince, is for this war to end, but I know you cannot give me that. If you don't mind, I should see to my father's boat before the tide turns. There is more stew in the pot if you would have it. Then you ought to rest. You'll not heal by arguing with your own body.”

Jace opens his mouth.

He does not know what he intends to say, caught between guilt and indignation, because everybody wants the fighting to end—he does, his mother does. Maybe not Daemon, but why do you say it as though he stands opposed to peace? He did not choose this, nor did his mother. It is not his fault that the Greens usurped his mother's throne.  

He desperately tries to formulate an answer, but how is he supposed to respond to that? What were they meant to do? Yield to the usurpers? Stand aside while his mother’s birthright was stolen? Let Luke die for nothing? Should he say that he is sorry for your loss? That his mother would never have done this? That Vermax would never have burned a fishing village? That this was all the Greens? That they fight to avenge what happened here? 

That dragons are not cruel creatures, he feels the need to tell you when he sees the disdain on your face—it is the people who ride them. It is the Greens. It is Aegon and Aemond, Alicent Hightower and her father.

His lips are parted as though to respond, but he only finds himself staring at you helplessly. 

You incline your head politely before slipping out the door, the cool air rushing briefly into the cottage before it shuts behind you once more. Jace remains where he is, staring into the last of his stew until the steam no longer rises from it, the reality of his situation settling over him—Vermax is dead, Luke is dead, and his mother believes them both lost. He does not know whether his brothers and cousins are safe, if his mother still fights for her crown. He is useless, wounded in a fisherman's cottage, alive only because a woman from a town his family failed to protect chose mercy over sense.

He does not think he has ever felt less like the heir to a kingdom.

[lysarion]

╰ DO YOU DANCE? ／ VALERIY ⟢

SYNOPSIS: after valeriy's sudden departure leaving you to wonder where he's been, he finally returns after a decade long wait in silence.

𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 3k ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @amorsial @al97649 @shoyosluver @al97649 @katethecrazy @rainbows-dreams @hirokasama @uzxotic @anqelkoz @leafyonz @suyeomiiee @ddurandals @007-archives @officialkatzlin @sangoqueenkoko @byzantiumhollow @koriahhh -> come join the taglist here!

𖥔 WARNINGS: they yearn a lot in this fic, miscommunication/misunderstanding and angst is you squint, inaccurate depictions of regency/high society, written pre-release, expect him to be ooc. not fully proofread; expect mistakes!

♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ genshin always know how to get me back fml. doesn't help that he looks like marius and i. i really like that little shit okay. its so bad i had to get my copy of priode and prejudice to get inspiration and you can tell LMFAOOO ANWYAYS ENJOY!!! art credits: @.srro_yo on x!

It's a universally known truth that a man of Major Valeriy's standing must be in want of a spouse.

For as long as you've known the man, he would beat you in your fantasies of what it means to have a happily ever after. You find it endearing how much thought, care, and insurmountable fondness Valeriy had put into what his future life would look like. What his future with you would look like.

"A manor near the heart of the city," you recount his younger self, standing proudly on your windowsill with a training sword raised high in the air as you giggle behind your book. Valeriy shoots you a proud grin before jumping off his platform and making a beeline towards you. "Because you can't go one day without dancing with the common folk. I'd like to spare his Lordship from an early death."

A roll of your eyes makes Valeriy grin wider. He gently takes your hand in his, throwing away his pretend sword to put your book down, and coaxes you to stand. He lays a hand on his shoulder, while he intertwines the other in his own. The way Valeriy invites you to dance is never conventional. Sure, he'd do the gentlemanly thing and bow, kiss your knuckles, and deliver a practiced smile. Most of the time, he'd sneak up on you—a hand already interlocked with your own, his chin resting on your shoulder, and him humming your favorite piece when he enters your room.

And every time, Valeriy would smile.

Oh, how you want to keep that smile to yourself. Not the ones he practiced in front of your vanity mirror before events, but the ones he has now as he sways you back and forth in the direction of your music box. This smile is reserved for you and you alone. The kind where it's all tooth and boyish charm instead of a noble knight.

"There will be a ballroom in the living room," he continues his fantasy, guiding your every step with poise and grace. "We will hold all your birthday celebrations there."

"And what about yours?" you ask, the world escaping you in a blur when Valeriy leads you in a twirl. "Where will we celebrate your birthday?"

He shakes his head, "There's no need. A grand celebration for my birth has never been my style."

"But if I want to celebrate your birthday?" Valeriy only smiles at your pouty lips. His hand drags lower, respectfully keeping it just above your waist as he tugs you impossibly closer.

"What use will I have for a hundred faces when I only want to look at yours?"

You can't stop the blush that creeps up your cheeks at his honesty. And even if you did, Valeriy had a hidden talent for always keeping your eyes on him. It is impossible not to—not when he bats those inssuferably long lashes at you or when he looks as if you are the sole flame keeping this cold nation warm.

Valeriy was very good at making you feel special.

You wonder where that man has gone.

It has been years since you last saw him. All you had was a letter tucked between your pillows, his smudged handwriting announcing his departure in the coming fortnight, and how he deeply regrets not being able to say goodbye properly. Even now, almost a decade later, you remain in the dark on why Valeriy left. Every servant, every knight, every close companion that knew of his name all gave you the same vague answer.

"It's a knightly duty."

How you wanted to use your authority as one of Sneznhaya's future sovereigns to strip him of that title.

Valeriy would hate you. But at least he'd be there, just within arm's reach instead of some freezing camp where no light could reach him. You can live with him hating you because you can never begin to imagine a life where you grow older and he stays a certain age for all eternity.

"Won't you come dance with us, my liege?" Your apprentice, Vesna, asks.

You blink in confusion until your eyes finally catch up to the music played by the band. So lost in your thought, so lost staring at the back of your almost-lover's head from across the room, you had completely tuned out the rest of the world.

Vesna asks you again, her voice a little quieter. She shifts from one foot to the other, gloved hands clasped at her chest, her lips set in a pout as you hesitantly chuckle. You quickly turn your head, watching your figure dissolve and slosh around the champagne flute to avoid Vesna's pleading.

By the Tsaritsa, why have I agreed to this? You ask yourself with a wince. You were no knight, nor did you have a personal relationship with the Druzhna. So why in the world did you receive an invitation?

Sure, you may have mentored Vesna, the current Captain of the aforementioned group, but you wouldn't really call it mentoring. You were more or less a glorified advisor. The masses are blinded by your previous relationship with Valeriy before his journey. The memory brings a frown to your face. Vesna didn't fail to notice.

"Is something wrong, my liege? You seem glum tonight. Wasn't it your wish to dance in her Majesty's palace?" She questioned with a frown.

"Truly, Vesna, my dear, I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

As you were about to retort, the ballroom quiets to a low murmur. The crowd parts like the sea being cleaved with a sword as someone—mayhaps another official delegate from the Druzhna—announces Valeriy's presence. You almost hiss out in pain at the mention of his name. Almost.

His footsteps are heavy, laden with layers of snow during his travels, while a greatsword is strapped securely on his back. The chilly winds from the evernight have crept their way into the palace, forcing Valeriy's fur coat to sway in a dance that painfully reminded you of when the curtains of your room would give him away when he'd sneak out of training to see you.

Everyone bowed their heads, eyes landing on the floor as Valeriy's gaze swept the crowd. When he met you, you didn't think twice to follow the rest of the world. Duck your head, curtsy, and remain out of his lidded gaze when he passes you. You bite your lip in frustration when the scent of wildberries and iron wafts in the air. You don't remember him smelling like he had been through a war.

"That's Majory Valeriy," Vesna whispers to you. Head also ducked down as her eyes followed Valeriy's figure. "He hasn't been seen in almost a decade since his expedition."

"I know." Painfully so.

The younger girl turns to you as you both straighten your backs, and music erupts like a sleeping volcano. Her teal eyes are narrowed into an apprehensive glare as you take another glass of champagne. "Did something happen between you and the Major?"

You sighed, the air heavy and condensing in a small fog in front of you. "Nothing happened." Because it is the truth, even if you wish it wasn't.

How do you even begin to undo the suffering of a decade-long silence spent in the dark?

"Maybe you should ask him to dance." Vesna proposes, and you almost laugh.

"Knowing him, he'd decline." Your eyes betray you and find Valeriy in a corner, speaking with his fellow soldiers. "Major Valeriy doesn't look like the kind who dances."

"Well, we can't exactly know what a gentleman really is by the end of a single fortnight!" Your apprentice loops an arm around yours, the other steals your glass of champagne, and you watch as it's carried off to who knows where. You nearly trip over your own feet as Vesna drags you in the direction of Valeriy, and you could've sworn your heart leaped up into your throat when he looks to both your figures. "If we do not venture ourselves, then someone else will."

"I think I'd prefer if someone else did." A lie.

Vesna only rolls her eyes. "Very few of us can feel freely, my liege, and even fewer who have enough heart to let themselves fall in love without the sorcery of others." When you are but a few strides away from the Major, Vesna unloops herself from your grasp and gives you a final hug as she pushes you forward. "I can tell that you deeply love Major Valeriy. It's truly such a shame you don't believe that he loves you the same."

"Vesna—!"

Before you can get another word out, steady arms catch you before you can hit the floor. You can feel your heart pounding within your ribs as you screw your eyes shut, unwilling to believe that this is happening. That after a decade-long wait, Valeriy's arm came to circle your form as if he hadn't left.

"Careful," by the Tsarita, even the concern laced in his tone hasn't changed, as if ten years were a mere blink of the eye.

"I'm fine," you hurriedly reply. "I apologize for—"

"There's no need for apologies," Valeriy cuts you off, still holding your hand as you settle back on your feet. "Have you—"

"Enjoy your evening, Major."

You can't do this, you wouldn't. Not after you've spent more time mourning him than actually being with him. So you do what you've always done—you run. You turn away and do not give him the grace of finishing his sentence as you look for an exit. To a balcony, to a room, to the outside world, anywhere that didn't have Valeriy in it.

How ironic that now that your wish of being with him is fulfilled, you take it for granted.

He calls out your name from across the room, ignoring who he's bumped into, not even bothering to mutter half-hearted apologies. All he cared about was you.

"Please, I just need a moment to explain," he pleads with you, taking measured strides up the stairs and memorizing every twist or turn you take in the dimly lit halls.

"No explanations needed, Major, I think I understand," you coldly replied.

"I don't think you do. Just—," you gasp when he seizes your wrist, there's no pressure, Valeriy doesn't even fully wrap his fingers around you. When you finally meet his gaze, there's a torrential storm in his eyes. "Did you at least receive them?" He asks breathlessly.

"Receive what?" you question with furrowed brows.

Valeriy's lips form a thin line before he lets out a quiet curse. His head hangs low, and your view of his face is obscured. You almost don't catch his next words. "My letters," he says as if it's a shameful admittance of defeat. "I've written a letter for you every day. I pleaded to everyone, to anyone, for you to receive them. Please tell me you at least received one."

"I received none," you mutter in disbelief.

"Damn it all."

You stand there with him, frozen and waiting for the resentment in your heart to finally thaw out. But you realize dumbly that there were none to begin with. "I thought you had forgotten about me. Fled with another in some unknown land where I wouldn't be able to follow," you see his shoulders tense, and you take a deep breath. "Worse, I thought you were dead until news of your arrival a week ago."

Valeriy hasn't moved an inch from where he stands hunched over, his hold still on your wrist, but you know you can break free—he has never held you against your will. Even now, he puts your needs into consideration. And he apparently has for the last decade you've been apart.

"Did you really write to me?" Your voice breaks, and when Valeriy finally raises his head, you can't stop the tears that escape you. "Has it really been me even after all these years?"

"Of course it's you. There's been no one else but you…!"

"Then why did you leave?! Why couldn't you have stayed, and we could've gotten married like we planned, Valeriy?"

His gloved hand brushes away the tears you vehemently try to hide. "I had to. It's part of my duty as a knight. I couldn't just have you because you let me. I had to earn the title of your husband."

"So you leave me for almost ten years?" you laugh incredulously, a humorless sound as your fingers curl against the fur of his coat. "You already have me. All you had to do was get on one knee and recite some plagiarized speech from my favorite book, and I would've said yes!"

"And that's precisely the problem!" Valeriy holds you by your forearms, his brows creased into a furrow as his volume rises. "I could be a beggar on the street or a dying animal in a forest, and you'd still look at me as if I were worthy to stand beside you!"

"Because you do!"

"Oh, archons," he pulls away to brush away his hair, and you follow. Craving the warmth you thought you had lost. Valeriy looks at you, his chest heaving and biting his bottom lip as his mind works to find something to say. After a minute of agonizing silence, the tension in his shoulders is finally released. "It was bad enough that I kept skipping training to sneak into your room, but his Lordship practically killed me when he announced you'd be betrothed to someone else."

Your eyes widen at the revelation. Valeriy continues, "Some nobleman from another nation. Prim and proper, he could protect you better than I could. Can't you see? Your father thinks of me as another friend you'll be bored with in the coming years, a knight you had picked out of pity instead of the reassurance that I could do my job."

He lets out a shaky exhale. His gloved hands glide down to hold yours, and you can't suppress the shiver that runs down your spine at the fire Valeriy leaves in his wake. When he gently tilts your head up with his thumb, forcing you to look at anyone but him, you almost melt.

"I got in contact with the former Major. He told me he'd train be to better—a better knight, a better man. Someone suitable for your standing. I agreed, of course I did. I'd do anything for you. I just didn't—" his breath catches and drops your chin as he ducks his head in shame. "I didn't think I'd have to leave immediately. Not for this long. I'm sorry. From the bottom of my heart, I truly am."

You swallow the lump in your throat. Your fingers are still tangled in his coat, and it takes everything in your power not to pull him closer. "Tell me then," you start, voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me what you wrote in your letters."

His eyes snap up to you, waiting. You hold his stare until he finally breaks. "I complained about the training regime. How insufferable it was not having you there to cheer me on." A fond smile slowly breaks out on his face, and a gloved hand is placed on top of yours on his coat as he continues. "You'd love the food and the people who made it. Every few months, they'd hold an event where they ask us trainees, to dance. You would have fit right in. I wrote about how much I missed you every day and how I can't wait to return."

Valeriy chuckles, his hand leaving yours to cradle the side of your jaw, giving you enough time to pull away. When you don't, he sighs at the feel of your skin despite the fabric covering his palms. "I… I got you a ring. I think I would have proposed to you with it."

Heavy silence followed the declaration. There's steadiness in his eyes despite the hints of hesitation in Valeriy's voice. "Do you still have it?" you practically plead.

A grin breaks out on his face, the kind you remember from your childhood as you danced in your bedroom when his trainer raised all hell trying to find him.

"Of course I do."

You finally laugh. For the first time tonight, a smile takes over your features as you ease into his hold. "Of course you would. What a silly thing to ask."

Valeriy laughs with you, the air in his lungs being knocked right out of him when you press your nose to his chest. He stands frozen, hands in the air as if he didn't know what to do with them. You continue to laugh when he finally wraps them around your waist, pulling you closer as his lips find the crown of your head. Valeriy all but melts into you.

"Do you still dance?"

His chuckle rumbles through your figure. A hand is already interlocking with yours as he whispers, "Only with you."

You smile at the declaration, nuzzling further into his chest as Valeriy begins to sway left and right. "I'm still upset, just to be clear."

"I know."

"You left me waiting for nearly ten years, so don't expect me to forgive you easily."

"I understand."

"And," you pull away to look him in the eye. Your hand brushes away the hair that gets in his eyes. "I want you to rewrite all the letters I didn't receive."

"All of them?" Valeriy asks with wide eyes.

You only nod, "Yes, all of them."

He doesn't reply, not immediately at least. You don't know for how long you sway back and forth in that dim hallway as you keep your eyes on his face, his eyes on yours, when he finally hums. Another smile on his lips as he twirls you, as he did back when you were young.

"As you wish." A laugh escapes him when he presses your foreheads together as the music from the ballroom comes to a close. "I'd rewrite them however many times you wish so long as you finally get to read them."

© 𝓵ysarion 2025 — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[cryoculus]

⟢ OCCUPATIONAL HAZARD

you're convinced there is more to the strange man your father named as your family's new guard. but much to valeriy's dismay, your curiosity is one incident away from costing him his job.

✦ content. 2k words ⋆ valeriy x gn!reader ⋆ written before snezhnaya release. noble!reader x bodyguard!valeriy. reader is a nepo baby to the person val protects in the trailer. good man working for an evil one type beat. one (1) hostage attempt. despite hating his job, val takes his work seriously.

✦ foreword. we can't talk here. gnsn just dropped a duke of the north. idk anything abt this man but don't we all?

READ ON AO3

“Did you know, during the War of the Funerary Flame, there was an Emperor named Valerian who got captured by the Heavenly Principles?”

Across the table, a long-suffering sigh cut through the delicate steam rising from your teacup. Valeriy sat with his massive arms crossed over his chest, his imposing stature casting a long shadow across the pristine tablecloth of this high-end Snezhnograd cafe. His dark hair framed a sharp face, and those eyes like a midnight sky bore into you with the weary patience of a man who dealt with your nonsense daily.

“Yes,” Valeriy replied curtly. “You asked me the same thing when I first escorted you to a ball at Zapolyarny Palace.”

A delighted laugh slipped past your lips, and you took a slow sip of your tea. “Well, it’s because your name is quite similar to his. Though I doubt Emperor Valerian would willingly bend the knee and work for someone like my father.”

Though your tone made it sound like a jest, it was a pointed arrow aimed directly at the armor he wore so proudly. You didn’t know much about Valeriy—he was famously tight-lipped about his past—but you had a few guesses here and there.

The way he carried himself, the rigid discipline he exercised, and that unshakable sense of duty; it was that of a knight’s. One who fell from grace perhaps, or one deeply misguided. Although it did make for a fascinating paradox: a clearly honorable man fiercly loyal to a noble whose hands were stained black with the underbelly of Snezhnaya.

Because you knew exactly what your father was.

You had lived your entire life wrapped in opulence, pampered within an inch of your life. But you were far from blind. You knew the extravagant banquets thrown for your name days were bought with tainted money. You were fully aware that your family’s fortune relied on a predatory, underground narcotics trade and clandestine alliances with the Fatui. Every fine thread on your back and every delicacy on your plate had been bartered for the tears and slow ruin of faceless addicts.

Yet, you had never done a single thing to stop it.

“Tell me, Valeriy,” you began, swirling the amber liquid in your porcelain cup. “Does a knight’s oath still count if the king you’re protecting is a villain?”

The silence that followed was terse, broken only by the distant chatter of other patrons and the clink of silverware. Anyone else in your social circle would have laughed it off, or worse, reprimanded you. Whenever you had subtly tried to voice your unease to your peers about where your families’ wealth came from, they treated you like a pariah. To the Snezhnograd elite, questioning the blood on the Mora was a distasteful social gaffe. The rich always protected their own wealth before all else; they expected you to smile, drink your fire-whiskey, and ignore the bodies the empire was built upon.

But Valeriy didn’t scold you. Nor did he offer a shallow defense of your father’s syndicate. He simply stared at you, though a small, sharp muscle twitched in his jaw.

You didn’t know why, but you felt entirely certain that underneath that quiet exterior beat a heart with some semblance of a moral compass. Which was a ridiculous assumption. The man had quite literally agreed to guard a family notorious for sitting at the very peak of the Snezhnayan drug cartel. He was paid by a monster, to protect the child of a monster.

But a week ago, your father had hosted a private gala at the manor, a gathering of wealthy distributors and certain Fatui Harbingers. You had stepped out onto the grand balcony to escape the suffocating smell of expensive perfume and greed, watching the heavy snow fall over the courtyard. Down below, a young kitchen maid had accidentally tripped on the icy cobblestones, dropping a crate of imported vintage wine meant for the Tsaritsa’s elite.

Your father’s chief overseer—a cruel, bloated man who handled the street-level enforcements—had immediately marched out fuming, his vision pulsing with aggressive geo energy. He was going to make an example of her for ruining property. The girl had shrunk into the snow, sobbing, knowing no one would help a servant.

You had moved to call out, to stop it, but a tall shadow cut through the balcony light before you could.

Valeriy had intercepted the overseer’s wrist mid-air. He hadn’t drawn a weapon. He hadn’t even raised his voice. He simply squeezed the man’s arm with enough force to make the elemental energy sputter out, his towering frame completely shielding the maid from view.

“The Tsaritsa's guests are waiting for their security detail inside, sir,” Valeriy reminded, his voice dripping with an unspoken promise of violence. “Do not waste your energy on spilled grapes.”

The overseer had gone pale, sneered, and retreated. Valeriy hadn’t comforted the girl—the guard merely turned and walked back to his post in the shadows—but he had saved her. He had drawn a line in the snow that your father’s learned culture of cruelty wasn’t allowed to cross.

“You're doing it again.”

Valeriy’s voice suddenly pulled you back to the present, shattering your memories of the gala.

You blinked, realizing you had been staring at him for a solid minute. “Doing what?”

“Looking at me as if I am some specimen you find utterly fascinating,” he said, uncrossing his arms and sitting up straight, the leather of his armor creaking faintly as he checked the perimeter of the cafe with a sharp glance. “I am a guard. Nothing more. If you continue to look for ghosts in my past, you will only end up disappointed.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” you replied, leaning back into your plush chair with a slow, knowing smile. “I think you’re the most interesting thing in Snezhnaya at the moment, Valeriy. And I have a very high tolerance for disappointment.”

Valeriy grunted, the faint tightening around his eyes the only indication that your stubbornness had registered. He reached for his own cup—a black blend he had ordered purely for the caffeine, ignoring the delicate pastries you had pushed toward him—but his hand froze an inch from the handle.

The low-humming chatter of the cafe abruptly died.

In the span of a single heartbeat, a cloaked shadow detached itself from the heavy winter coats hanging by the entrance, moving with a frantic speed that bypassed the cafe’s front counter entirely. Before Valeriy could even move, a man reeking of cheap alcohol lunged over the back of your plush chair.

Then, a cold, jagged blade was pressed against your throat.

“Don’t move! Nobody damn well move!” the man shrieked, his hands trembling so fiercely the cold steel bit shallowly into your neck. “I know who you are! I know whose blood runs in your veins, you little parasite!”

The other patrons gasped, knocking over porcelain cups as they scrambled backward to flee the establishment.

“Y-You—guard!” the attacker hissed, his wild, bloodshot eyes locking onto Valeriy. “You tell his lordship that this one is going to bleed out on this rug unless I get five hundred thousand Mora in cash. Right now! Pack it in a case, or I’ll slit their throat!”

Obviously, this was a high-stakes, life-or-death hostage situation. A single twitch of the man’s trembling hand could end your lavish, boring existence.

But you remained perfectly still, leaning back against the chair, completely unfazed by the sharp metal threatening your life. Instead of panic, a strange, thrilling rush of anticipation washed over you.

Because even when Valeriy masqueraded as a well-behaved dog loyal to his master, you knew what he really was. He was a apex predator. A bear waiting for the slightest, most logical excuse to be unchained. And right now, his charge was being threatened.

Which gave him permission to kill.

Valeriy didn’t rise slowly nor did he even try to parley. The air in the cafe plummeted past freezing as he moved, a burst of speed that defied his massive, armored frame. Your guard was on his feet as his hand shot forward, clamping down directly over the blade of the knife. He didn’t care about the steel cutting into his glove. With a brutal grip of his fist, Valeriy shattered the weapon into pieces.

The assailant screamed in shock as he staggered backwards, but your guard was already moving. He gripped the man’s collar, lifting his entire body off the ground, and threw him through the cafe’s large glass storefront. The window shattered into a million glittering diamonds, scattering across the snowy Snezhnograd pavement outside.

Valeriy stepped through the ruined frame, drawing a broadsword from his back as the fur trim of his cloak fluttered majestically against the swirling snow. His hair was dusted with white flakes, his eyes burning with ice-cold ire. He looked breathtakingly handsome, a dark knight silhouetted against the blinding frost.

The desperate man pulled another dagger from his boot, lunging blindly with a scream of pure terror.

Effortlessly, your guard brought the flat of his massive blade down against the culprit’s chest. The sheer force of the blow shattered probably shattered collarbone, and sent him crashing face-first into the cobblestones. Before the assailant could even get back on his feet, Valeriy’s heavy boot planted itself firmly on his stomach, pinning him into the dirt and snow.

The sword’s tip hovered mere millimeters from his eye.

“Yield,” Valeriy commanded. “Or I will ensure you never see the sun rise over the palace again.”

The man proceeded to go entirely limp, having passed out from shock.

From the sidelines, you took yet another sip of your tea, unbothered by the screaming wind or the commotion still buzzing about in the cafe. The amber liquid was losing its heat, but the warmth blooming in your chest more than made up for it.

Valeriy kept his boot on the culprit, his gaze shifting slowly until his midnight eyes locked onto you. He took in your unbothered posture, the teacup held gracefully in your hand, and the smirk playing on your lips.

“You’re helping yourself to a drink at a time like this?” he muttered.

“Well, what can I say?” you replied smoothly, stepping over the broken window to dust the snow off his hair. “My guard certainly likes to put on a show. Thanks for not killing him this time.”

Shortly after the threat was subdued, you spoke with the panicked cafe owner while the Druzhina were contacted to apprehend the unconscious assailant. The poor woman was begging for your forgiveness and weeping over the shattered glass, terrified that word of the incident would reach your father and spell the end of her livelihood.

Valeriy stepped up behind you, holding out your expensive winter coat. As you slid your arms into the sleeves, you offered the owner a small, reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Do not lose sleep over it. Blood is not always thicker than water.”

The carriage ride back to the estate was quiet, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the cobblestones. Inside the cabin, Valeriy let out a heavy sigh, leaning his massive frame back against the plush velvet seating.

“Your penchant for these outings in the city is quite the occupational hazard,” he complained, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. “Your family has accumulated more enemies than Snezhnaya has snowflakes. Walking into public spaces just to test my reflexes is a dangerous habit.”

You let out a soft laugh, turning your gaze away from him to watch the heavy snow drift lazily outside the frosted carriage window.

“Well, history says Emperor Valerian fought to his very last breath,” you murmured, casting a sidelong, wicked glance back at him. “You’ll do the same for me, won't you?”

His grunt of resignation was an answer all on its own.

Whether he was a dog bound tightly to a master’s leash or a black bear locked in a cage of duty, the facts remained absolutely true. Valeriy was yours to provoke, and he made your otherwise boring life somewhat of a grand adventure.

✦ afterword. i love inconveniencing a big, handsome man who seems to not even mind being inconvenienced at all. okay maybe he does mind, but he lets reader off the hook every time anyway <3 i also like to think that in this fic, valeriy is actually someone undercover who's infiltrating reader's family to get some dirt on their father. what ever shall he do when he grows attached to the offspring of someone he's tasked to eliminate! but it's whatever!! i promise to write something more substantial for him once we get to know him better. the snezhnaya trailer looks promising for all characters!! also btw emperor valerian doesn't exist in genshin i made all that up just in case you're wondering bwahahaha

come check out my masterlist!

[kazumie]

𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒊𝒕’𝒔 𝒓𝒊𝒆 ♡ !! and she’s opening her c0mms again 🍡✨ please do drop by my 𝐊𝐎𝐅𝐈 where more details are available if you are interested ♡ limited slots are open !

[pinkgvts]

comms opening 7/4 at 7am hst !! ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ)

prices and other details can be found on my vgen. there will be a limited amount of slots for each service, but once those fill up you may still join the waitlist until the end of the 12th. feel free to dm if you have any questions !!

also sorry for the radio silence and the delayed opening date, i'm traveling tomorrow and get awfully anxious before trips ><; i also realized that i will need some time to physically recover from this trip as i'm genuinely about to get put through a meat grinder (multi-day music festival) LOL

anyways !! i look forward to fulfilling your requests !! ♡

[moonfloat]

since i'm not using this account as an archive anymore, and that i'll be more active in fandoms and communities, i'm promoting my commissions for the first time!

i'm seriously in need of funds right now so please commission me </3 follow me to get notified when my other services are up!

ezekiel (@moonfloat)

Check out ezekiel's commissions and portfolio! | call me Ezekiel! he/him | 2007 multifandom, OCs! ...

i also have an inprnt and ko-fi! i'd really appreciate donations for my tuition!

Support ezekiel

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[cryoculus]

little smth i put tgt from this post 🦭

you’ve heard rumors about some illegal fighting ring thriving in the shadows of your neighborhood. the operation’s entirely underground, and something tells you the local authorities have been fed enough hush money to choke on. still, you mind your business and keep your head down—the only way to buy a little peace around these parts.

until a man turns up on your doorstep, beaten halfway to death.

he’s bleeding through his shirt, asking if you have a first-aid kit because the local clinic doesn’t open until dawn, and he's sure a few of his ribs are currently floating in pieces. you almost get distracted by the way the dog tags sitting at his throat gleam in the light on your front porch.

he isn’t quite a stranger to you. you’ve seen him around while running errands. a recluse with eyes always hidden behind the dark tint of his sunglasses; whose gait that always told you he’s carrying more weight than he ought to.

it’s none of your business, whatever trouble he’s got himself tangled up in. you know the rule about feeding stray dogs: give them a scrap once, and you’ve given them an invitation to keep coming back. you don't need him hovering around your life. you don't need the trouble.

but as his blood starts to pool on your welcome mat, the door remains open.

you learn while disinfecting the cuts on his face that his name is lighter.

you also learn, the moment he peels off his bloodied shirt, that he’s the kind of man who has survived things he shouldn’t. the scars stretching across his torso are jagged valleys of old violence—the branding of a mercenary, or maybe a hollow raider who spent too much time dancing along the edge of the abyss.

that’s when it occurs to you that he isn’t wearing his sunglasses.

and his eyes are a beautiful shade of green.

lighter is straightforward in his gratitude. he doesn’t promise any sort of recompense for your trouble, nor does he just rudely strut out of your home once you’ve finished bandaging his ribs. but he does stare you down in a way that would’ve felt intimidating, had you not gotten so used to living in a place full of thugs.

"thank you."

his boots groan against the floorboards as he sees himself out, and when the front door clicks shut, white silence rings in your ears as you tell yourself you’re never doing that again.

a week later, the doorbell buzzes in the middle of the night, and you only get out of bed to tell whoever it is to get lost. but the moment you open the door and see the split lip on lighter’s face, your resolve crumbles like cheap asphalt under a sudden downpour.

the routine sticks longer than you would like. every week or-so, he would show up with new cuts and bruises for you to patch up, and even if you very much had the freedom to turn him away, you always let him cross the threshold of your home.

you’d think you could have learned a thing or two about him by now. but the only vulnerability that lighter would ever afford himself around you is sitting perfectly still while you did his bandages. you thought your relationship with him would only ever amount to this, until one night you blurt something you probably shouldn’t have.

"when will you ever stop trying to get yourself killed?"

lighter doesn’t answer right away. he just sits there on the edge of your worn-out kitchen chair while you work. you’re standing between his knees, a strip of medical tape pulled taut between your fingers, entirely too aware of how thin the silk of your nightslip is. a week ago, you would’ve thrown on a bathrobe. tonight, you hadn’t even bothered to look in the mirror before unlocking the deadbolt. you’ve fallen into a rhythm with a ghost, and ghosts don't care about propriety.

but your chest is tight, hot anger bubbling up before you can swallow it down.

"seriously," you grumble, pressing the tape onto his side a little rougher than necessary. he doesn't even flinch. "look at you. i’m not a medic, lighter. i’m just the idiot who happens to live down the street from whatever alley you keep getting thrown into. you make me clean up after your messes every single week, and for what? we aren’t even friends. i don’t even know your last name."

you turn around to toss the plastic packaging into the trash, your hands shaking just a little. "it’s ridiculous. you drop dead on my porch, expect me to play nurse in the middle of the night, and then you just walk out without a word. i’m tired of wiping your blood off my floorboards."

when you turn back around to grab the antiseptic wipes, you expect him to give you that usual, heavy silence. the blank stare that makes you feel like you're talking to a brick wall.

instead, lighter leans forward.

because you’re standing right in front of him, the sudden shift cuts the distance between you to nothing. his hands find the outer curve of your thighs, pinning you to the spot. your breath hitches and the complaints instantly die in your throat.

he tilts his head up, dark hair falling into his face, fringing those sharp green eyes. up close, you can see the faint ring of red in his irises.

"you’re awfully chatty tonight," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly vibration that brushes against your collarbone.

"because you’re—" you start, your voice cracking. you make the mistake of letting your eyes drop to his mouth, to the fresh split on his lower lip that you haven’t even disinfected yet.

lighter doesn’t give you a chance to finish the thought. he closes the remaining distance, his face stopping mere inches from yours.

"if you want me to stop coming," he whispers, his thumb brushing against the hem of your slip, "you have to actually lock the door."

the arrogance of it should make you snap, but the proximity is overwhelming. before you can even think of a comeback, lighter bridges the gap and presses his mouth to yours.

nothing about it is gentle. lighter kisses you as though the adrenaline is still pumping through his veins. his lips are chapped, tasting faintly of copper and the cold night air, and the moment your mouths meet, whatever restraint you had left vanishes. you groan into his mouth, fingers instantly tangling into the damp, dark strands of his hair, pulling him closer until you're leaning entirely into his chest.

he lets out a ragged noise, his grip tightening on your thighs as he pulls you flush against him. his tongue slides past your teeth, deep and demanding, parting your lips in a messy, uncoordinated rush that leaves you completely breathless. he kisses you like he fights—relentless, aggressive, taking whatever he wants because he doesn’t know if he'll be around to see tomorrow.

your knees go weak against the friction of his jeans, your chest heaving against his bare, scarred skin as the pressure of his lips on yours deconstructs every rule you’ve ever set for yourself. you knew feeding a stray was a bad idea.

you just didn't realize how easily he’d tear you apart once you finally let him inside.

[flowercanopy]

˚⊱ ۫ ׅ scrambled contacts. ׅ ׅ ۫⊰˚ ᥫ᭡.𓂃 varka / flins / lohen / alhaitham / wriothesley / neuvillette x reader (separate)

ᝰ.tagged .ᐟ SFW · gn!reader · modern!au · mostly simple & linear choices · you’re either in college or is working · reader personality & typing habits varies across all chats · some chats may contain suggestive/darker content/description (come on, there's lohen) · 💡 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐋 𝐑𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝟎

ᝰ.a/n .ᐟ this is an old chatroom concept and i decided to rework the code in react for practice · let me know if you got to see varka’s selfie lol

.𓂃you texted person A (your friend) not knowing it was actually person B (your crush).

character list (in “person A → person B” format): flins → varka / kaveh → alhaitham / lisa → lohen / neuvillette → wriothesley  /  varka → flins / wriothesley → neuvillette

💬 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌: Genshin Impact now You've got a new message!

"ummm... i'm new to this. what do i do? how do i play?"

click/tap on the "You've got a new message!" link above.

if prompted, enter your name.

if you're using a phone, turn your phone sideways to landscape mode to see the page properly.

on the top left, click/tap on the intertwined fates to change your profile picture.

on the top left, click/tap on your name (underlined, soft cream color) to change your name.

click/tap to pick any character from the list on the left panel.

select your reply choice(s) when prompted.

enjoy!

© strictly no repost, plagiarism, translation, or any contact with ai permitted .ᐟ

[kazucee]

(⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧