Hey.. hope you’re doing okay😊annnywho, if it isn’t any trouble, I would like to request a teen!reader (platonic ofc) with Welt, Jing yuan, Gallagher and Mydei where reader is like their right hand (assistant) or something similar to that and reader has been working hard to try and impress them and show them that they are capable of helping them, and in the process ends up overworking themselves to the point where they faint🫢thought of this request because I might’ve almost fainted while marching today but it’s all good😊anyways make sure you’re hydrating and taking care of yourself🙏🙏
“Until the Morning Finds Us”
Tags: Welt x Reader, Gallagher x Reader, Mydei x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Teen!Reader, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, Overwork, Exhaustion, Fainting, Recovery, Mentor & Apprentice Dynamic, Gentle Scolding, Protective Mentors, Wholesome, Soft Angst, Fluff, Reassurance, Emotional Support.
Warnings: Mentions of Exhaustion and Fainting (non-graphic), Brief Overwork Themes, Mild Emotional Distress, Protective/Comfort Scenes.
A/N: I hope you are alright!! 😭🙏
The stars outside the Astral Express always seemed to move slower when you were awake at night.
Welt had once told you that wasn’t true — that time didn’t bend for sleepless minds, only perception did. Yet even as his calm, instructive voice replayed in your head, you sat at the observation deck again, eyes bleary, hands trembling over a stack of reports. You’d volunteered to take care of the logistical summaries, the maintenance requests, even the passenger inventory from the last jump. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered. And if you did well, maybe Welt would finally see that you could be relied on — that you were more than just a “young helper tagging along.”
So, you pushed through the drowsiness. The pen slipped from your fingers more than once, your handwriting faltering into a blur.
“Still awake?”
The voice came quietly, like the shift of space itself. Welt stood behind you, cane in hand, glasses glinting with faint light from the viewport. He looked tired — not from lack of sleep, but from that kind of old weariness that came from knowing too much.
“Oh, um—” you startled upright, nearly knocking over the tablet. “I’m just… finishing up. You said we needed to compile the data before morning.”
“I said we’d work on it together,” Welt corrected softly, stepping closer. “It’s three in the morning, [Name]. You should be asleep.”
You smiled nervously, rubbing your wrist. “I just wanted to… take some of the load off you, Mr. Yang. You always do so much.”
That earned a quiet chuckle. “I appreciate that. But overworking yourself won’t help anyone — least of all me.”
You opened your mouth to respond, but your vision tilted. The world seemed to lose its balance, the gravity that kept you steady suddenly turning unreliable. You gripped the edge of the table, blinking hard, but the stars blurred. Welt’s voice sounded distant.
“[Name]?”
You collapsed before you could answer.
When you woke, the light was soft — not from the deck, but from the warm glow of a lamp. You were in Welt’s quarters, a blanket pulled over you. Your head rested on something cool and steady; it took a moment to realize it was Welt’s arm, as he sat reading beside you.
“Ah. You’re awake.” He adjusted his glasses, voice gentle.
You tried to sit up, but he placed a hand on your shoulder. “Easy. You fainted. March found us just in time.”
You felt the flush of embarrassment rush up your neck. “I—I’m sorry, Mr. Yang. I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“You didn’t,” he said, setting aside the book. “But you did remind me that even the youngest explorers can forget they are human.”
His words were warm, laced with quiet fondness that didn’t need to be loud to be real. “Do you know what the hardest lesson I ever learned was?” he asked. You shook your head. “It wasn’t how to bear responsibility. It was learning to rest. To stop seeing myself as a machine of duty.”
You blinked at him, unsure what to say.
He smiled faintly. “You’re already capable, [Name]. You don’t have to exhaust yourself to prove that.”
“…I just didn’t want you to think I was useless.”
Welt sighed softly, his tone almost amused. “Do you think I would’ve brought you aboard if I thought that?”
You hesitated — then laughed quietly. “Guess not.”
“Good.” He stood, motioning toward the small table nearby where a cup of tea waited. “Now. Drink something warm. Then sleep. I’ll handle the rest.”
“Together?” you asked, still sleepy.
He looked back at you, eyes soft with a rare tenderness. “Together — after you rest.”
You smiled, finally letting your eyes close. For once, you didn’t feel like gravity was pulling you down. It felt… grounding instead.
The Cloud Knights’ Hall shimmered with evening light, golden beams dancing across banners and marble floors. The scent of sandalwood drifted faintly through the air. You had spent the past two weeks shadowing Jing Yuan — the Divine Foresight himself — as his assistant, aide, and, in his teasing words, “coffee-fetcher-in-chief.”
In truth, you didn’t mind. Serving under the Arbiter-General was an honor beyond compare. But that honor came with responsibility — and you had taken it upon yourself to perfect every detail. Reports filed. Scrolls cataloged. Messages delivered. You barely paused to eat.
That evening, the General’s office was quiet except for the scratch of your brush as you copied down orders for troop rotations. Jing Yuan sat at his desk, one hand propping up his chin, his eyes half-lidded as if he were lost between thought and dream.
“Your handwriting’s improved,” he commented lazily. “You’ve been practicing.”
You grinned. “I just want to make sure it’s readable for you, sir.”
He chuckled. “Mm. Admirable. But tell me — have you eaten?”
“Um… I had something earlier.”
“Earlier, as in today? Or yesterday?” His tone remained calm, but there was a glint of amusement — and concern.
You waved it off. “I’m fine, General. Really.”
Jing Yuan sighed softly, rising to his feet. “You remind me of someone,” he said, looking out the window. “Someone who used to push themselves past exhaustion, thinking diligence alone could change the world.”
“Did it?”
He smiled wistfully. “No. It only made them sleep for three days straight.”
You laughed, setting your pen down — and then the world swayed. The floor tilted. The ink blurred.
“General, I—” you began, before your knees buckled.
The last thing you heard was his voice, calm but suddenly sharp with worry: “Easy, little one.”
You awoke in a soft bed, the sound of rain pattering against the roof of the palace. The scent of herbal medicine hung in the air.
“Ah, so the valiant aide awakens.” Jing Yuan’s voice came from nearby, half-mocking, half-warm. He was lounging in a chair, hair loose, holding a teacup. “You gave the healers quite the scare.”
You groaned softly. “Sorry… I didn’t mean to—”
He raised a hand, silencing you. “No apologies. Only promises — that you’ll not skip meals or sleep for the sake of paperwork again.”
You frowned. “But I wanted to show I could keep up. You’re the General. You never rest.”
“Ah,” he said, leaning forward, his eyes meeting yours. “And yet here I am, watching over a stubborn child instead of working. Perhaps rest has its uses after all?”
You flushed, looking away. “You’re making fun of me.”
“Only because I care.” His tone softened. “You’ve done well, [Name]. Your diligence is noticed. But a true knight knows when to lay down their sword — and brush — to live another day.”
He handed you a bowl of porridge. “Eat. The war reports can wait. You, however, cannot.”
You smiled faintly. “Yes, General.”
As you ate, Jing Yuan leaned back, closing his eyes with that same serene expression that always made him seem half-asleep, half-smiling. “Next time, if you wish to impress me,” he murmured, “try staying conscious first.”
You laughed softly. “Deal.”
The Dreamscape's night glowed like stained glass — fractured, beautiful, and heavy with secrets.
You stood behind the Sweet Dream bar, wiping glasses beside Gallagher. The Bloodhound Family’s security chief had been uncharacteristically quiet tonight. Then again, he always was. His silence wasn’t cold, though — more like a steady heartbeat you learned to listen for.
You’d taken your assistant duties seriously — organizing patrol schedules, handling guest requests, even mixing a few drinks under Gallagher’s distant but watchful gaze. He never praised you openly, but his small hums of approval were worth every effort.
Still, fatigue clawed at your edges. You’d been on your feet since dawn. Your eyes stung from the bar’s soft, hazy lights.
“Slow down,” Gallagher muttered suddenly. His deep voice carried a subtle rasp. “You’ll drop that glass.”
“I’m fine,” you said quickly, forcing a grin. “I can handle it.”
“Mm.” He eyed you sidelong, his eyes catching the dim light. “You sound like I used to.”
You chuckled softly, trying to polish another glass — and the next moment, the world spun. A sudden rush of heat, then cold. The glass slipped from your fingers, shattering across the counter. Gallagher’s hand shot out, catching you before you could hit the floor.
“Hey—” his voice cracked through the haze. “Hey, kid. Stay with me.”
When you opened your eyes, the first thing you smelled was alcohol — the sweet, fruity scent of his special blend. You were lying on one of the lounge sofas, a blanket over you. Gallagher sat nearby, flask in hand, his expression unreadable.
“Back among the living,” he said softly, not looking up. “That’s good.”
You groaned, sitting up slowly. “I’m… sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to—”
He shook his head. “Don’t apologize. I should’ve noticed sooner.”
You blinked. “Noticed what?”
“That you were burning out.” His tone was gentle, but heavy. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me. Hard work doesn’t need to hurt.”
You fidgeted, staring at your hands. “I just wanted you to think I’m reliable.”
“I already do.” His lips twitched into a faint smile. “You remind me of myself. Young, stubborn, thinking if I just worked harder, the world would make sense again.”
“Did it?” you asked quietly.
He swirled the drink in his flask. “No. But I learned to make peace with it.”
He reached over, handing you a small cup of warm cocoa instead. “No spirits for you. You need rest more than ritual.”
You smiled, taking it. “Thanks.”
As the two of you sat in silence, the lights of the Dreamscape shimmered through the stained glass windows. Gallagher leaned back, sighing softly. “You did good today, [Name]. Just… remember. We don’t need martyrs in this family. Just people who stay standing.”
You nodded, sipping your drink. “I’ll remember.”
He smiled faintly. “Good. Now sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
The battlefield of Okhema was quiet at dusk — the war banners fluttering softly in the dying light. You’d been following Mydei for months now, serving as his aide. To you, he wasn’t just a warrior or prince — he was legend made flesh.
And you wanted to be worthy of that legend.
Every night, you cataloged supply reports, trained with the soldiers, mended gear, wrote dispatches. You refused to rest until your prince did — and he rarely did.
Tonight, you were repairing armor by torchlight when his voice broke the silence.
“[Name],” Mydei called, stepping into the tent. His eyes glowed faintly in the light. “You’re still awake.”
“I’m almost done, my lord,” you said, not looking up. “You need this ready for tomorrow.”
“You’ve been working since dawn.”
“I can handle it.”
He frowned slightly — a small furrow, but for him, it spoke volumes. “You think strength means never stopping?”
“I just want to help,” you muttered, stitching another strap. “To be useful to you.”
He stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow across the table. “You already are.”
You froze — and the next second, the needle slipped, your hand trembling. The world seemed to tilt, your breath shallow. The firelight dimmed into nothing.
When you awoke, the sound of the fire filled your ears. You were lying by the campfire outside the tent, wrapped in a cloak far too large for you. Mydei sat nearby, sharpening his blade. His eyes flicked toward you as you stirred.
“Finally awake,” he said softly. “You collapsed. Exhaustion.”
You sat up weakly. “I’m sorry, my lord. I—”
He stopped you with a raised hand. “No apologies. Only understanding.” His gaze softened. “Do you know what my curse is, [Name]?”
You blinked. “Your curse?”
He looked toward the horizon. “Endurance. I cannot die, even when I wish to. I have carried that burden for centuries. But you…” He looked at you now, his voice quieter. “You are not meant to carry that curse with me.”
You stared at him, unsure what to say. “I just didn’t want to fail you.”
He smiled faintly — a rare, beautiful expression. “You did not fail. You fought your own battle — against exhaustion, against doubt. Now your victory is to rest.”
He handed you a small cup of warm milk. “Drink. Then sleep.”
You took it, your fingers brushing his gauntlet. “Thank you… for not being angry.”
“I am many things, little one,” he said, gazing into the fire, “but never angry at loyalty born of the heart.”
You smiled faintly, leaning against the cloak. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”
“You already do enough.” His voice dropped to a murmur, almost like a prayer. “Sleep. The tide will wait for us.”
As you drifted off, you thought you heard him whisper one last thing to the sea — a promise, or perhaps a memory:
“May the young never bear the weight of the old.”
