#tragicromance

【qiluo route③】

※日本語版は以下にあります！！

Qiluo: “Are you hurt?”

When I nodded, he smiled in relief and gently stroked my head. Ah… but still.

I might be fine, but you are not.

The neurotoxin consuming his body continued to worsen with every passing moment. Because of me, more and more painful scars spread across his beautiful face.

I quietly reached up and touched his cheek. He stopped the hand that had been patting my head and tilted his head slightly in confusion. Yet his expression remained just as gentle as ever.

Qiluo: “You look worried. What’s wrong?”

You: “Qiluo…”

Qiluo: “…Don’t make that face. I told you before, didn’t I? You promised not to worry about me.”

You: “But…”

Qiluo: “I was prepared for this. And so were you, right? You have to stay strong. It’s okay. I’ll keep standing until the very end, and I won’t die until I’ve seen you off.”

You: “……”

Those words made my wavering resolve tremble even more.

I had made it this far because of him. And yet, more than gratitude, I was overwhelmed by guilt for hurting him like this.

As if he could sense everything I was feeling, Qiluo lovingly brushed his fingers against my cheek.

Qiluo: “I’m fine. Seeing you make that face hurts me. You’re going back to Earth, aren’t you? So say those words again. Those words alone are enough to keep us moving forward.”

You: “……”

Enduring the ache tightening in my chest, I forced out the words that bound both him and me together.

You: “Fight for me. And… I want you to die for me…”

As I spoke through trembling tears, he smiled softly and nodded.

Qiluo: “Of course. Come on, just a little longer now. …Let’s go.”

続きから日本語版です！↓

⋆﹥━━━━━━━━━━━━﹤⋆

★ He never touched another soul. He only ever loved you. And the night you left was the night he meant to ask you to stay forever.

Warning : this fic contains lying besties, silent boyfriends, unsaid proposals, and two years’ worth of rotting what-ifs. read only if you’re cool with having your chest cracked open like a glow stick and left leaking regret on the floor. no dialogues js inner turmoild , procced if u wanna be left weeping at 2 am in the morning this fic is written entierly from regulus pov. Main masterlist || Navigation

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙʀᴇᴀᴋ + ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇꜱ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴄʜɪʟᴅ ᴀʙᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ/ᴋɪᴅɴᴀᴘᴘɪɴɢ

ᴍɪꜱꜱɪɴɢ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ

ᴘᴀʀᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ɢʀɪᴇꜰ

ᴅɪᴠᴏʀᴄᴇ/ꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴅᴇᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴏɴ & ɪꜱᴏʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴛʀᴀᴜᴍᴀ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄ ᴀᴛᴛᴀᴄᴋꜱ

ʜᴇᴀᴠʏ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ

ʟᴏꜱꜱ & ᴍᴏᴜʀɴɪɴɢ

Monaco, Then — And Five Years Later

The morning Leo disappeared was too beautiful to be real. Monaco basked in late spring sun, and from their flat perched above the Port Hercules marina, everything looked like it belonged in a postcard. The water glistened like it was holding back secrets, the yachts lined in stately precision, and their son had just giggled at the breeze brushing his cheeks.

He had just learned how to laugh, a real laugh, not the startled hiccup of a newborn but the melodic, unfiltered sound that could break you open from the inside. That morning, Lando had held Leo up in the air while (Y/n) watched from the kitchen, stirring oat milk into her tea with absent-minded grace. The baby squealed, arms flapping like wings, and Lando, grinning in that boyish way of his, looked at her and said, “He’s going to fly one day, love.”

And he did. Right out of their arms.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

It was supposed to be an ordinary Tuesday. (Y/n) had taken Leo for a walk along the promenade while Lando met with his race engineers. The streets were calm, peppered with the usual mix of tourists and locals, the air perfumed with the scent of salt and citrus from the orange trees lining the pavement. She remembered passing the florist, who always greeted her with a cheerful “Bonjour, madame Norris!” and giving Leo a daisy to clutch with his chubby fingers.

But somewhere between the promenade and the boulangerie, it happened.

One blink, and the pram was empty.

She screamed. She ran. She threw herself into the street, stopped cars, dropped to her knees, sobbing his name. “Leo! Leo!” But there was no sign of him — not the blue blanket, not his tiny sunhat, not the quiet, gurgling sound he made when he sucked on his thumb.

Gone.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The first twenty-four hours were chaos. Police. Drones. Interpol. CCTV footage combed frame by frame. Lando’s team suspended everything. He didn’t even speak, not at first. He simply stood in the centre of their living room, pale as chalk, staring at Leo’s cot with its mobile still spinning in slow circles, a jungle of giraffes and elephants, untouched.

(Y/n) collapsed. For the first two days, she didn’t sleep. She didn’t eat. Her hands shook constantly, knuckles bruised from clutching the baby clothes pressed to her chest like they could bring him back. The scent of Leo still lingered on the cotton—that faint, powdered sweetness of milk and dreams.

Lando tried to stay strong. He tried to be the composed one, the one who signed off on detectives and followed leads into dark corners of Marseille and Milan and the edges of Nice. But behind the stoicism, he was unraveling. He punched a wall when the second week turned up nothing. He cursed the heavens when (Y/n) stopped speaking altogether, her voice curled up somewhere deep inside her like a frightened child.

By the third month, the flat grew silent.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

They started to mourn differently.

(Y/n) mourned by folding every onesie and bib with surgical precision, laying them into boxes she wouldn’t let Lando touch. She stopped going out. She deleted Instagram. She stopped answering calls from her friends back in Singapore. She spoke only in half-sentences, her Mandarin slipping into every other word as if clinging to something ancestral, something older than grief.

Lando, on the other hand, grieved through motion. He didn’t sleep much. He’d be gone before sunrise, attending every race, every simulation, every possible briefing. He spent hours sitting in the empty nursery when he got home, tracing his fingers along the crib bars. And at night, he held her—but it wasn’t her anymore, not the vibrant woman who once danced barefoot on the balcony with Leo in her arms. It was someone hollow, someone frozen in time.

He tried. God, he tried.

But one day, she turned to him and whispered, “It hurts when you hold me. It reminds me that I once felt joy.”

He didn’t touch her again after that.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The breaking point wasn’t explosive. It came quietly, like most endings do. One morning, six months to the day after Leo vanished, Lando returned from a press conference in Spain and found the flat emptier than usual.

Her violin, gone. Her sketchbooks. The blue memory box labelled Leo.

She’d left a letter. A short one.

Lando, I’m not angry. Just tired. We lost him, and now we’re losing ourselves. I need to go. I hope you find peace someday. – (Y/n)

She didn’t sign it “love.” She didn’t say goodbye. And just like that, she was gone too.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

The divorce papers came quietly, couriered through their solicitors. There was no drama. No court battles. Just signatures and silences. Monaco’s legal offices processed the end of their marriage with all the warmth of a tax form.

The press speculated. Rumours flew. The tabloids spun stories; some about infidelity, some about post-natal depression. None of them got it right. No one mentioned how it feels when you scream into the ocean and it doesn’t echo back.

Lando moved into a smaller flat. More glass. Less furniture. He kept only one photo, the one of the three of them by the beach, Leo in his arms, her hair windswept and wild, her eyes bright.

And (Y/n) disappeared entirely from public view. No social media. No interviews. Nothing.

Just... gone.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Singapore — Two Years Later

The monsoons came early that year.

(Y/n) stood by the window of her mother’s apartment, watching the rain pelt the balcony tiles in furious rhythm. She hadn’t touched a violin in over a year. Not since she tried to play Clair de Lune and burst into tears halfway through.

Her father didn’t speak much anymore. He just brought her jasmine tea every morning and left it on the table. Her mother prayed. A lot. Burned incense. Whispered things like, “Maybe he’s been reincarnated. Maybe God needed him more.”

(Y/n) didn’t believe in any of it.

But she did start volunteering at a children’s shelter.

At first, she couldn’t bear it. The way the babies cooed or cried, how some looked a bit too much like Leo. But over time, something began to shift. Not healing—no, healing suggests a return to wholeness. But survival. A rhythm.

One step. Then another.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

London — Three Years Later

Lando never stopped looking.

Even when the police closed the case, even when friends urged him to “let go” and “live again,” he continued to hire private investigators on the side. He even funded a foundation for missing children. Not for the PR. Not for redemption. Just... because he had to.

He dated, briefly. A model. Then a journalist. But he never brought them home. He never mentioned Leo.

His parents tried their best. But every conversation eventually dropped into that void. His mother once asked, tears in her voice, “Do you think he’s out there somewhere, still alive?”

Lando had answered, “If he’s not... I need to believe he is.”

He drove faster now. Harder. Won more. Lost more. His podiums became quieter victories. His fame a shadow he carried.

The smile on TV? That was just theatre.

To be continued...

🌅ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜɴ ꜱᴇᴛꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ – ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 2: ɢʜᴏꜱᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀɪᴅ🌅

📝 Note from the Author: First of all, thank you so much for giving this story a chance. I know we're only at Chapter 1, but seeing your support already means the world to me. Whether you're a silent reader, a liker, a reblogger, or someone who leaves comments that make me kick my feet and giggle, thank you (≧∀≦)ゞ.

Now, before anyone comes for me...

Yes, his name is Leo Norris.

No HAHAHAHA, I did not realize until halfway through outlining that there is already a very famous Leo in the F1 community (Sorry guysss 〒▽〒, literally forgot about it while writing).

Somewhere in Monaco, Charles is probably looking at his dog like: "Why is this child missing and why does he have my dog's name?"

Meanwhile, Lando and Charles are probably arguing over custody of the name Leo.

Charles: "That's my dog." Lando: "That's my son." Charles: "Leo." Lando: "Leo." Charles: "..." Lando: "..."

The real victim here is probably the dog lololololol.

ANYWAYS—

Welcome to the angst train. Please keep your hands, feet, and emotional stability inside the vehicle at all times because we are about to suffer together. I hope you're ready for grief, mystery, heartbreak, and a lot of questioning my life choices as an author.

Romeo Montague A quiet moment before the tragedy. Soft curls, ink-stained paper, a sword at his side and Juliet’s words in his hands. Inspired by Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. Original artwork.

━━━ ⋆༺𓆩✧𓆪༻⋆ ━━━

And somewhere between

memory, death,

and every lifetime in between—

their story continued.

✧ Book One Complete ✧

To be continued in:

Clandestine Operations

in the latest season and just wanted charmed and thought Daemon might come across the spirit of his late ex-lover at Harrenhal. She was Otto's eldest daughter who passed away before they could wed. There's a chance that Otto mistakenly poisoned her instead of Daemon, in an attempt to stop their marriage. She confides in Daemon about the specifics of her death, and he finds closure by being able to embrace her, kiss her, and be intimate with her. Alys Rivers was someone she adored and cared for, perhaps as a motherly figure. Alys might continue to trigger visions of his former lover in Daemon, but not with harmful intentions; it could be rooted in her affection for her maternal figure. This could serve as the first part of a two-part series, and the suspenseful conclusion could be Alys' revelation that she intends to bring her back to life, potentially leading to Damon's unexpected shift in allegiance in the series 😏💚❤️‍🔥

{~Shadows of Harrenhal~}

A/N: First of all I just want to say thank you for requesting this!!! I am sooo sorry that it took me to song for me to write this for you! I really hope you enjoy this and I'm really sorry if it's not entirely what you wanted but I tried! 😭

Summary: Daemon Targaryen encounters the spirit of his lost love, Otto Hightower’s eldest daughter, who died before they could wed. Alys Rivers offers Daemon a way to bring her back, binding their souls but at a high cost. As he’s consumed by their supernatural connection, Daemon faces a painful choice: keep her and lose himself, or release her and find peace.

Characters: Daemon & Alys

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Some Angst

Word Count: 1983

Tag List: @snowtargaryen @hippiedippiekitty

Part 1 ---

Daemon Targaryen never considered himself a man bound by ghosts. He took what he wanted, feared little, and answered to no one. But there was one shadow that followed him, one face that haunted his dreams in the depths of the night—a woman he loved fiercely, his intended bride, taken from him before they could wed. She was Otto Hightower’s eldest daughter, his love, his match, and a memory that clawed at his heart like iron scraping bone.

And now, they say, she wanders Harrenhal.

The torches cast jagged shadows across the cracked walls as Daemon strode through the desolate corridors of the ancient castle. Alys Rivers, dark-eyed and silent, led the way, her steps so light she seemed to glide. Daemon had come here on a whim, drawn by rumors of Alys’s talents. They spoke of her sight, her ability to reach beyond the veil, of a power that could evoke spirits, and conjure memories from the other side. Daemon had scoffed at such tales, but here he was, heart pounding with a hope he would not admit, even to himself.

They reached an old, nearly forgotten hall where the light seemed thinner, barely touching the cold stone. Alys turned to face him, her expression unreadable. “She is near,” she murmured.

Daemon’s throat tightened. “Bring her to me, then.”

Alys did not respond immediately; instead, she stepped back, her dark eyes meeting him with an expression that seemed both compassionate and haunting. With a few whispered words that faded into the stillness, she raised her hands, her fingers moving through the air as though drawing open a curtain unseen.

And then, Daemon felt it—a stirring, a ripple in the atmosphere. The air grew colder, tingling with a sensation he couldn’t quite place as if something forgotten was being called to life once more.

Then he saw her.

She stood in the shadows, her form translucent yet unmistakable. She looked exactly as he remembered—elegant and poised, with a softness that made his heart twist with longing. Her eyes, deep and expressive, locked onto his, and he took a step closer, not daring to blink, terrified she might vanish like all the memories he’d clung to for so long.

“Daemon,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that cut through the chill around them.

His breath left him in a shudder. “Gods… I thought I’d lost you forever.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, filled with a rawness he’d never shown to another soul.

She smiled, though it was a sad, broken thing. “You did lose me, Daemon. And not by fate or sickness, but by the hand of my blood.” Her voice trembled, anger mingling with sorrow. “I did not die by chance. My father took me from you.”

Daemon’s expression hardened. He had suspected Otto’s hand in her untimely death, but hearing it from her lips was a dagger to his heart. “Tell me what happened,” he demanded, his voice rough, desperate.

She paused, looking down at her hands, then back at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “He planned to poison you, Daemon. To ensure I would never stand beside you as your wife, to keep our marriage from bringing you closer to the throne. But he miscalculated…” Her voice broke, and she looked away, pain flickering across her face. “The cup he brought me that night was meant for you. I drank it, thinking it a gesture of his blessing, of forgiveness. And as I lay there, gasping, as I felt the life draining from my body… he looked at me with horror.”

Daemon’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles turning white as rage surged within him. “He killed you to stop me. That insufferable snake took you from me.”

She nodded, her form flickering faintly in the cold light. “In his eyes, I was a casualty… a necessary one to prevent what he feared most.” Her voice softened, eyes searching his face. “I only wish I could have said goodbye.”

They were silent for a moment, the weight of her words heavy in the air. Daemon’s gaze softened as he took a step closer to her, his hand reaching out, though he stopped just short of touching her. “I would have burned the realm to keep you safe,” he whispered, his voice raw with emotion. “I would have done anything.”

She stepped closer, her presence faint but solid enough that he could feel a sliver of warmth, a remnant of the life they had once hoped to share. “And I would have walked through fire for you,” she replied, a fierce glimmer in her eyes. “I would have given up anything to be by your side, Daemon.”

He reached out again, his fingers trembling, unsure if he would feel her touch or if his hand would pass through. To his surprise, he felt her—a chill against his skin, yet grounding, familiar. Her hands found his, delicate and weightless.

They stood in silence, foreheads touching, a thousand unspoken words exchanged in that moment. The years melted away, and for a fleeting heartbeat, it felt as if they were the same two souls they had once been—wild, passionate, and bound by a love that defied the very gods.

Daemon’s hand moved up, cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over her skin as if memorizing her once more. “I swore you’d be mine,” he whispered, voice trembling with both rage and longing. “And now… I don’t know how to let you go again.”

She placed a ghostly hand over his heart, her touch soft but resonant. “You don’t have to,” she whispered, leaning in until her lips met his.

The kiss was electric, a union of fire and ice. His heart thundered as he held her, feeling her presence consume him, grounding him as if she were still alive, warm, and vibrant. Time slowed

each kiss, each caress an echo of the life they’d never had the chance to share. His arms tightened around her as if holding her would anchor her to him, to the world of the living.

When their kiss finally broke, she looked at him, full of sorrow and love. “Daemon,” she whispered, “you must let me rest. But promise me… promise me you will never let him win. Do not let my death be in vain.”

He nodded, his jaw set with grim determination. “I’ll avenge you and make him pay for what he took from us.”

Daemon’s hand slipped from hers as her form began to wane, her eyes glistening with the silent plea she had left him with: Do not let my death be in vain. He watched helplessly as her spirit faded, leaving behind an unbearable emptiness that seemed to deepen the shadows of Harrenhal.

Before the silence could swallow him whole, Alys Rivers stepped closer, her gaze steady and enigmatic. She observed him with the measured patience of one who’d seen such grief many times before, her expression a strange blend of compassion and steel. She placed a hand on his arm, drawing his attention to her, breaking the spell of despair that had settled over him.

“You truly loved her,” Alys said softly, a question and a statement all at once.

Daemon’s eyes blazed as he turned to her. “She was everything.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, stripped bare of his usual pride. “But that is why I will never forgive that serpent, her father. I would see the world burn to have her back.”

Alys gave a slow, deliberate nod, seeming to weigh his words. She stepped around him, the hem of her dark gown whispering over the cold stone. “I can bring her back,” she murmured, each word a tantalizing promise that hung in the air. Her gaze held his, unflinching. “But such magic is costly, Daemon Targaryen. Some forces bind the dead to the afterlife, threads that, once severed, cannot be mended without consequence.”

Daemon’s fists clenched as he took in her words, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “Name the price.”

She studied him for a long moment, and Daemon could feel her searching, reaching into the parts of him that he kept hidden. “You would risk your very soul, your bloodline… even your crown, to bring her back. Once life is restored, it can’t be undone again. She will come back to the world of the living, but such magic leaves scars.” Her voice softened. “And the price would not only be yours to bear. Those who defy death are never left unmarked.”

Daemon let her words sink in, the fire in him dimming with a slow, mounting horror. He could bring her back, but at what cost? Would she return whole, or would she bear some shadow, a remnant of the darkness she’d been drawn from? And yet, could he walk away, knowing this chance existed?

He turned away, his gaze dark as he looked over the desolate hall. “What must I sacrifice, exactly?”

Alys tilted her head, her dark eyes shadowed and knowing. “Your life as you know it, Daemon. Your heart will belong to her… entirely, without room for another. And if you defy the magic or the price of it, her soul will suffer the consequences. The magic demands loyalty, and as such, it would demand yours.”

Daemon’s mind raced, visions of their past together flooding his thoughts. She had been his match in every way—her laughter, her fire, her unyielding spirit, and the fierce, defiant way she’d loved him. He couldn’t count the times he’d dreamt of her, only to wake and remember that she was gone, lost to him by the hand of the one man he’d trusted least.

Alys’s voice was soft as she continued. “You know she saw me as a mother, as a friend. I would never harm her. But bringing her back… it will bind us all together in ways that none of us can predict. The magic is as old as these stones. It cannot be controlled once it begins.”

He met her gaze, his eyes intense, a silent question in them. “You would do this for her?” His voice was softer, guarded. “Even knowing the risk?”

Alys stepped closer, her expression softening with a trace of vulnerability. “For her, yes. She was dear to me, and her loss… it felt as though I’d lost a part of myself.” She hesitated, her gaze drifting as if looking into another world. “But Daemon, you must understand—this will change you. The Daemon Targaryen you know now will not survive unscathed. You might find yourself in conflict with those you once held dear, bound by forces that even you cannot defy.”

Daemon’s gaze darkened. His mind flickered to those he might be forced to forsake: his family, the throne… perhaps even the very kingdom he had once sought to rule. The sacrifices twisted at his mind, a hollow ache forming in his chest. Could he do this, knowing he might become unrecognizable to himself, bound to a fate he couldn’t undo?

And yet, her face lingered in his mind, a flickering light in the shadows.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply as he let his heart answer before his mind could. When he looked back at Alys, his resolve was clear. “I accept. She was my life—whatever is left of me now is hers.”

Alys regarded him, a small, knowing smile curving her lips. “Very well,” she murmured, a flicker of satisfaction in her gaze. “But remember Daemon, once this path is set in motion, it cannot be reversed. And if the cost becomes too great, the only way to save her will be to destroy yourself.”

Daemon’s eyes flashed with fierce determination. “If that is what’s required, then so be it.”