#Besides the shadow and stone spin-off

[luckyshinyhunter]

Here's my pitch for S2 of Knuckles:

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

k i just imagine Anne being super jealous of mc taking her place in the slytherin tro especially if is a slytherin. only for that to disappear once she catches mc and sebastian kissing

Green with Envy

hello anon!!! I hope this is what you were looking for <3333 enjoy~!

Words: ~2,500

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Post Canon, Slytherin MC, Jealous Anne Sallow, Seventh Year

Anne Sallow sat in the Slytherin common room, her gaze fixed on the emerald flames flickering in the ornate fireplace. The familiar green hues cast shadows across the room, but they didn’t bring her the comfort they once had. Hogwarts felt the same in so many ways—the cool dungeon air, the low murmur of voices, the occasional burst of laughter echoing off the stone walls—but Anne felt like an outsider looking in.

It had been two months since her return, long enough for the novelty of seeing her back to wear off for most of her classmates. The whispered concerns about her health had faded into polite smiles and casual greetings. But Anne couldn’t shake the feeling that while Hogwarts had stayed the same, the people she cared about most had moved on.

Anne's eyes drifted across the room, landing on you. You sat at one of the long, dark wood tables in the library, a quill spinning idly between your fingers as you leaned over a parchment covered in notes. Your brows were furrowed in concentration, but the corner of your mouth twitched as Sebastian spoke beside you. His chair was turned at an angle, his body leaning casually toward yours. He didn’t even bother pretending to study, his hands gesturing animatedly as he spoke.

You laughed softly at something he said, the sound light and genuine, and Anne felt her chest tighten. That laugh, the one that used to belong to her and Sebastian during late-night chats in the common room or quiet afternoons by the lake, now seemed to belong to you.

She hated the way it made her feel.

The hushed murmur of voices reached her ears. She wasn’t trying to listen, but it was impossible not to overhear.

“Come on,” Sebastian said, his voice carrying a teasing edge. “You don’t really need that book right now. We could just finish this tomorrow.”

“You mean you could finish this tomorrow,” you replied, your tone exasperated but laced with amusement. “Some of us actually want to pass our exams, you know.”

“Since when have you ever been in danger of failing?” Sebastian quipped, leaning a little closer. “You’re practically the top of the class. One night off won’t kill you.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things. You’re a terrible influence.”

“A terrible influence?” he repeated, feigning offense. “I like to think I’m inspiring.”

Anne’s jaw tightened. Her brother used to laugh like that with her. Used to lean in close and feign offense with that same smirk, his words a mix of teasing and warmth that only a sibling or a best friend could fully understand. But now, all of that energy was directed toward you.

She turned her attention back to the fire, clenching her fists in her lap. She hated feeling this way—jealous, petty, insecure—but it gnawed at her all the same. You weren’t even trying to take her place; you weren’t cruel or dismissive of her. In fact, you’d gone out of your way to include her since she’d returned.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You were the one including her, as if you were the one who belonged in the trio. As if she needed an invitation to be part of the group she’d helped shape since childhood, the group made of her own twin brother and her oldest friend.

“Anne.”

She looked up to see Ominis approaching, his wand held lightly in his hand. His gaze was as unreadable as ever, but there was a softness in his tone that told her he’d noticed her brooding.

“Mind some company?” he asked, inclining his head slightly toward the empty seat beside her.

“Not at all,” she replied, forcing a smile.

Ominis sat gracefully, his movements fluid and precise. He tilted his head toward the table where you and Sebastian were sitting, his lips curling into a faint smirk. “Sebastian’s trying convince her into another harebrained scheme, I assume.”

Anne scoffed, though it lacked her usual bite. “Of course he has. I don’t know why anyone listens to him.”

“You used to,” Ominis pointed out, a touch of amusement in his voice.

She sighed, leaning back against the plush green cushions of the sofa. “Yeah, well, I used to be a lot of things.”

Ominis didn’t respond immediately. He simply sat beside her, his presence steady and grounding. It was one of the things Anne had always appreciated about him—his ability to fill silences without making them uncomfortable.

“They’re really thick as thieves, aren’t they?” Anne said, her tone light but carrying an unmistakable edge. She gestured vaguely toward you and Sebastian at the table.

Ominis tilted his head slightly, the smirk fading as he considered her words. “They're certainly close,” he replied evenly. “Sebastian trusts her, and she’s proven herself more than capable.”

Anne hummed, feigning indifference as she crossed her arms over her chest. “I suppose it’s good he has someone else to rope into his antics. I’d hate to think he was bothering you as much as he used to.”

Ominis raised an eyebrow at her, his lips twitching upward again. “Oh, he still bothers me plenty. But she has a way of keeping him… grounded. It’s quite impressive, really.”

Anne’s jaw tightened, but she forced a casual shrug. “If you say so. I’d think someone who’s ‘grounded’ wouldn’t be so quick to follow Sebastian into trouble. She doesn’t seem to think much before acting.”

Ominis let out a soft chuckle, unperturbed. “On the contrary, I’d say she thinks quite a bit. She just has an uncommon knack for making bold decisions when it counts.” He turned his head slightly in her direction, his expression neutral but his tone carrying a gentle warning. “Not unlike someone else I know.”

Anne bristled, heat rising to her cheeks. “I’m just saying, she’s a bit much sometimes, isn’t she? Always trying to take charge, always… there.”

There was a flicker of something in Ominis’s expression—mild disappointment, perhaps, though he hid it quickly. “She’s been a good friend to both of us, Anne,” he said, his voice calm and even. “And to Sebastian, especially. I’m sure you can appreciate how important that is to him, considering everything he’s been through.”

Anne’s stomach churned at the reminder, guilt mixing with her irritation. She bit her lip, looking away. “Well, it’s nice to know someone’s looking out for him,” she muttered.

Ominis didn’t respond immediately. He seemed to sense the underlying bitterness in her words but chose not to press further. Instead, he shifted slightly in his seat, tilting his head as if listening to the crackling of the fire.

“If she's taught me one thing, it's that it's usually advantageous to assume the best of people,” he said finally, his tone measured. “Even when it feels like they’ve taken something from us. You should've seen the way I bit her head off when Sebastian first showed her the Undercroft. Now she's one of my closest friends.”

Anne’s gaze snapped to him, her frustration bubbling over. “I’m not saying she’s taken anything from me,” she said sharply, though her words rang hollow even to her own ears.

“Of course not,” Ominis said smoothly, inclining his head. His expression didn’t change, but there was a knowing edge to his voice that made Anne feel exposed.

She stood abruptly, grabbing her bag from the floor. “I’ve got homework to do,” she said curtly, avoiding his gaze.

Ominis raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop her. “As you wish,” he said simply, his voice maddeningly calm.

Anne stormed out of the common room, her footsteps echoing in the quiet dungeon corridors. She clenched her fists, her nails biting into her palms as a swirl of emotions threatened to overwhelm her. Guilt, anger, jealousy—they all churned in her chest, leaving her feeling like a stranger in her own skin.

She didn’t know where she was going, but one thing was certain: she needed space. From Ominis, from Sebastian, from you.

As she ascended the stairs, the cool dungeon air gave way to the warmer, lighter scent of the upper levels. Her footsteps echoed sharply in the quiet corridors, her mind spinning with frustration. She wanted to scream, to vent, to do something to burn off the swirling emotions that refused to settle.

By the time she reached the library, she’d only grown more irritated.

She stormed inside, the dim light of the chandeliers overhead glinting off the rows of polished tables and endless shelves of books.

Her heart was pounding, her breaths sharp and shallow.

She beelined for the farthest corner of the library, past the noisier central tables where younger students worked in hushed tones, past the study group huddled over Arithmancy charts, and deeper still into the secluded, darker aisles. Here, only the faint glow of enchanted lanterns illuminated the towering shelves, casting long shadows that flickered like ghosts.

Finally, she dropped into a stiff wooden chair, her bag thumping to the floor beside her. She yanked it open, pawing through the contents with rising frustration, only to confirm what she already suspected—she’d brought nothing useful. No notes, no homework, not even a novel to distract herself.

Grinding her teeth, Anne snatched a book from the nearest shelf without even glancing at the title. Its faded spine creaked in protest as she flung it open and stared at the text. The Ancient Runes of Central Europe. The densely packed lines of incomprehensible script blurred before her eyes.

She wasn’t here to study, not really.

Anne flipped a page with more force than necessary, her jaw tight. Why does he even let her boss him around like that? He’d never have let me—

She stopped herself, exhaling a shaky breath. The bitterness was bubbling up again, unbidden and unwelcome, but she couldn’t suppress it. She told herself she was angry at you, at your presumptuousness, but the truth was harder to admit.

She was angry at herself. Angry for letting things fall apart, for coming back and realizing she didn’t know where she fit anymore.

The faint sound of voices jolted her from her spiraling thoughts. At first, they were distant, muffled murmurs—but they grew louder, clearer, until they were unmistakable.

Sebastian’s voice.

And yours.

Anne’s pulse quickened as her body went rigid. Her gaze darted toward the aisle entrance, and her heart sank when she saw the two of you walking toward her secluded corner. Panic shot through her. She couldn’t let you see her like this, couldn’t let you or Sebastian catch her brooding in the dark like some bitter outcast.

Quickly, she drew her wand and cast a silent Disillusionment Charm. The air around her shimmered like heat rising off pavement, and then she vanished from sight, blending into the shadows. She barely had time to still her breathing before the two of you entered the space.

“Sebastian,” you said, your voice tinged with mock exasperation. “If you don’t let me find this book, I swear—”

“Swear what?” Sebastian interrupted, his tone playful. “Hex me? In a library? You wouldn’t dare.”

Your laugh echoed softly, light and genuine, and Anne’s stomach twisted. She watched as you crossed to a nearby shelf, scanning the spines for whatever book you were after. Sebastian followed close behind, his steps leisurely, his posture so casual it bordered on smug.

“I’m serious,” you said, your back to him. “I'm here to find that bloody book."

“Oh, come on,” Sebastian said, his voice dropping into a coaxing tone. “Surely it can wait a minute. Or five.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “What could possibly be so important that it can’t wait until I’ve found The Advanced Applications of Charms?”

Sebastian grinned, stepping closer. “Well, for starters, you’re looking in the wrong section.”

Anne watched as he reached over your shoulder, his hand brushing against yours as he plucked a book from the shelf. His fingers lingered on the spine as he handed it to you, his smirk softening into something wolfish.

You rolled your eyes but took the book. “Thanks. Now let's find a table so I can work."

“Or,” he said, stepping even closer, “I could just keep distracting you.”

You shook your head, though your lips curved upward despite yourself.

The air shifted between you, the teasing edge giving way to something heavier, more intimate. Anne’s breath caught as she watched Sebastian’s hand rise to tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Sebastian,” you said softly, your voice carrying a note of warning, but it lacked conviction.

He leaned in, his voice a low murmur. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You didn’t say a word.

Sebastian closed the distance. His lips brushed yours gently at first, testing, and then he pressed more firmly, his hand sliding to your waist. Your arms looped around his neck, pulling him closer as the book you’d been holding slipped from your grasp, landing on the floor with a soft thud.

Oh.

Anne felt her stomach twist, but this time, it wasn’t jealousy or anger. It was guilt, sharp and undeniable, crashing over her in waves. All this time, she’d been stewing in resentment, convincing herself that you were encroaching on something that was hers. But the truth was painfully clear now: you hadn’t taken anything.

Sebastian’s laughter, his attention, his loyalty—they hadn’t shifted away from her because of you. They’d shifted because things had changed, because he had changed. And whatever this was between you, it wasn’t a threat to her place in his life, her place as his sister. It was something separate, something he hadn’t had the courage to tell her about yet.

For the first time in months, the tight knot in Anne’s chest began to loosen. She let out a slow, shaky breath, her Disillusionment Charm still holding as she watched the two of you break apart. You were both smiling softly, your foreheads touching for a moment as Sebastian murmured something she couldn’t quite hear.

Anne blinked back the unexpected sting of tears. She wasn’t upset anymore, not really. If anything, she felt relief. Relief that Sebastian had someone who clearly made him so happy. Relief that her fears of being replaced were unfounded.

Still, as the guilt ebbed, a flicker of her old self returned. A sly grin tugged at her lips as she leaned back against the bookshelf, silently observing as you nudged Sebastian’s shoulder and whispered something about “actually letting you work now.”

Anne bit back a laugh, the weight of her emotions giving way to something lighter, something closer to joy. Oh, she was going to have so much fun with this.

Her brother—her proud, occasionally insufferable, love-struck brother—hadn’t even mentioned this little development to her. And while part of her knew she should let him come to her in his own time, another part—larger, mischievous, and undeniably Sallow—was already crafting a plan.

She could already picture it. The knowing smirks. The casually dropped comments. The exaggerated shock when she “discovered” their secret in public.

Sebastian wouldn’t know what hit him.

[magical-reid]

The Spell Gone Awry

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Fem!Slytherin!Reader

Word Count: 1.9 K

Summary: Draco Malfoy is unexpectedly vulnerable after a duel accident leaves you injured, leading to an unexpected bond between you two. As rumors swirl around your growing closeness, Draco reveals his feelings for you, culminating in a heartfelt confession at the Yule Ball.

It was a quiet afternoon at Hogwarts, or at least it was supposed to be. The Great Lake glimmered in the autumn sun, and the grounds were bustling with students making the most of their weekend. You had intended to spend the afternoon exploring the castle’s nooks and crannies, but fate had other plans.

The courtyard near the Clock Tower was unusually noisy. As you walked through the archway, you realized why—two Slytherins were dueling.

“Expelliarmus!” one voice shouted, and a wand went flying.

You paused, recognizing the unmistakable drawl of Draco Malfoy. He stood with his wand raised, his silver-blond hair gleaming in the sunlight, and his trademark smirk firmly in place. Opposite him was Theodore Nott, his face set in determination.

Normally, you’d avoid scenes like this—public displays of superiority were practically a pastime for Draco—but today, curiosity got the better of you.

You were mid-step, walking through the duel’s perimeter, when Theodore shouted, “Stupefy!”

Before you could process what was happening, a jet of red light hit you square in the chest. Your body flew back, the world spinning as you crashed into the stone pavement with a sickening thud.

“Y/N!”

Draco’s voice cut through the fog in your mind, sharper than the pain that spread across your body. You tried to sit up, but your limbs wouldn’t cooperate.

“Move, Nott!” Draco snapped, shoving Theodore aside as he knelt at your side. His hands hovered over you, unsure where to touch. “Someone get Madam Pomfrey!”

Through your hazy vision, you saw the concern etched into his face. It was an expression you’d never seen from him before.

“Draco…” you murmured weakly, but the darkness claimed you before you could say more.

The Hospital Wing

You woke to the sound of murmured voices. The faint scent of medicinal potions hung in the air, and the soft rustling of curtains told you where you were—the hospital wing.

“Finally,” came a familiar voice, tinged with relief.

Turning your head, you saw Draco sitting in a chair beside your bed. His tie was loosened, his robes slightly rumpled as though he’d been there for hours.

“How long have I been here?” you croaked, your throat dry.

“Since this afternoon,” Draco said, leaning forward. “You’ve been out cold for hours. I thought…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “You shouldn’t have been walking through the middle of a duel.”

His tone was accusatory, but his eyes betrayed his guilt.

“I didn’t know there was a duel,” you said softly.

He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “You could’ve been seriously hurt, Y/N.”

You tried to sit up, wincing as pain shot through your back. Draco was immediately at your side, adjusting your pillows and muttering about how careless Nott had been.

“Draco,” you interrupted, “it wasn’t your fault.”

His hands stilled, and he looked at you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “It doesn’t matter. You got hurt because I was being…well, me.”

You managed a weak smile. “You mean a show-off?”

His lips twitched, but the smirk you expected didn’t come. Instead, he sat back down, his elbows resting on his knees.

“Why did you stay?” you asked after a moment.

Draco scoffed, though his ears turned pink. “You’re in my House. It would’ve been…unbecoming to leave you here alone.”

His words didn’t quite match the look in his eyes—soft, vulnerable.

“Thank you,” you said sincerely.

Whispers in the Shadows

The following week was strange. News of the accident spread quickly, and students whispered about how Draco Malfoy had stayed by your side until you woke. Some called it an act of guilt, others a show of loyalty to a fellow Slytherin.

Draco, however, seemed to avoid you. In the Great Hall, he sat at the far end of the table, his gaze fixed on his plate. In Potions, he worked silently, not once glancing in your direction.

It hurt more than you wanted to admit.

One evening, as you wandered the castle in search of solitude, you found yourself in the library. The flickering candlelight cast shadows across the shelves, and the room was mostly empty.

“Y/N.”

The sound of your name made you turn. Draco stood at the end of the aisle, his hands buried in his pockets.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, surprised.

He hesitated before stepping closer. “I wanted to check on you.”

“You could’ve done that anytime,” you said, unable to hide the hurt in your voice. “But you’ve been avoiding me.”

Draco stopped mid-step, his pale complexion flushing slightly. His hands fidgeted in his pockets, a rare sign of discomfort. For once, he didn’t have a witty retort or his usual confidence.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” he said quietly, though his tone lacked conviction.

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. “Really? Because that’s what it felt like.”

He sighed, dragging a hand through his platinum hair. “Fine. Maybe I was. But it wasn’t because I didn’t want to see you.”

You frowned, confused. “Then why?”

Draco hesitated again, glancing around to ensure no one was within earshot. When he finally met your gaze, his gray eyes were unusually vulnerable, stripped of their usual smugness.

“Because you make me feel…unlike myself,” he admitted.

You blinked. “Unlike yourself?”

“Yes. And I’m not sure I like it.” He let out a frustrated huff and leaned against the bookshelf, his gaze dropping to the floor. “Ever since that day in the courtyard, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you. About what could’ve happened if that spell had been stronger, if I hadn’t stopped Theodore fast enough.”

You softened at his words, the anger draining from your posture. “Draco, it wasn’t your fault. Accidents happen.”

He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “You don’t get it. I’m not used to…caring about what happens to anyone else.”

You couldn’t help the small, surprised laugh that escaped your lips. “That’s not true. You care about your family. Your friends.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But this is different.”

The vulnerability in his expression made your heart ache. You stepped closer, reaching out to touch his arm. “Draco, I don’t know what you’re so afraid of. But I don’t need you to be anyone other than yourself.”

He looked at your hand on his arm, then back at you, his eyes softening. “That’s what’s terrifying,” he murmured. “You see me—the real me. And I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

You smiled gently. “Maybe you don’t have to be ready. Maybe it’s enough to just feel it.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The library seemed impossibly still, as though the castle itself was holding its breath. Then, slowly, Draco reached up and covered your hand with his own.

“Why are you so…kind to me?” he asked, his voice almost breaking.

You squeezed his arm lightly. “Because I see the real you, Draco. And I like him.”

The Dance of Distance

In the days that followed, Draco became a near-constant presence in your life. He walked with you to classes, found excuses to sit beside you in the Great Hall, and even waited for you after Potions.

But the closer he grew, the more complicated things became. The whispers among the Slytherins grew louder, their sharp comments cutting deeper. Some accused you of using Draco to climb the social ladder. Others claimed you’d bewitched him, that no one like you could possibly hold the attention of someone like him.

And yet, through it all, Draco stayed at your side.

One evening, as you sat by the Black Lake, he found you staring into the water, lost in thought.

“You’re quiet today,” he said, sitting beside you.

“Just thinking,” you replied, your tone subdued.

He frowned, leaning closer. “About what?”

You hesitated before meeting his gaze. “About us. About how everyone seems to think we shouldn’t…be together.”

His expression darkened. “Let them think what they want. Since when do their opinions matter to you?”

“They don’t,” you admitted, though your voice wavered. “But I don’t want them to hurt you, Draco. And I feel like being with me is only making things harder for you.”

He stared at you for a long moment, his gray eyes searching yours. Then, without a word, he reached out and cupped your face in his hands.

“Listen to me,” he said firmly, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks. “You’re the only person who’s ever looked at me and seen something more than a Malfoy. You’re the only one who makes me feel like I’m worth something beyond my name. Don’t take that away from me because of a few gossipy idiots.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but you managed a small smile. “You really mean that?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t,” he said, his voice softening. “Besides, you’re stuck with me now.”

An Unspoken Confession

The Yule Ball arrived faster than you expected, and with it came the usual flurry of excitement. Dresses were chosen, hair was styled, and students buzzed with anticipation. You hadn’t planned on going—until Draco appeared outside the Slytherin common room, dressed impeccably in black and silver, his hand outstretched.

“Come with me,” he said simply.

You hesitated, your heart pounding. “Draco, I don’t even have—”

“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupted, smirking slightly. With a flick of his wand, a set of elegant green robes appeared in his arms.

You stared at him, speechless.

“I took the liberty of having these made,” he said, his smirk softening into a small, hopeful smile. “For you.”

The warmth in his gaze made your chest tighten. Wordlessly, you took the robes and stepped back into the common room to change.

The Dance

The Great Hall was transformed into a winter wonderland, with snowflakes falling from the enchanted ceiling and twinkling lights illuminating the room. Students swirled across the dance floor, laughter and music filling the air.

Draco guided you to the center of the room, his hand resting lightly on your waist.

“People are staring,” you murmured nervously.

“Let them,” he said, his smirk returning. “They’re probably jealous.”

You laughed despite yourself, relaxing as he led you through the waltz. For the first time in weeks, the whispers and the stares didn’t matter.

As the music slowed, Draco leaned closer, his voice low in your ear. “You know, I’ve been trying to tell you something.”

You tilted your head, meeting his gaze. “What is it?”

He hesitated for the briefest moment before saying, “I’m falling for you.”

Your breath caught, and your heart seemed to skip a beat. “Draco…”

He smiled faintly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just needed you to know.”

But you did say something. Leaning up on your toes, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. When you pulled back, his expression was equal parts shock and joy.

“I think I’m falling for you too,” you whispered.

His grin was brighter than any spell he’d ever cast.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

[wonyowonyo]

Whispers Through Time (P. Hanni X M! Reader)

Guess who's back, it's none other than your ghosting author wonyo! Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my very long absence as life have just been too much of a bitch for me to have the time write. I can't certainly promise to update more in the future as I only have a week break right now, which is why I was able to write a new fic. This one's about 9k words, my longest? yet, so as always I hope you all enjoy this one and I'll see yall when I see ya.

The day had started like any other. Hanni strolled through the historic district, earbuds in, a soft breeze carrying the scent of aged stone and street vendors' offerings. She wasn’t quite sure what drew her into the small, dusty museum on the corner. Something about the old sign, its letters faded with time, beckoned her inside.

As she wandered past glass cases filled with relics—muskets, uniforms, yellowed parchments—her eyes landed on an antique pendant, its silver surface engraved with intricate symbols. She leaned closer, feeling an inexplicable pull.

“That belonged to an unknown revolutionary,” said an elderly curator, appearing beside her. His voice was soft, almost reverent. “No one knows his name, but legend has it he wore this during the final days of the rebellion.”

Hanni reached out, almost without thinking. Her fingertips brushed the glass, and a sudden rush of energy surged through her. The room seemed to spin, the walls melting into a blur of light and shadow. She gasped, stumbling backward—

And then, everything went dark.

————————————————————

When Hanni’s eyes fluttered open, the air was thick with smoke. Shouts echoed around her, mingling with the sharp crack of musket fire. She coughed, struggling to her feet, her heart pounding.

She wasn’t in the museum anymore.

Cobblestone streets stretched before her, lined with ramshackle buildings. People in period clothing—mud-smeared skirts, patched waistcoats—ran past, their faces twisted in fear or fury.

“This can’t be real,” she whispered, but the acrid sting of gunpowder in her nostrils said otherwise.

Suddenly, rough hands grabbed her arm. She spun around to find a young man, his dark eyes fierce beneath a tricorn hat. “You there! What are you doing out in the open?” he hissed, pulling her into a shadowy alley.

“I—I don’t know,” Hanni stammered, heart racing. “Where am I?”

The man’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not from around here, are you? This is no place for a lost soul.” His voice softened slightly, though the urgency remained. “Come. We need to get off the streets. The Redcoats are out in force.”

Hanni followed him deeper into the alley, her mind a whirlwind. The dim passage was narrow, the sounds of chaos fading as they moved.

“What’s your name?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced back, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “You can call me Y/n.”

————————————————————

Hanni followed Y/n through a maze of twisting alleys, her heart hammering in her chest. Every echo of musket fire or distant shout sent shivers down her spine. The air was thick with tension, the kind of fear and resolve that seemed to hang over the entire city.

Finally, Y/n stopped in front of a nondescript wooden door, its surface worn and weathered. He knocked three times in a specific rhythm. After a moment, the door creaked open, and a pair of wary eyes peered out.

"Another stray?" the man behind the door muttered, his voice gruff. He was older, with a scar running down one side of his face.

"She was wandering in the streets," Y/n replied, pushing the door open further. "We couldn't leave her out there."

The man sighed but stepped aside, letting them in. Hanni followed Y/n into the dimly lit room. It was small and crowded, with a handful of people huddled around a makeshift table, their faces lined with exhaustion. Maps and documents were spread out before them, illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle.

"Stay here," Y/n whispered, guiding her to a corner. "Don't draw attention to yourself."

Hanni nodded, sinking onto a tattered blanket. The reality of her situation was starting to sink in. This wasn't a dream. She had somehow been transported back in time, into the heart of a revolution. She watched as Y/n joined the others at the table, his expression serious as they spoke in hushed tones.

For a moment, she just observed him. There was a quiet intensity about him, a determination that seemed to burn beneath the surface. His clothes were worn, his face smudged with dirt, but his eyes—deep and fierce—were filled with a kind of resolve she'd never seen before.

————————————————————

After what felt like hours, Y/n returned to her corner, sinking down beside her. His shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his eyes were sharp and watchful.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice soft but edged with tension.

Hanni nodded. "I... think so. I still don't understand how I got here."

Y/n studied her for a long moment, his gaze narrowing. "You keep saying that. What do you mean you don't know?" His tone was laced with suspicion now.

She hesitated. "It's... complicated. I come from a different time. A different world."

His eyes widened, and he leaned back slightly, as if she might be dangerous. "What are you talking about? Is this some kind of trick?" His voice rose slightly, drawing the attention of a few others in the room.

"No!" she whispered urgently, glancing around. "I know it sounds impossible, but it’s the truth. I was... in a museum, looking at an old artifact, and then... I woke up here."

Y/n's brow furrowed, his jaw clenched. "A museum? What kind of nonsense is that? You expect me to believe you came from... the future?"

Hanni swallowed hard. "Yes. I know how it sounds, but I swear, it’s true."

For a moment, he just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Then he laughed bitterly. "People are risking their lives out there, and you think this is a game? Some story to entertain us?"

"It’s not a story!" Hanni insisted, her voice breaking. "I don’t know how or why, but I was pulled here. Into your time. I don’t belong here."

Y/n shook his head, his eyes filled with a mix of disbelief and anger. "I’ve seen men lose their minds in this war. Desperation makes people say all kinds of things. But this...?" He stood abruptly, pacing. "You expect me to believe you’re some kind of... time traveler?"

She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. "I don’t know why I’m here, but... I think maybe it’s to help. To change something. Maybe even to help you."

He stopped, his gaze fixed on her. "Help me? How could you possibly help?" His voice was low, almost a whisper now, but the doubt was clear.

"Because I’ve seen how history unfolds," she said, her voice trembling. "I know what revolutions can become. What people like you can achieve."

For a moment, Y/n just stared at her, his eyes searching hers. Finally, he spoke, his voice soft. "If you’re lying... it could cost lives."

"I’m not," she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Please. Just trust me."

The room was silent, the weight of her words hanging between them. Y/n's expression was still guarded, but there was something else now—a flicker of uncertainty, of hope.

"Then prove it," he said finally. "Show me something. Anything that could make me believe you."

Hanni’s heart raced. She had no idea how to prove what she was saying. But she knew one thing for certain: she had to make him believe.

————————————————————

Hanni’s mind raced, searching for something—anything—that would convince Y/n she was telling the truth. She opened her bag, still miraculously slung across her shoulder, and rifled through its contents. Amidst old receipts and a water bottle, she pulled out her smartphone.

Y/n's eyes narrowed. "What's that?" His voice was tight, wary.

"It’s… a device from my time," Hanni said, holding it out cautiously. She pressed the power button, but nothing happened—the battery had died. Her heart sank.

"It doesn’t even work," Y/n muttered, his voice dripping with skepticism. He turned away, his shoulders rigid with frustration. "You’re wasting our time."

"Wait!" Hanni pleaded. "Even if it doesn’t work now, it’s real. Look at it—it’s made of materials you don’t have here. It has no seams, no screws. I can’t explain everything, but… you have to believe me."

Y/n hesitated, reaching out to touch the device. His fingers traced the smooth glass screen, his brow furrowing. "It’s… unlike anything I’ve seen," he admitted, his voice softer now, tinged with curiosity. "But that doesn’t mean you’re from another time."

Hanni’s eyes filled with tears of frustration. "What will it take, Y/n? I didn’t choose this. I’m scared, just like you."

The raw emotion in her voice seemed to reach him. He looked at her, really looked at her, and for a moment, the doubt wavered. "If what you say is true," he said slowly, "then why are you here? Why now?"

Hanni shook her head. "I don’t know. Maybe… maybe to help you. Maybe to change something."

Y/n’s eyes darkened. "Change what? We’re fighting a losing battle, Hanni. Every day, we lose more people. Hope is a dangerous thing here."

"But it’s all you have," she whispered, stepping closer. "You have to believe there’s a future worth fighting for."

For a moment, their eyes locked, and the tension between them shifted. The room seemed to shrink around them, the sounds of the rebellion fading into the background.

"You speak like someone who knows what we’re fighting for," Y/n said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But you don't know our pain."

"I know courage," Hanni replied, her voice steady. "I see it in you. In all of you. And I know that what you’re doing matters."

Y/n’s expression softened, the walls he had built around himself beginning to crack. "You really believe that?"

"I do," she whispered.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Y/n nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. "I don’t know if I believe your story," he said finally, his voice low. "But I believe in you."

Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them—a fragile connection forged in the chaos of war.

————————————————————

The days passed like they were suspended in time, quiet moments broken only by the distant sounds of musket fire or the hushed whispers of rebels making plans. Hanni found herself swept deeper into the daily life of the revolution, but it wasn’t just the work that kept her there. It was the people. The people, and him—Y/n.

At first, it was the small things. He would catch her eye across the room and offer a slight nod of acknowledgment. There were moments when he would pause, as if considering saying something, but would always retreat back into himself, slipping into the shadows like he had before.

But each time, Hanni noticed. And slowly, his distant manner softened, though she could never quite understand why.

Her days were spent helping wherever she could. She learned how to prepare simple meals with the limited supplies they had—using techniques she never thought she’d need to know. When rebels returned from the front lines, bloodied and tired, she assisted in patching wounds and soothing the pain as best as she could with the little medicine they had. The acts were small, but the trust the rebels placed in her gave her a sense of purpose she hadn't expected.

Y/n, too, would linger on the outskirts, watching her in quiet contemplation. He would never ask her to do anything, but there was a silent appreciation in the way he observed her, a sense of something building just beneath the surface. Sometimes, he would glance her way, his expression unreadable, as though he was trying to piece something together.

She couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching her, not just with his eyes but with something deeper, something more searching.

And yet, every time she saw him, Hanni was reminded of the truth she had buried deep in her mind. This wasn’t her world. These weren’t her people. And no matter how strong her connection with Y/n felt in the moment, it was all doomed to end the second she returned to her time.

It wasn’t that she didn’t care for him—it was the opposite. The more she saw of him, the more she understood his burdens, the more she felt for him, the more she realized how dangerous it was to get involved with someone in this time. How could she love someone who would never truly know her, who would never understand the world she came from?

Y/n’s life was a war. His fight was for something that might never be realized, something that could be extinguished by the very forces he fought against. What could she give him, knowing she didn’t belong here, knowing that every action she took would only alter their fate?

Her thoughts were spiraling when she found herself once again standing alone by the window of the safe house, staring out into the dark, wondering about the future.

She wasn’t even sure if she could call it "home" anymore. The longer she stayed, the more she learned, and the more she felt like she was betraying the very people who had taken her in. And Y/n—Y/n made everything feel more complicated.

It wasn’t fair to him. She was a ghost in his world, and she couldn’t even promise him a future. She’d always known she’d have to leave—whether she figured out how to go home or simply faded out of their history entirely. But the longer she stayed, the harder it would be to leave. It was only a matter of time.

Y/n found her there, his footsteps quiet on the stone floor. He said nothing at first, simply stood beside her, gazing out at the same starry sky that stretched endlessly above them.

Finally, it was Hanni who broke the silence. "You’re always so quiet," she said, her voice soft but carrying the weight of the question. "Don’t you ever get tired of keeping everything inside?"

Y/n’s eyes shifted to her, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he masked it with that same distant expression. He didn’t speak at first. Instead, he looked down at his hands, turning them over in his lap, as if weighing her words carefully.

"It’s easier that way," he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. "If you don’t say anything, they can’t use it against you. If you don’t let anyone in..." His words trailed off, and he fell into silence again.

Hanni wanted to say something, to offer some comfort, but she found herself too tangled in her own thoughts. There was something about him, something in his sadness that mirrored her own confusion. She wanted to understand him, to help him bear his burden, but the more she understood, the more complicated it became.

"Is it... that bad?" she asked softly, stepping closer to him. "The fighting, I mean. The way you’re always running, always looking over your shoulder?"

Y/n’s jaw clenched at her question, and for a moment, it seemed like he might shut down completely. But instead, he spoke again, though it was with a far-off look in his eyes—a look that seemed to carry years of loss, of moments he couldn’t forget.

"It’s not just the fighting," he said, his voice tinged with a quiet sorrow. "It’s the loss. It’s losing people, watching them fall one by one and knowing you couldn’t do enough. And it’s the guilt." His eyes met hers for the first time in what felt like forever, and there was a vulnerability there, raw and painful. "That’s what it is. The guilt. Because you can never do enough."

The weight of his words hit Hanni harder than she anticipated. She hadn’t been prepared for this side of him, the one he kept hidden beneath the steely resolve. There was so much pain, so much history she could never fully understand, no matter how hard she tried.

Her heart ached at the thought of the sacrifices he’d made, the endless battles he fought, and the people he had lost. But it wasn’t just sympathy she felt. It was a connection—a longing to help him, to take away some of that burden.

She stepped closer to him, her hand gently resting on his arm. "You don’t have to carry all of this alone," she murmured, her voice tender. "I’m here. I know it’s not much, but I’ll be here for you. If you need to talk, or just... have someone listen."

Y/n looked at her, his eyes softening for a brief moment. She could see the hesitation in him, as if he were unsure whether to accept her offer or push her away. But in the end, he didn’t pull back. He let her hand stay there.

Hanni didn’t know what else to say, so she simply stood there with him, offering him the silent support he didn’t know he needed. She wasn’t sure what would come next—whether he would open up or retreat even further into himself—but for now, she was content to simply be there, offering whatever comfort she could.

After a long pause, Y/n finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Hanni. I... I didn’t expect this. But it means more than I can say."

She gave him a small smile, her heart feeling lighter. "It’s nothing. You’ve been through so much, and I... I don’t know how to help, but I want to try."

For a long while, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the quiet hum of the night around them. And in that silence, they shared something unspoken—a brief moment of understanding, of connection, where the world outside seemed to fade away.

Y/n stood up slowly, as if considering his next words carefully. He didn’t speak, but there was a softness in his gaze as he looked down at her. Without saying anything more, he reached out, giving her a gentle, reassuring touch on the shoulder before turning back toward the door.

"Rest," he said quietly. "We have a long road ahead."

As he left, Hanni lingered by the window, looking out at the stars, a quiet ache in her chest. She wasn’t sure what the future held for her, for them, but in that moment, she knew one thing—she would stand by him, no matter what came next.

————————————————————

The safe house was quiet, save for the soft rustling of fabric as rebels settled in for the night. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, the warm glow offering a sense of fragile peace in a world that had long forgotten calm.

Hanni sat alone in the corner, her knees tucked up to her chest, gazing into the dying flames of the hearth. Thoughts swirled in her mind, all tangled up in the confusing mess of her emotions. The more time she spent with Y/n, the harder it became to ignore the deepening bond between them.

She couldn’t lie to herself. She cared for him—perhaps more than she was willing to admit. But that didn’t change the fact that she was from the future, a stranger in this time. How could she possibly belong here, in a world she didn’t understand, with someone who could never understand her?

And yet, in moments like these—when the world outside was chaos and the people around her were fighting for survival—Hanni found herself leaning into something she hadn’t expected: connection.

Y/n had become something more than just a revolutionary leader to her. He was a person—a person with fears and dreams, someone who wore his pain on his sleeve when no one was looking. There was so much she wanted to ask him, to know about his past, his life before the rebellion. But she also understood that there were things he could never say. Some scars went too deep to be shared so easily.

The sound of soft footsteps broke through her thoughts, and she looked up to find Y/n standing in the doorway, his figure silhouetted against the darkness beyond.

"You’re still awake," he said, his voice low and steady, though there was a flicker of concern in his eyes.

Hanni nodded, offering him a small, uncertain smile. "Just thinking," she said quietly. "It’s hard to sleep sometimes, with everything that’s going on."

Y/n didn’t reply immediately, stepping further into the room and sitting across from her. His gaze was soft but intense, studying her as though trying to read the thoughts behind her guarded expression.

"You’re still thinking about everything, aren’t you?" His words weren’t accusatory. They were simply a statement of fact.

Hanni hesitated, then sighed, pulling her knees closer. "I don’t know how to stop. This place, this time... it feels like I’m caught between two worlds. One that I don’t belong to anymore, and one that I can’t quite seem to find my way into."

There was a long pause before Y/n spoke again, his voice quiet but warm, as if he understood the weight of her words in a way that no one else could. "I know how you feel. Being stuck between two places. Torn between your past and your future."

Hanni’s heart skipped a beat. She wasn’t sure if he meant it in the way she thought, or if it was just a way to connect. Either way, it felt like an opening—an invitation to say more, to let him in.

"I didn’t think it would be like this," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I didn’t think I’d get attached. To you, to all of this. But I have. I’ve seen how you lead, how you fight. How much you care. And I’ve started caring, too. But I can’t..." She faltered, shaking her head, as if the words weren’t enough to express the conflicting emotions inside of her. "I can’t be the person you need, not when I’m from a world you can never know."

Y/n’s expression shifted then, his gaze softening with understanding. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes not leaving hers. "I don’t need you to be anything but yourself," he said, his voice sincere, as if the weight of his words carried more than just a comforting gesture. "I’ve been through a lot, Hanni. And I know what it’s like to feel like you're an outsider. But here, with us... you’ve already become part of something bigger. Part of the fight. And no matter where you came from, that means something."

Hanni’s chest tightened at his words. The weight of them settled over her like a warm blanket, but it also felt heavy, because she knew that soon, she would have to leave. Her time here, however much it felt like home, was not real. It couldn’t be real. Not in the way she wanted it to be.

And yet, she couldn’t help but feel an undeniable pull toward him. Y/n had been her anchor in this strange world, offering her moments of comfort when all she could do was stand on the sidelines and watch as history unfolded around her.

"Thank you," Hanni said softly, her voice almost cracking. "For saying that. It means more than you know."

Y/n’s eyes met hers, and for the briefest of moments, the room seemed to fall away. There were no sounds of rebellion, no distant gunshots, no whispering fears about the future. There was only this—this quiet moment where they both understood what was unsaid.

Y/n’s hand reached out then, resting lightly on hers. It was a simple gesture, but to Hanni, it felt like an unspoken promise. She didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know if she’d ever see him again once she left, but in that moment, with the quiet hum of the world around them, she allowed herself to be present. To be there for him. And to let him be there for her.

They sat in silence for a while, the tension between them slowly easing. As the night deepened, Y/n stood up and extended his hand toward her, a small, wry smile playing at the corner of his lips.

"You’ve been working hard. You deserve a rest."

Hanni looked up at him, her eyes still heavy with unspoken words. But she nodded, accepting his gesture without hesitation. She didn’t need to say anything. They didn’t need words to understand each other right now.

Instead, they stepped outside into the cool night air, where the stars hung like tiny pinpricks of light in the vast expanse of the sky. The quiet of the world felt different here—softer, as if the very earth itself was holding its breath.

Y/n’s hand brushed against hers as they walked side by side, an unspoken understanding passing between them. They stopped for a moment, standing under the canopy of stars, each of them lost in their thoughts, but also somehow connected in that quiet solitude.

"This is freedom, isn’t it?" Hanni asked, her voice barely audible, but steady. "The kind you’re fighting for."

Y/n looked up at the stars for a long moment, his eyes reflecting the distant light. "Maybe," he murmured. "Freedom isn’t always about what’s out there—it’s about what we can hold onto, what we believe in, even when everything seems impossible."

Hanni nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle in her chest. It was something she had been struggling to understand for days, ever since she arrived. Freedom wasn’t just about returning to her time, to her world—it was about what she could give in the here and now, even if it meant staying with him, with them, for as long as she could.

Y/n turned to her then, his eyes softer than they had been before. "We’ll get through this. Together."

And for the first time since arriving in this strange, violent era, Hanni allowed herself to believe him. Not because she was sure of the outcome—but because, right then, in that moment, it felt true.

They stood there for a while longer, side by side, under the vast, starry sky. The night was still, but the air between them was charged—full of the unspoken things they both needed but hadn’t yet found the words to express.

For a moment, Hanni forgot the distance between their worlds. She only knew the quiet comfort of his presence, and the strange but undeniable peace of the moment they were sharing.

————————————————————

The days seemed to stretch into one another, a mix of quiet moments and heavy responsibilities. Time, it seemed, was a constant weight pressing down on Hanni. Each passing day brought them closer to an inevitable confrontation with the colonial authorities, and Y/n’s position within the movement was more precarious than ever.

Hanni had long known that Y/n was a target for the regime. His intellect, his strategies, his speeches—everything about him made him a threat. The more she became involved with the rebels, the more she realized just how dangerous it was for him. But she never anticipated how deeply his fate would intertwine with her own, nor how much she would come to care for him.

Still, she couldn’t allow herself to be consumed by these feelings—not when she was from the future. She had seen the records, she had lived with the knowledge of how it all played out. Y/n’s rebellion, the bloodshed, the eventual collapse—she had witnessed it from afar in her own time. She knew his future in a way that no one else could.

And the thing was, she wasn’t sure how much of it she could change.

It was late one evening, after a long day of tending to the wounded and helping prepare supplies for the next battle, that Y/n found her alone in the corner of the safe house. She had been trying to make sense of everything—the war, the lives at stake, and her own internal conflict.

He stood silently for a moment before speaking, his voice low but clear. "We’re running out of time, Hanni."

Her heart sank. She had known this conversation was coming. She had felt it in the air, in the way everyone seemed to move more urgently, more carefully, as if aware that danger was circling them.

"I know," she said, looking up at him. She forced a calmness into her voice, but inside, her heart was beating faster than ever. "What are you planning?"

Y/n sat down across from her, his expression hard, but with a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "We can’t wait any longer. The authorities are closing in. The others are preparing to flee the city, but I can’t just leave the cause behind." His words were filled with resolve, but Hanni could hear the strain in his voice. He was worn down, his mind heavy with the weight of leadership and the knowledge that his own death was becoming inevitable.

Her throat tightened. She already knew what he was planning—he was going to make himself a target, sacrifice himself for the cause. He had been so sure of it, even before she’d come into his life, even before they’d shared the quiet moments they now had. He had already made peace with the idea of dying for freedom, for the revolution.

And that was the problem.

Hanni had spent days, weeks, torn between what she knew of the future and what she wanted to do to save him. She couldn’t let him die. She couldn’t. Not when she knew the kind of impact he would have, the hope he would inspire, the lives that could be changed if he just survived a little longer.

But changing history wasn’t as simple as saving one person. The future—her future—was fragile. She had seen what happened when people interfered with time. The consequences were often unpredictable, violent. What if changing Y/n’s fate meant altering everything she knew, everything that had shaped the future she came from?

She struggled to keep the doubt out of her voice. "You’re not making this decision alone, Y/n. If you leave now, if you go alone, you’re not just risking your life—you’re risking everything we’ve fought for."

"I know," he said quietly. "But I don’t have a choice anymore. If we keep waiting, they’ll find us. We’ll all be dead."

Hanni’s heart twisted. She wanted to say something, to convince him to reconsider, but she couldn’t find the words. She couldn’t even tell him the truth—she couldn’t tell him that she knew how it would end. How he would end.

She had known for a long time now, ever since she’d arrived in this time and begun piecing together the fragments of history, that Y/n was going to die in a few months. The specifics were unclear—there were no exact dates in the records—but there were enough details to know his fate was sealed. His death would be a turning point for the revolution, a martyrdom that would galvanize the people and push them toward victory. But for all her knowledge, for all her understanding of the future, it felt cruel to just stand by and let him die.

He looked at her then, his gaze steady, as if he could read her conflicted thoughts. "I know you’re struggling with this, Hanni," he said softly. "I know you want to change things. You’ve always had that look in your eyes, like you’re waiting for the right moment to fix it all."

Hanni felt her breath catch in her throat. It was true—she had never fully accepted her place in the timeline. She had always wondered if there was something she could do, some way she could alter the future to save the people she had come to care for. But this was different. Y/n was different.

"I can’t just let you die," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I know it’s supposed to happen—I know it’s part of the history, part of the plan—but I can’t stand by and watch it happen. I’ve seen what you’ll do for this cause, Y/n. I’ve seen how much you’ll give. But you can’t die. You can’t—"

"Hanni," Y/n cut her off gently, his hand reaching across the table to grasp hers. His touch was warm, grounding her. "You’ve seen the future. You know that nothing stays the same. But what I do—what we do—still matters. Whether I’m here or not, we have to keep fighting. I’ve made my peace with this. But you have to make your peace, too."

Hanni’s eyes filled with tears, though she struggled to keep them back. She had never wanted to hurt him. She didn’t want to change everything. But how could she let him die, knowing there was still time to save him? Could she really live with that choice?

"I don’t want to lose you," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "But I don’t know if I can change things. I don’t know if it’s right to change anything at all."

Y/n squeezed her hand, his gaze softening. "Hanni, no matter what happens, we’ve done something. We’ve given everything for this cause. The people will carry it forward. You’ve already changed the future in ways you don’t even realize. Just by being here, just by standing with us, you’ve already made a difference."

Hanni closed her eyes, feeling the weight of his words. It wasn’t just about saving him, it was about the bigger picture—the revolution, the fight for freedom, the lives of countless others. But how could she stand by and let him die?

A painful silence stretched between them, heavy with the impossible decision she had to make. Would she try to change history? Could she? Or would she accept that some things were beyond her control, that sometimes the greatest acts of love were letting go?

She didn’t have an answer yet. Not right then.

But one thing was clear—she couldn’t keep running from the future forever.

————————————————————

The days that followed were tense, as the weight of Hanni's decision pressed heavily on her chest. Each conversation she had with Y/n seemed to deepen the growing conflict inside her. She wanted to believe in the cause, to stand by him, and yet, every time she looked into his eyes, the same thought haunted her: What if I could save him?

The safe house, once a refuge, had become a place of quiet desperation. The others were preparing to leave the city, to scatter and take their fight to the countryside, where they hoped to continue their struggle in the shadows. But Y/n refused to run—not when he was the beating heart of their movement, not when he had come so far.

Hanni spent her days helping with preparations, cooking, tending to the wounded, and even assisting with organizing supplies. But at night, when the others went to sleep, she would sit in the corner, staring at the wall, her mind racing. The future was so clear in her mind—his future—and yet she felt powerless to change it. Every instinct screamed at her to act, to save him. But the question still lingered: Should she?

It was late one evening when Y/n found her again, standing alone in the dim-lit courtyard of the safe house. The sky was dark, the stars hidden behind a blanket of clouds. A cold breeze swept through the alley, making her shiver as she pulled her cloak tighter around herself.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Y/n said, his voice low and careful, as if sensing the heavy burden she was carrying.

Hanni turned to face him, offering a weak smile. “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve just been... thinking.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “Thinking about what?”

She hesitated, then sighed. “About everything. About what comes next. About the choices I’ve made—and the ones I still have to make.”

The tension between them grew, thick and palpable. Y/n moved closer, his presence both comforting and overwhelming. His gaze softened as he spoke, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. “You’re not the only one carrying a heavy load, you know.”

Hanni looked up at him, her heart aching at the raw honesty in his voice. “I know. I’ve seen the way you’re torn, Y/n. I know you’ve accepted what’s coming, but... it’s hard for me to do the same.”

He took a step closer, now just inches away from her, his hand reaching out to rest gently on her arm. “I know you care about me, Hanni. And I care about you, too. But you can’t carry this burden alone.”

A flicker of warmth spread through her chest at his words, but it was quickly overshadowed by the heavy weight of the decision she still had to make. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. How could she explain everything to him without revealing the truth of where she came from? How could she admit that she knew his future, his sacrifice, and yet still felt torn between letting history unfold as it was meant to—or changing it?

Y/n seemed to sense her internal struggle. “I’ve made peace with it, Hanni. I’ve fought for this cause, and I will die for it if I must. But that doesn’t mean I want to leave this world without knowing that you understand... what this all means. What it means to truly fight for something.”

Hanni’s breath caught in her throat. She wanted to scream that she couldn’t let him die, that she couldn’t just stand by and watch it happen. But that would change everything—everything she had come to know. The future, the world she knew, depended on certain things remaining in place.

“I do understand,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “But... I don’t want you to die.”

Y/n’s gaze softened, and he stepped closer, his hand gently cupping her cheek. “I know you don’t. But sometimes, we don’t get to choose our fate. Sometimes, the fight for freedom demands sacrifices we’re not ready to make. And when it comes down to it, I can’t regret that choice.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of his conviction. Hanni closed her eyes, feeling the heat of his touch on her skin, grounding her in the present moment. His hand lingered there, warm and steady.

“I’m not asking you to accept it,” he continued. “I’m just asking you to be here. With me. Until the end.”

Her heart pounded in her chest as she met his eyes, her own filled with unshed tears. She wanted to argue, to beg him to leave, to fight another day. But the reality was clear. He was already committed. The revolution needed him. And she couldn’t change his path, no matter how much she wanted to.

The moment hung between them, fragile and delicate. Then, as if to break the silence, Y/n spoke again. “I know you want to change things, Hanni. But some things are bigger than us. The revolution... it will live on, with or without me.”

Hanni felt a surge of emotion at his words. She wanted to deny them, to argue that there was still time, that she could still save him. But the truth was, she didn’t know how to change what was already set in motion.

They stood there for a long time, neither of them speaking, just existing in the silence, sharing the weight of the future between them. Eventually, Hanni spoke, her voice barely a whisper.

“What if I can’t let you go?”

Y/n’s hand slid down to hers, and he squeezed it gently. “You don’t have to. Just promise me that you’ll remember what we’re fighting for, Hanni. Not just the cause, but the people—the ones who will carry this fight forward. They’ll need you. The world will need you.”

The finality in his voice made her heart ache. But she nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I promise.”

Y/n gave her a soft smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, as if he knew the weight of the promise she had just made. “Then, let’s make the most of the time we have left.”

With that, he pulled her into an embrace, holding her tightly as if the moment could last forever. Hanni closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of his body against hers, the steady beat of his heart that she had come to depend on. She didn’t know what the future held. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do, but for now, all that mattered was the present.

————————————————————

The night was quiet, but it carried an electric tension, like the calm before a storm. Hanni and Y/n spent the evening together, talking in the soft light of the safe house, sharing stories of their lives, of the world they came from. For a brief moment, the war seemed distant. For just a little while, they were not enemies, rebels, or future and past—they were simply two people, trying to hold on to something real.

Y/n took Hanni’s hand in his, squeezing it lightly. "Whatever happens tomorrow, I want you to know that you’ve made a difference in my life. And in the lives of the others. You’ve given us hope."

Hanni’s eyes shimmered with emotion, but she nodded, unable to speak the words she wanted to. Instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder, content in the moment. She wasn’t sure what the future would bring, but for tonight, she was with him—and that, for now, was enough.

————————————————————

The early morning light crept through the cracks in the safe house walls, casting long shadows across the floor. Hanni had hardly slept, her mind a tangled mess of regrets and what-ifs. She watched as the rebels moved quickly, preparing for their final stand. It was no surprise that the colonial forces were on their way—she had known it was coming, but knowing something in advance didn’t make it any easier.

Y/n moved among the rebels, his presence as steady and commanding as ever. He issued orders, encouraging those around him, all while maintaining a calm demeanor that belied the tension thick in the air. Hanni watched him closely from across the room. In his every movement, she saw the gravity of the choices they were all facing. And, for the briefest of moments, their eyes met.

A fleeting glance. But in it, Hanni saw everything that had brought them together, everything that would be lost, and everything she had yet to say. The things she should have said long before this moment.

Suddenly, the sound of distant explosions broke the morning silence, followed by a sharp, nerve-wracking crackle of gunfire. The colonial forces were moving in earlier than anticipated. Panic erupted in the safe house. The rebels scrambled, gathering their weapons and preparing to defend the position.

But Y/n was steady in the chaos. His voice was firm and unshaken as he directed everyone to their positions.

"Hanni," he called, motioning her over. His tone was different now, focused, but still carrying the same warmth that had drawn her to him since the beginning. When she approached him, he pressed something into her hand—a small, leather-bound journal, its edges worn from years of use.

"Keep this safe," he said, his voice low. "It contains everything—our plans, our hopes, our dreams for the future. Make sure it reaches the right people. They’ll need it when the time comes."

Hanni’s breath caught in her throat as she held the journal. It wasn’t just a record of their efforts; it was his legacy, a testament to everything he had fought for. Her fingers closed around it, but the weight of it felt like a burden, heavier than she ever imagined.

“Y/n,” she whispered, almost desperate. “Please, there has to be another way. This doesn’t have to happen.”

He met her gaze with an almost imperceptible smile, but it was tinged with sadness. The flicker of pain in his eyes only made her heart ache more.

"You know there isn't," he said softly, the finality in his voice cutting through her protests. "But you've given me something I never expected to find in all of this chaos. A reason to believe that the future will be better than the present."

The sounds of fighting grew closer, the outside world closing in on them. The air was thick with urgency.

"You need to go," Y/n said firmly, pushing her gently toward the back exit. “The others will make sure you get to safety.”

Hanni froze. Every part of her screamed to stay. To fight alongside him. To change the course of history. She had always thought she could do that, thought she could somehow fix it all. But now, in this moment, she knew the truth. This was how history had to unfold.

“I won’t forget,” she said, her voice trembling as tears filled her eyes. “I won’t let anyone forget what you fought for.”

Y/n stepped closer, pulling her into a tight embrace. His arms were warm, protective, but in that moment, it felt like he was offering her his last piece of peace. He pressed his lips to her forehead in a soft, lingering kiss.

But then, almost instinctively, Hanni tilted her head upward, and Y/n's lips met hers in a kiss that was both gentle and desperate. It was a kiss filled with the weight of everything they had been through, everything they would never have, and everything they could never say aloud.

For that brief moment, the chaos of the world around them faded. The sound of explosions, the gunfire, the inevitable future—all of it disappeared as they held on to one another. The kiss was their way of defying fate, of letting the world know that, despite everything, they had each other for just a few seconds longer.

When they finally pulled apart, the sadness in their eyes spoke volumes. There were no words left between them. Just the quiet understanding that this was it.

“Live, Hanni,” Y/n whispered, his breath warm against her cheek. “Live and make sure our fight wasn’t in vain.”

The door burst open then, rebels rushing in with news of the advancing enemy forces. Y/n’s expression hardened, and he turned to face his destiny, his posture resolute.

Hanni’s heart shattered as she was pulled away by another rebel, her eyes never leaving Y/n until the very last moment. She wanted to scream, to rush back to him, but she knew it was too late.

She fled through the dark alleys, clutching the journal to her chest, her mind a blur of grief and guilt. The sound of gunfire echoed in the distance, growing louder. She could already see the outcome, hear the cries of victory and defeat. She had read about this moment in history—she knew what would happen.

And, sure enough, it was only hours later that the news reached her. Y/n had made his last stand against the colonial authorities. He had fought with everything he had, holding the line long enough for others to escape. But he was gone now. A martyr. A hero. And yet, to Hanni, it felt like the world had just lost someone who still had so much more to give.

————————————————————

Hours passed. The safe house she had been led to was empty, save for a few other survivors. But Hanni couldn’t rest. Her fingers trembled as she opened Y/n’s journal, her heart racing as she began to read.

The pages were filled with his thoughts, his hopes, his dreams for the future. The pages chronicled not just the rebellion but the man he had been. He spoke of the reasons he fought—of his memories of his family, his longing for justice. He had written about her, too, about the unexpected presence she had brought into his life. Hanni’s heart stuttered as she read his words, feeling the weight of what he had shared with her.

“I never thought I would find someone like you in the midst of all this,” one line read. “But now, in these final moments, I know I’m not fighting just for the cause. I’m fighting for something more. For the people I care about. For the future we dream of.”

The realization hit Hanni with the force of a tidal wave. Despite everything, despite her best efforts, she had failed to save him. And yet—she was determined now. Y/n’s memory, his fight, would not be lost.

Hanni wiped her tears away and stood, holding the journal close. The mission wasn’t over. The cause wasn’t over. She would make sure of that.

————————————————————

Hanni’s resolve only grew stronger as she helped the remaining rebels organize. She used the knowledge from the future to guide them, helping them evade capture and stay one step ahead of the colonial forces. The sense of urgency never left her. Each day, the walls seemed to close in tighter. But the more she worked with the rebels, the more she saw the spark of something she hadn’t expected to find—hope. She saw the people who had once been fractured, now united, pushing forward toward freedom.

Despite the growing danger, Hanni remained close to Y/n’s former comrades, trying to ensure that his memory lived on in every small victory they achieved.

But eventually, it was clear that history would not be denied. Y/n’s death had set a course that Hanni couldn’t alter. No matter how many lives she saved, no matter how much she fought to change the outcome, there was no escaping the truth.

Y/n’s last stand had come. It had been brutal and tragic, but it had been the catalyst for the revolution to ignite across the country. Though Hanni’s heart shattered, she came to understand that some events, no matter how much we want to change them, were simply meant to unfold as they did. She had tried to rewrite history, but there were forces beyond her control—forces of sacrifice, of fate—that could not be avoided.

————————————————————

In the end, the country achieved its independence, though it came at an unimaginable cost. Hanni returned to her own time, forever altered by the journey she had taken. She had seen the complexities of history, felt the weight of decisions that shaped the future, and understood the sacrifices made by those who fought for freedom.

As she reflected on everything that had happened, Hanni realized that she had learned one of the most difficult lessons of all. The past, for all its tragedy, could never be fully rewritten. And yet, it had taught her something about the power of memory and legacy. Y/n’s fight had not been in vain. His ideals, his vision for a better world, would live on, even if he was gone.

The revolution had succeeded. And in the end, that was all he had ever wanted.

 The country, though scarred, had risen from the ashes of conflict to begin anew. It was a fragile peace, but a peace nonetheless. Hanni, now back in her own time, stood at the edge of a quiet city park, gazing at the horizon as the sun dipped below the skyline.

In her hands, she still held Y/n's journal, worn and weathered by the years, but treasured more than any other possession she had. The ink had faded in places, but the words—the hope, the passion, the love for a future he would never see—remained vibrant, echoing in her heart like the pulse of a song she couldn’t forget.

Her eyes wandered to a statue in the distance, a figure standing tall, gazing forward as if daring the world to challenge it. It was a monument dedicated to the revolutionary leader who had sparked a movement that changed everything. His name was etched into the base, and while she knew it was not her place to add her own, she thought of Y/n every time she passed it.

She remembered the kiss they had shared in those final moments, the quiet promise she made to him—to live, to fight for the future he had dreamed of. She hadn’t been able to change history, but she had witnessed the change he had ignited, and that, in its own way, had been enough.

As Hanni turned to leave, the faintest sound of a melody reached her ears. It was soft, carried by the breeze—an old song, one she had heard countless times in the rebellion’s safe houses. She smiled softly to herself, knowing the song was still alive, still being sung by those who had inherited the dream Y/n and so many others had fought for.

She walked towards the source of the music, finding a small group of people gathered near the park’s center. There, under the shade of an ancient oak tree, a young couple danced. Their movements were slow and tender, as if the world had slowed just for them. A feeling of nostalgia tugged at Hanni's heart.

One of the dancers caught her eye, and the smile that spread across his face brought a lump to her throat. He was holding a violin, playing the melody that had so often comforted them in their darkest days. And there, standing beside him, was a woman who resembled someone she had once known. The woman’s eyes, shining with tears and joy, were filled with the same hopeful spirit that had driven Y/n all those years ago.

The music swelled, and the couple danced with abandon, as if the past had finally given them room to breathe. Hanni closed her eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the violin and the warmth of the evening wrap around her like a blanket.

In that moment, everything felt right. Her journey had not been in vain. She had seen the ripples of history that were shaped by the sacrifices of those who had gone before. And while she could never undo the pain of Y/n’s loss, she knew that his fight had planted the seeds for something greater than himself.

The world had continued. His world had continued. And with that thought, Hanni finally felt a peace she hadn’t known she was capable of.

As the dance finished, the couple shared a soft, lingering kiss, and Hanni found herself smiling through her tears, knowing that Y/n’s legacy was alive in every new life, every small victory, and every dream that carried the flame of freedom forward.

She stood for a moment longer, watching the stars begin to twinkle overhead. She couldn’t change the past. She couldn’t bring Y/n back. But in this moment, she was sure of one thing:

The fight he had started was far from over.

And it would live on, in every heart that remembered the cost of freedom.

[vilentia]

The Day George Met Hufflepuff!Reader

George Weasley x Hufflepuff!Reader

Masterlist

The charm was in place, and everything was set. George Weasley stood in the shadow of the fourth-floor corridor, wand tucked discreetly into his sleeve. Beside him, Fred was struggling to contain his laughter, his hand pressed tightly over his mouth.

“You’re sure the enchantment won’t catch Flitwick?” Fred whispered, his voice bouncing with excitement.

George gave him a look. “Do you really think I’d risk Flitwick’s temper? This is precision work, Fred. She’ll be the only one who sets it off.”

“She” was Melanie Robards, a notorious Slytherin Prefect who had made life miserable for most of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff during her fourth and fifth years. The twins had grown tired of her constant snide comments and overbearing patrols and had decided it was high time she got a taste of her own medicine.

The prank? A clever bit of charm work involving an invisible tripwire and a modified Tarantallegra spell. The moment Melanie walked through the corridor, her legs would erupt into an uncontrollable tap dance. It was harmless, it was hysterical, and it was brilliant.

Fred nudged George. “Here she comes.”

But as George craned his neck, he realized too late that the sound of footsteps was wrong. It wasn’t the sharp, confident clack of Melanie’s polished shoes—it was the lighter, quicker pace of someone else entirely.

“Oh no,” George whispered.

Before Fred could stop him, George darted out from their hiding spot, but it was too late. The spell triggered, and with a flash of bright light, the corridor was filled with the rapid staccato of someone’s shoes pounding against the stone floor.

Not Melanie.

The girl in question was spinning helplessly in place, her legs a blur of chaotic movement. Books flew from her bag as she lost control, her arms flailing to keep balance. George’s stomach dropped like a brick as he rushed forward.

“I’ve got you!” he shouted, reaching for her.

Unfortunately, her spiraling momentum sent them both crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs. Fred appeared a moment later, doubled over with laughter.

George scrambled to his feet, offering the girl a hand. “I’m so sorry—are you all right?”

Her face was a mixture of confusion, frustration, and something else George couldn’t quite place. “What… was that?”

Fred snorted. “Well, that was supposed to be Melanie. But you, uh, took a bit of a detour.”

The girl ignored Fred, turning her gaze to George. “You did this?”

George flushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It wasn’t meant for you. Honest. I’m so sorry. Here, let me help—” He bent down to gather her scattered books, but she snatched one from his hand with a sharp glare.

“Don’t bother.”

Fred, still grinning, leaned toward George. “I think you’ve made a friend, mate.”

“Fred,” George hissed, elbowing him. He turned back to the girl, his voice earnest. “Look, it was a mistake. Let me make it up to you. Please?”

Her eyes narrowed, but something about George’s tone seemed to disarm her. She sighed, brushing off her robes. “Fine. You can start by cleaning this up.”

“Done,” George said immediately. With a flick of his wand, the scattered books and quills soared neatly into her bag, which he handed back to her.

She hesitated, then took it. “Thanks.”

Fred gave George a sly look. “Well, aren’t you the hero. What’s your name, by the way?” he asked the girl, as if realizing for the first time that she wasn’t Melanie.

She crossed her arms. “Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N.”

Fred nodded thoughtfully. “Hufflepuff. That explains why you were walking all polite and not stomping about like Melanie.”

Y/N’s lips twitched, but she seemed determined not to smile. “Glad I could enlighten you.”

George cleared his throat, stepping forward. “Y/N, I really am sorry. Can I… do something to make up for this? Anything?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “You think you can just make this better?”

“I can try,” George said quickly. “Really. No tricks this time. What do you say?”

Y/N regarded him for a moment, then sighed. “Fine. But if you try anything funny again, you’ll regret it.”

Over the next few days, George made it his mission to win Y/N over. He carried her books between classes, offered her help with charms, and even volunteered Fred as a partner for Potions—though Fred grumbled about it endlessly.

By the end of the week, Y/N was starting to see another side of George Weasley. He wasn’t just a prankster; he was clever, kind, and surprisingly good at cheering her up. It didn’t hurt that he was genuinely funny when his jokes weren’t at her expense.

One afternoon, as they sat together in the courtyard, Y/N looked at George and said, “You’re not what I expected.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What were you expecting?”

“Someone who wouldn’t bother apologizing,” Y/N admitted. “Most people don’t.”

George tilted his head. “Well, that’s a shame. You deserve better.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the usual banter replaced by something softer.

Fred’s voice shattered the moment. “Oi! Are we doing homework, or are you two writing sonnets to each other?”

George groaned, throwing a quill at Fred. “Go away, Fred.”

Fred grinned, unrepentant. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just tell Mum you’ve gone soft.”

Y/N laughed, and George couldn’t help but join in. He knew then, as Fred wandered off and Y/N stayed by his side, that he had found more than just a way to make up for a prank gone wrong.

He’d found a friend. And maybe, if he was lucky, something more.

Masterlist

[acesofspadess]

Winter Wonderland 🎄

12 days of Mix-Mas // Day 5

Carlos Sainz x reader

warnings: smut!! power-play, dom!Carlos but also sub!Carlos, cursing, pet names, oral (m receiving)

summary: a cosy day ice skating and drinking hot chocolate turns into so much more

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a golden glow over the frozen lake. It was a pristine scene, the ice shimmering like a sea of diamonds beneath the soft embrace of twilight. You tightened your scarf, the crisp winter air nipping at your cheeks, as Carlos emerged from the nearby chalet carrying two pairs of skates. His grin was as warm as the hand he offered you.

“I know you’re not much of an ice skater,” he teased, his Spanish accent curling around each word, “but I figured tonight would be the perfect chance to learn.”

You raised an eyebrow, eyeing the skates warily. “You want me to embarrass myself in front of you? That’s your grand plan?”

Carlos’ laugh was deep and rich, filling the icy expanse around you. “Embarrass yourself? Never. I’m here to catch you, amor. Always.”

With a little coaxing and a lot of laughter, you found yourself lacing up the skates and wobbling to your feet. Carlos, ever the gentleman, extended his hands to steady you as you ventured onto the ice. His movements were fluid and confident, a stark contrast to your shaky, tentative steps.

“How are you so good at this?” you asked, clutching his hands tightly.

“I’m good at many things,” he replied, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Maybe by the end of tonight, you’ll let me teach you a few more.”

The promise in his voice sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold. Determined to rise to the challenge, you tried to mirror his movements, only to stumble spectacularly. Carlos caught you with ease, pulling you close against his chest. His laugh rumbled through you as he steadied you once more.

“You’re a fast learner,” he said, his breath warm against your ear. “But maybe we’ll keep the spins for next time.”

The hours passed in a blur of clumsy falls and unrestrained laughter. Every time you hit the ice, Carlos was there to pick you up, his teasing always laced with affection. As the stars began to pepper the darkening sky, he led you off the ice and back toward the chalet.

The interior was cozy and inviting, with wooden beams and soft, ambient lighting. A fire crackled in the stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room. Carlos guided you to a plush couch in front of the fireplace and handed you a steaming mug of hot chocolate, complete with whipped cream and a dusting of cinnamon.

“This,” you said, savoring the first sip, “I can handle. No falling involved.”

Carlos settled beside you, his gaze intense yet playful. “You think I’d let you fall?” he asked, his voice low. “On or off the ice?”

You met his gaze, your heart thudding in your chest. The playful Carlos you’d spent the evening with had shifted, his teasing giving way to something deeper, something magnetic. He set his mug down and reached for yours, placing it gently on the table beside you. His hand lingered on yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“You trust me, don’t you?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur.

You nodded, your breath hitching as his fingers traced a slow path up your arm. “Of course I do.”

His lips curved into a smile that was equal parts tender and commanding. “Then let me show you how much that means to me.”

Carlos leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both gentle and demanding. His hands framed your face, his touch firm yet reverent. The heat of the fire paled in comparison to the warmth spreading through you as he deepened the kiss, his control unwavering.

He guided you back against the large plush couch, his movements deliberate and unhurried. Every touch, every kiss was a testament to his restraint, his need to savor the moment. His hands roamed over you, mapping every curve with a confidence that left you breathless.

“Carlos,” you whispered, his name a plea on your lips.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that made your pulse race. “Tell me what you want,” he said, his voice firm yet velvety. “Say the words, princessa.”

Your cheeks flushed, the weight of his gaze making you feel both exposed and cherished. “I want you,” you admitted, the words trembling with vulnerability.

Carlos’ smile twisted into something darker, more demanding. "Good," he murmured, his hands resuming their relentless exploration. His fingers gripped your hips firmly, pulling you flush against him. "You’re mine tonight. Every inch of you. Do you understand?"

The authority in his tone sent a thrill coursing through you. "Yes," you breathed, your voice trembling with anticipation.

"Say it," he commanded, his lips grazing the sensitive skin at the base of your neck. "I want to hear you."

"I’m yours, Carlos," you replied, the words tumbling out without hesitation.

"That’s my girl," he growled, his teeth lightly nipping at your shoulder as his hands roamed lower, claiming your body with a confidence that left you breathless. Every touch was deliberate, a masterful blend of possession and pleasure. He knew exactly what he was doing, driving you to the edge and holding you there, teasing, controlling, until your pleas filled the room.

"Please," you whispered, your fingers gripping his shoulders. "Carlos, I need—"

He cut you off with a kiss, firm and commanding. "You’ll take what I give you," he said against your lips, his voice low and authoritative. "And you’ll love every second of it."

But then, his movements slowed. The dominant fire in his eyes softened just enough to reveal something else—a vulnerability that made your heart ache. He leaned back slightly, his hands cradling your face as his thumb brushed your cheek. "Tell me you want this," he said, his tone quieter now. "I need to hear it."

"I do," you assured him, your voice steady. "I want all of you, Carlos."

His control faltered for a moment, his dark eyes flickering with emotion. "Then take what’s yours," he murmured, his voice almost pleading as he guided your hands to his chest. "Make me yours too."

You felt the shift, the balance of power tilting as Carlos let go of his dominance, surrendering to your touch as he flipped you both over. His breath hitched as your fingers explored, tracing the lines of his body with the same confidence he’d shown you. For a moment, he was yours to command, his submission as intoxicating as his control had been.

"You drive me insane," he admitted, his voice ragged as he let you take the lead. "But I wouldn’t have it any other way."

The firelight flickered over his features making him all the more attractive. You placed kisses down his chest, then his abs. You purposefully ignored the prominent bulge and kissed his thighs. “Amore, don’t tease.” He panted and you chuckled. “Whatever you say, mi amore.” You mouthed over the bulge that was straining against his boxers hearing him moan breathlessly. You finnaly gave in, freeing him from the boxers and watching as his dick slap against his lower stomach. “Cariño please.” He begged. You skipped the teasing any longer and took him into your mouth. The throaty moan he gave was pure pornagraphic and you kept your eyes on him as you bobbed your head up and down his shaft. “Mierda, princessa, so good for me.” His hand not holding his head up came to wrap in your curls, slightly forcing you to increase your pace.

His pants were coming out quicker, and his moans were more frequent. You let both of your hands trail up and down his abs that flexed under your touch knowing how much it turned him on. “Fuck, amore. Gonna take it like a good girl?” You could taste how close he was. You hummed around his cock in agreement which made his hips thrust and send him over the edge, spilling down your throat. His hips thrusted and abs flexed as his head was thrown back and the hand in your curls squeezed deliciously.

And when he finally came back to his senses he pulled you back up to him, his hand gripping the back of your neck, Carlos reclaimed his dominance, flipping you both over again and sealing it with a kiss that was raw and punishing, leaving you breathless. "You’ll always be mine," he murmured against your lips, his voice a dark, rasping promise that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Say it."

"I’m yours," you gasped, the words tumbling out as he slipped into you. Thrusting up ever so slightly. His eyes burned with an intensity that made you feel stripped bare, wholly consumed by the force of his will.

"Good girl," he growled, his hands resuming their firm exploration, claiming you inch by inch while his cock did wonders to that growing sensation inside you. His mouth followed, teeth grazing over sensitive skin, leaving marks that would remind you tomorrow exactly who you belonged to. "You look so perfect like this, trembling under me," he whispered, his tone a mix of pride and hunger.

Your voice wavered, "Carlos... please."

He let out a low chuckle, dark and commanding. "You don’t beg me, amor. You take what I give you. Or have you forgotten?"

Each deliberate move he made set your nerves alight, every word spoken like a challenge to keep up with his unrelenting pace. But just as your head fell back, his demeanor shifted. His control wavered, and for a fleeting moment, you saw vulnerability crack through the surface.

"You drive me insane," he admitted, the words strained as he leaned back slightly, his hands cradling your face. "But I need to know this is yours too. Say it again," his voice softer now, tinged with a need that felt deeper, almost fragile.

"I’m yours, Carlos," you replied, your voice steady despite the intensity of his gaze. "And you’re mine."

"You’ll always be mine," he repeated, his voice hoarse yet unwavering, as the firelight danced over his face and your entwined bodies. It was a promise, a vow, and an undeniable truth.

When you finally lay together in the aftermath, the fire casting soft shadows over your entwined bodies, Carlos brushed a strand of hair from your face and pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Te amo,” he whispered, the words a vow as much as an admission. “Tonight, and always.”

You smiled, your heart full as you nestled closer to him. “Te amo, Carlos.”

Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in quiet serenity. Inside, wrapped in Carlos’ arms, you felt the kind of warmth that no winter chill could ever touch.

[cloudedcurses]

Never To Forget

⥽ an: Surely, I wouldn't cause such pain and misery for a second time now, would I? I absolutely would. Feel the pain. Hope you like it ᡣ𐭩

⥽ incls: S.GojoXfem!reader ᡣ𐭩.

⥽ Word Count: 1.1k

ᝰ incls: death, angst w/happy ending. SPOILERS WARNING too!

─── ᯓᡣ𐭩 ───

“What are you doing? Why do you have that camera?” you asked, squinting with confusion at the figure who seemed to levitate in front of you, Megumi, Yuji, and Nobara. A soft chuckle came from the now-clear camera, revealing Satoru Gojo.

“What’s with the recording?” you questioned again as Nobara began adjusting her hair. “Are you getting me ready for a modeling gig, sensei? You should’ve told me!” She grinned, and Megumi scoffed quietly.

“No reason, really. I just wanted to capture these moments…it’s good to have memories for the future,” Satoru explained, easing down from midair and turning the camera on himself beside you. The height difference was stark, his towering frame shadowing yours.

“For the future? Why now?” you asked, raising an eyebrow. He shrugged, nonchalant as always. It was typical of Satoru—spontaneous, unpredictable. Even when you’d been friends, he’d show up at your place unannounced, claiming he was too tired to make it back to his apartment…though it was hardly far.

Satoru handed the camera off to Yuji, the vessel of Sukuna, who clumsily lifted it, barely managing to frame the group. Nobara flipped him off, while Megumi looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Hi, future me! Don’t eat Sukuna’s finger, okay?” Yuji called out, to which Megumi deadpanned, “That’s in the past, you idiot.”

───

“I’ve always admired the way you use your powers, your curse technique…with such caution and control,” Satoru’s voice drifted through the recording. You were training Megumi and Yuji to handle a dragon curse that fed on anxious energy, the creature coiling and spinning within the gym as you repeated the rules. It wasn’t the hardest curse, especially for Megumi.

“Oh? The camera again? Wonder why?” you questioned, moving to sit beside Satoru on the bench.

“Well, it is our five-month anniversary. How does it feel to be with the strongest?” he teased, his smirk making you sigh and smile. 

“Pretty damn great…I love you,” you murmured softly, catching his playful grin. “What was that?” he taunted, leaning in.

“Nothing! Megumi, need help?” you stammered, springing up to cover your flustered retreat, Gojo right behind you.

“Huh?! What was that?! Say it again! C’mon, baby, let me hear it!” he called, his long strides closing in on you as you ran, laughter echoing through the gym.

───

“Happy one-year anniversary,” Satoru’s voice came through a grainy video, revealing him holding the camera with a beaming smile. “I’m not sure if you’ll see this, but you’re getting all dolled up now. I picked out five dresses from your Pinterest, booked a glam squad, and hoped you got your nails done…” He grinned, revealing a brilliant diamond ring. “It’s got three stones, one blue like my eyes, one matching yours, and the one in the middle represents how clear you make my days. Around you, I don’t have to be Gojo Satoru, wielder of the Six Eyes…I can be Satoru, your husband, if you say yes.” Hearing footsteps, he quickly slipped the ring into his pocket.

“You saved me! I was stuck in the closet!” he lied, his face a picture of mock distress when you opened the door. Then, he caught sight of you, dressed beautifully. “You amaze me every day,” he whispered, his voice full of affection, before the video cut.

“SHE SAID YES! WE’RE GETTING MARRIED!” Gojo’s excited shout filled the screen, the camera trembling as he shook it in excitement. One hand held the camera, while his other arm wrapped around you, showering kisses across your face. 

Yuji jumped up and down, cheering alongside his sensei, until Megumi grabbed the camera, allowing Gojo to lift and spin you like a Disney princess.

“Congratulations…you two,” Megumi’s deep voice murmured before stopping the recording, just as Yuji popped a confetti cannon in the background.

“Why am I doing this?” Nanami’s deadpan voice came through, the video revealing a stunning wedding setup. With mild annoyance but perfect framing, Nanami filmed as Gojo flashed a thumbs-up. 

The setup had transformed the gym into an elaborate venue, despite the rush due to Gojo’s impatience—he “didn’t want to wait another day.”

You walked down the aisle, locking eyes with Satoru, all the love between you evident. Your hastily chosen dress fit perfectly, a testament to Gojo’s black card and your determination. You exchanged vows and rings, finally becoming Mrs. Y/N Gojo.

The camera shifted to Yuji’s excited face. “Hi, Momma and Papa Gojo! Thanks for adopting me,” he began, his tone earnest. “My gramps always said, ‘Love is strange and fascinating.’ Maybe one day, I’ll feel that too.” He turned the camera to you and Satoru, dancing mid-air above the guests.

───

The video paused, and you sighed softly.

“Well…did he?” a soft voice asked. Your daughter, Sora, peered at the laptop, her bright blue eyes sparkling. 

“Did Uncle Yuji find happiness?” she asked, her innocent curiosity illuminating her young face, though you sensed Satoru’s curse technique within her.

Sora, the name you and Satoru had chosen together before he was sealed. You both sat beneath a cherry blossom tree on a picnic blanket, watching the memories Satoru had insisted on creating for you.

The memory of that fateful night felt fresh—the devastation Sukuna left in his wake, without the chance for an evacuation or rescue efforts. Nanami, fallen. Nobara, injured. Yuji, refusing to return home. Thousands dead, and Gojo sealed.

After nineteen agonizing days, he returned but was gone again far too soon, his drive for revenge consuming him. Watching Yuta wield Satoru’s body as a weapon was excruciating.

Your pregnancy had been difficult, yet Sora became the blessing that kept you going. She was born the day Gojo died, and you liked to believe he was there, welcoming her into a world he’d fought so hard to protect.

“Mommy, look, there’s more…” Sora said, startling you. The video usually ended with Yuji, but now it continued. You pressed play, revealing Gojo, dressed for his final battle.

“Hey, baby…hey, Sora, my little buttercup. If you’re watching this, I’m probably dead—Sukuna must’ve got me,” he chuckled, eyes warm with his usual mischief. “Y/N, never doubt that I loved you. My life was better the moment you walked into it. And Sora, you’re strong because you’re ours. I may not be here physically, but I’ll always be with you both. Make sure Megumi gives you a lift to reach the stars, okay, Sora?” he added with a soft smile, the video ending.

You let out a breath, a tear slipping onto your lap, as a white butterfly landed on your nose. You gently lifted it onto your finger, then placed it on Sora’s head, watching it flutter towards Satoru’s grave, where it was soon joined by a yellow, purple, and black butterfly.

“Bye-bye, Papa! I love you!” Sora squealed happily, erupting into a happy giggle. Even Satoru’s ghostly figure could help but smile at the sight of her with Nanami and Geto standing beside him, watching you two enjoy sweets together. 

An image even the dead would carry forward forever. 

[butmakeitgayblog]

touch starved

Poor babygirl is going through some things 😔

Medusa sneak peek 👀

~~~~~~◇~~~~~~◇~~~~~~◇~~~~~~◇~~~~~~

“You really should let me repay your kindness.”

Lexa takes a pull from her bottle and frowns at the quiet statement that seemed to spring up from nowhere. “But. You don't need to do that. That's not why I…”

“I know,” Clarke says kindly when Lexa fails to find any more words. “But I'd like to. You've done so much for me these past weeks and I just… I want to return some of it, I suppose.”

Lexa takes a deeper sip and shakes her head and lets the world spin. 

“How would—What would you even suggest?”

"Well…” She ponders for a moment, then wets her lips and shifts herself to face Lexa more fully. “Can I ask you something?"

"In doing so, you've proven you can."

"'Mockery is not the product of a strong mind'," Clarke says in a horrendously nasal rendition of what Lexa supposes is meant to be herself. "Alright then, Socrates, may I ask something of you?"

Lexa tosses another handful of kindling onto the fire. "Depends on what it is.”

Several beats of silence pass as Clarke adjusts in her spot, the shadow of the flames flickering across her face and sending it half into shadow. Her lips twist and pull to one side as she seems to contemplate her words, until finally she says in a rush, 

"Can I braid your hair?"

Lexa's hands still in her lap as a wave of goosebumps erupts over her skin, her gaze never wavering from the moonlight and flame-brightened side of Clarke's face.

She blinks. 

"I—... What?"

"Can I braid your hair? Or, may I braid your hair. However you want me to put it."

"No it's not that," Lexa jumps in as her face pulls into a deeper frown, ignoring the sudden wave of chaotic wriggling across her scalp. "I meant… I don't– Clarke, I don't have—"

Clarke waves her off with a laugh. "Obviously, I'm aware. But it sounds too odd saying 'Can I braid your snakes.' Believe me I've run through every possibility in my mind, and just calling it your hair is the easiest."

Lexa shifts uncomfortably in place at the thought of Clarke practicing asking her this. 

Of thinking of even doing this in her idle moments of thought. 

Of touching her like this…

Her skin prickles and hands curl in on themselves, making fingernails digging half-moons into her palms. 

"Why would you want to do such a thing?" she asks.

Small. 

Quiet.

Clarke smiles across the flames. "Because I assumed you'd like it. Who doesn't enjoy having their hair braided?"

Lexa keeps her eyes trained on the fire and resists the impulse to drift her fingers over her head; that old instinct to drag her nails through curls that haven't been there in so many years. It's strange to explain it she realizes, absurd even in her own mind, but though she has lived practically an entire lifetime with her curse, her body still remembers how it was.

How it should be…

A wiggle across her scalp sends a faint shiver down her spine, the odd sensation that she's spent so much time growing accustomed to only made more acute with the conversation at hand.

"Why would you even want to touch them?" she asks in barely a whisper, giving voice to the feeling that sits heavy in her chest like a stone. "Does the idea alone not revolt you?"

Clarke clicks her tongue. "Why would it revolt me? They're only snakes."

"My point entirely."

"A snake is not revolting. Or loathsome, or anything of the sort. And besides." She hears Clarke hesitate. "...They're a piece of you. Just like any other…"

~~~~~~◇~~~~~~◇~~~~~~◇~~~~~~◇~~~~~~

Read on ao3

[saphiccarma]

Title: memories bring back you

Ship: Natasha R x Reader

You were dead. You were supposed to be dead, but Natasha was staring at your body as you slowly inhaled and exhaled and the monitor beeped beside you. She had watched you die. You flung yourself off the cliff and hit the ground. It should have shattered your bones, crushed your lungs, caused irreversible damage, but you were laying right next to her breathing with the help of a breathing machine.

It was a few days after Tony snapped his fingers, someone surviving, and Steve returning the stones. It was "normal" for a while during the time when everyone was getting their lives back together and sorting out the giant mess.

But when everyone met up at the new spot Tony wanted to build the new compound, an alert pinged Tony's phone that a body was discovered at the old site. Your body.

They had all rushed there as quick as possible to find you lying in the battle stained field. Your body was cold to the touch and had a hazy orange glow - barely visible and no one paid any mind to it, but you were alive.

They rushed you to hospital, which was where you had been for the past week, breathing with the help of a machine.

When Natasha first met you, she didn't expect to start dating you. She honestly never expected she would have a partner in her life, no one was supposed to want her after what the Red Room did. Especially when you tried to kill her after your first meeting, she thought the two of you wouldn't be friends.

She reached out to hold your hand, the limb still cold in a contrast to the fact your heart was beating and the warm room. Your fingers hung limply around her own, but the room started spinning. Orange fog closed in on Natasha's vision and she blinked to clear it. Through hazy vision she could make out Wanda entering with a bowl of soup before the world went completely black.

<__________>

Natasha crept through the doorway of a familiar building, the window locks rusted and the window pane yellowed with age. She slinked through the dark room and took a seat on the couch, removing a gun hidden underneath the coffee table and resting it in her lap.

It felt as if she was watching through someone else's body, but at the same time it was her own. She could almost feel the blood moving past her bones and under her skin. Shivers ran down her spine, but the physical body remained lax with a lazy smirk.

The door to the room opened, hinges in need of oil, and a light was flicked on, barely illuminating the room. You stood there, knocking the breath out of Natasha. Joy filled her, you were alive and awake! She moved to get up and hug you. At least, she thought she did. Her body remained in place, legs crossed and arms folded neatly in her lap. You yanked a gun out of your jacket and pointed it at her, finger already on the trigger.

Natasha's mouth moved of it's own accord, "Tsk," her tongue clacked against her teeth, "There's no need for that."

You quirked a bushy brow at her in silent question, mouth forming an even tighter line.

Her legs uncrossed on their own, the movement feeling stiff yet seeming fluid and practiced, "You've been making a lot of noise for someone so small."

The redhead's eyes scanned you up and down patronizingly, bringing out a light blush on your adorable cheeks, but your finger on the trigger remained unwavering. She wasn't sure why she hadn't been shot yet, you had every reason to shoot her at first sight, but you didn't.

By this point Natasha realized this was a memory. If the way her body didn't react the way she wanted it to, your appearance did. You wore sleek black clothes that fit tight to your body - you hated tight fitting clothes, but back then you wore them for convenience. The way your hair was carefully pulled into a bun that she knew you made sure was perfect every morning. Your eyes were darker than before, a metaphorical shadow settling over them and forcing you to look a few years older than you were.

Natasha stood, her legs feeling heavy but the action so normal, and she waltzed over to you. You stumbled back, legs tripping over each other and finger dangerously tugging on the trigger, but you didn't shoot. She smirked at you, a knowing one that conveyed slight conceit. If the gun shook slightly, past Natasha pretended not to notice as she leaned in.

"Go ahead," she murmured. Gosh, she had such little care for her life in the early SHIELD days, "You won't shoot me."

Your brows formed a near perfect line across your forehead as you scrunched your nose in frustration before unscrewing your face and lowering the gun. With harsh movements you shoved it into your jacket and took a few cautious steps away from Natasha. She grinned in a catlike manner before stating her proposal.

The words reached her ears muffled as the world spun once more and an orange fog clouded her vision. Pain consumed the back of her brain and before she knew the world went black once more.

<___________>

This time when she came to, a small line of sweat dribbled down her forehead and she could once again feel a smirk on her face. Natasha's feet danced around your punches, occasionally throwing one of her own, but amused at your frustrated expression.

You threw a punch wrong, stumbling forward as Natasha dodged - grabbing your hand along the way. She tugged you over her shoulder in a judo flip and you hit the mats with a thud.

"Ugh," you groaned, head lifting before flopping down on the mats, "This isn't fair."

Natasha let out a breathy laugh, "Give yourself time маленькая луна" (Little moon).

"I still don't know what that means," you complained, eyes closing.

"C'mon," she prodded you with her foot, earning a glare from you, "Get up, we still have 15 minutes."

You groaned once more, but hauled yourself to your feet and got into a fighting stance.

"This really isn't fair," you complained once more throwing a punch towards her abdomen, "You're not even sweating."

Natasha ignored your words, catching your punch once more and tripping you, falling down alongside you. She landed atop you, legs trapping your waist and hands pinning your own. You squirmed, but your attempts were fruitless. The redhead smirked down and raised an immaculate eyebrow at your struggles. A small pout was given to her in return.

"I repeat my earlier statement," you said, cheeks blushing, "This is not fair."

Her mouth opened with a remark that she didn't remember before the orange fog returned, her brain clouding with blank thoughts. Natasha screamed internally, frustration building up inside her and bubbling inside of her chest, she wanted to stay here with you. But the world clouded over and it was dark once more.

<_____________>

When her vision cleared once more, Natasha was in lounge clothes - simple sweatpants and a hoodie. She had a computer in her lap as she typed away on what looked like an old mission report, but the words were hazy as if she didn't remember it properly.

Soft footsteps echoed through the area as you entered, sliding on your socks part way.

"Hey Nat?" you called distractedly as you approached her, but still entranced with pulling a splinter out of your finger, "Do we have any nutella cause last I checked there was none but I think Tony just ordered groceries - or Pepper ordered groceries."

"I think so," she murmured, still focused on her mission report.

Faintly there was a response of "great" and you disappeared for a minute. Natasha wasn't sure why this memory was playing until you returned holding a jar of nutella in one hand and spoon in the other. You flopped down on the couch next to her, legs touching before grabbing the remote.

"You mind if I turn on a show?"

Natasha shook her head, still engrossed with her mission report. She wished she could force her past self to look at you, she wanted to see you clearly once more - your perfect eyelashes, your now casual clothes, your little beanie, but her eyes stayed on the computer.

A show played in the background, she wasn't sure what, but the redhead could hear you scrapping nutella off the sides of the jar. Time passed, Natasha wasn't sure how much before she felt a thud on her shoulder. Her fingers froze in their rapid movement, and she finally got a good look at you. Your head was rested on her shoulder and you looked years younger from the first memory, but still tired.

Dark bags hung under your eyes, apparent even as you slept, and frown lines rested by the corners of your mouth. She knew you hadn't been sleeping well with all your nightmares, but she didn't notice it was this bad. You rarely fell asleep around anyone, in fact you had never fallen asleep outside of you own room. Even when your eyes were drooping and speech was slurred, you had adamantly refused to fall asleep unless you were alone.

Tentatively she moved to reach a hand up to tilt your head back when it started falling off her shoulder, but the stupid orange haze entered her vision again. Natasha tried to fight it, mentally forcing herself to stay in the moment, but the fog persisted and the memory faded into the background.

<______________>

The world faded back into view and Wanda was walking through a door with a bowl of soup in her hands. She smiled at Natasha, unaware of the redhead's internal conflict, and said something Natasha didn't process.

She looked around the room, where was she? You laid next to her on a medical bed, a heart monitor beeping next to you as a breathing tube was hooked up to your face. Her hand was clasped tightly around your cold one and Natasha yanked her hand away. Shoving her chair back, Natasha stood and took a few steps away from you.

"Nat?" Wanda gently placed the bowl of soup down on the sole table in the room, "You ok?"

"She- I" it was one of the only times Natasha couldn't formulate words, "She-"

"She's ok," Wanda soothed, taking Natasha's hand in her own, but the older woman yanked them out of Wanda's hold. The younger woman frowned, but took it in stride, "Nat? Your worrying me."

Natasha took a deep breath, opening her mouth to say something before your heart monitor started going crazy. Loud, chaotic beeps filled the room as your eyes shot open. Your limbs flailed around before reaching for the oxygen mask and ripping it off and stumbling to tug the IV out. You scrambled out of bed, ignoring both women's rushed attempts at stopping you as you stumbled over into the corner of the room. Your hands grasped for something, presumably a weapon that wasn't there.

"Y/N..." Natasha raised her hands placatingly and took a soft step towards you.

"Wait, Natash-" Wanda tried to warn her, but before she could finish the sentence you launched yourself at Natasha. Slim, cold hands wrapped around the redhead's neck as her back hit the floor.

Orange haze threatened to take over Natasha's mind once more before red wisps of magic pried you off and restrained your struggling form. The ex-widow took a big deep breath before standing and staring at you with a hurt expression.

"Y/N?"

You spat at her, spit pooling near her shoes.

"Who the fuck are you and how the hell do you know my name?"

[lohotine]

Hello, it's me again (so soon, hehe). Sorry if it feels like I'm asking for things so much.

I have a fun request: Shadow Milk Cookie x Reader as Romeo and Juliet. I desire the juiciest star-crossed lovers angst you can make!

AN: I have only read a quick summary of Romeo and Juliet along with bits and pieces of the balcony scene so forgive me if this is inaccurate-

Um but yeah, I took some creative liberties

Shadow Milk x Reader

Oneshot

Warnings: Angst

-Frayed String-

The rough surface of the stone beneath your fingertips is the only thing keeping your mind stable and down to Earth, if the state you're in can even be considered stable.

You are being held together by only a single thread, and every moment you aren't with your lover you can feel a slice of your sanity being discarded.

You curl your fingers into a fist, the coarseness of the stone wall leaving indents in your digits.

You gaze softly to the shimering stars above. The light coming off of them are the only things making your eyes seem alive.

You cannot say that it hurts, because compared to how your heart has been ripped open, this is nothing.

Even if they were to start bleeding, would it even feel like anything compared to aching in your heart?

As you sit there silently, you wonder if Shadow Milk can see the same stars. You wonder if he is thinking of you now as you are thinking of him.

It was such a shame that your parents hated him. If they didn't then you would have married him on the spot.

That day, you practically ripped open your chest to give him your heart. To show him how it beat for him. How you lived for him.

Yet, your parents wanted you to be wed to someone else.

But that someone else wasn't Shadow Milk, and so there was no way your heart could continue to beat after that.

Fate really has played such a cruel joke on the two of you.

Since your family hated him so, to marry him would be like murdering him. Though, to not marry him would be like murdering yourself.

What decision should be made when putting your life on the line against the person giving you life.

Either way, someone would surely die in the end.

"If only you could change your name," you say to yourself. It was just one of those mindless rambles that you often did. You didn't at all expect someone to respond.

"If you call me your lover then I'd gladly change my name," a voice responded.

No more words needed to be spoken for you to recognize exactly who it was.

"Shadow Milk, what are you doing here?!" You'd ask in a hushed yell.

"My dove, I just missed you!" He faded into shadows before reappearing right besides you.

He took your hand in his while also cupping your face. "Your beauty makes even the moon look dull, my dear," He'd say.

Oh how his words made your heart flutter. If it weren't so dark, you're sure he'd see the blush spreading across your face.

"You really shouldn't be here," you told him. Though you could not deny how much you relished in his presence. Every little touch he gave you made you feel as if the world around you was spinning.

"I couldn't help it." He left a soft kiss on your lips, letting it linger for just a while before pulling away.

And so for a moment, the two of you were quiet. Just staring into each other's eyes, exchanging a thousand words that couldn't have been spoken aloud.

Then one of the servants called from outside of your room, and you were quick to speak your farewells.

"Ah, sorry Milk- You have to leave now," you said in a quiet voice.

He only gazed into your eyes while twirling a peice of your hair.

"I'm being serious-" the knock on your door would continue. "Just a minute!" You called out to the servant.

"I love you oh so much.." he said to you before disappearing to someplace else.

All that remained was that leftover warmth of his body and the lingering feeling of longing in your heart.

And now, it seemed as if the world fell silent.

How pitiful it was that the two of you were connected via a frayed string. A connection so frail that it would be worn down by even the air around you.

Oh how his words tormented you. How were you meant to be alright with letting him go when every moment you spent together made you fall so much more in love.

You just wanted to scream out your love for him on the balcony, but that would put both him and you in great danger.

But, what exactly were you supposed to do?

Were you to make him the most happy man in the world by marrying him then letting your family kill him?

Or were you to marry someone else and murder yourself by depriving your heart of the one thing it yearns for?

[the-daydreaming-show]

(2.) Embracing Illusions.

SUMMARY: After realizing that the alliance won't happend, you decide to take a new approach to what's left of you visit, while Feyre decides it's time for you to have a serious talk.

Or.

Where you and Feyre get too carried away by what could have been, and yo ignore what you know will be, just to live in an illusion a little longer.

NOTE: Thanks to all the interactions so far in the story and to the new members of the tag list, I hope you enjoy the story and that you like where we are going. So, this chapter is VERY long, and it was even longer, so I had to redesign it and split it in two, sorry for any inconsistencies you may find in it.

As always, English is not my first language so sorry for spelling mistakes and mistakes of the type, any comment on it is welcome if it is respectful. I am always trying to get comfortable and improve my writing in this language.

I hope you like it, let me know in the comments your opinions. XOXO Ella

Memories/Thoughts in italics Dragon Language in bold italics

Previus Part: (1.) THREADS OF TIME.

AO3 / Story Masterlist

"The past is a ghost that haunts us, and the future is an illusion that tempts us." – Anonymous

The exit from Hewn City was silent, which was chilling. The massive stone city was so quiet as you and Rhysand walked through it that you were sure nothing happy could happen in such a quiet place. It didn’t help that Azriel’s footsteps, who walked behind the two of you, made almost no echo at all, so the only sounds were those of Rhysand’s black boots and your own brown ones stepping on the marble.

You tried to shake off the tension in your shoulders but felt like your effort was in vain. All tension vanished, however, when you reached the massive city gates. There, the three of you were met with a massive black, scaly mass looming over the entrance, blocking it entirely. The figure was so tall that the sun shone down on you, casting light all the way a few feet behind you inside the city. You sighed in frustration, resting your hands on your waist.

“Hey, Balerion,” you yelled irritably, “what do you expect us to do? Climb your fat ass up to the sun?”

The dragon just growled loudly, clearly annoyed at the interruption of his comfortable nap on the gate. You let out a sigh that sounded more like a growl in response, and the beast sighed smugly.

“This little shit,” you muttered indignantly.

“When Feyre said he was spoiled, I didn’t think it was possible to spoil a creature like that,” Rhysand remarked, looking at Balerion with amusement as the dragon blocked the way.

“I promise, it wasn’t on purpose,” you hissed at him before stepping forward.

With both hands, you reached for the beast, which was nothing more than a huge shadow in the doorway, and pushed him away, not even applying much force. Balerion, dramatic and childish as ever, threw himself forward, spinning away from the door and whining as if he had been gravely wounded in battle.

“I barely touched you,” you defended yourself, blinking as your eyes adjusted to the sunlight.

“He acts like a puppy,” Azriel commented in surprise behind you, his steps almost as silent as before.

“More often than not,” you replied absentmindedly, taking a moment to breathe in the fresh air.

The open sky stretched above you, the woods the only thing breaking through the horizon. You took a breath and sighed in relief as Balerion sighed and settled into position, preparing for flight.

“I’ve heard he’s enjoyed the mountains,” Rhysand commented. You hadn’t noticed he had come to stand beside you. You looked at his profile and the way his eyes seemed to sparkle, like a starry sky.

You thought of Ragnar, your Captain of Ships, whom you had first met during your years as a courtesan. You didn’t know why you were comparing them, as they couldn’t be more different. But you remembered the way the captain’s sea-blue eyes seemed to hold the waves of the ocean, and you felt sorry for him. Perhaps he could have gotten used to Rhysand if there was something familiar about him, but you knew there would be no balance, and it would never happen.

“Yes. He had never seen mountains or forests like those before; he seems to like them too much,” you answered as you took your gloves out of your belt and began putting them on. “The bay is beautiful, no doubt, but there isn’t much variety in fauna and flora—just sand on sand and the occasional stray camel.”

You continued putting on your gloves in silence.

“If that’s the case, Balerion and you are welcome in the mountains whenever you need a distraction from the camels,” Rhysand said, his comment disguised as a joke. It made you look directly at him.

You thought about it for a moment. Are there mountains to visit in the Spring Court? you wondered mentally, your tone laced with danger. You couldn’t tell if he had heard your thought with his mind-reading abilities because you were already walking toward the dragon. However, you caught a smile forming on his face out of the corner of your eye as you walked away.

That interaction stayed with you as you carried on with your life—during the flight back to the House of Wind and the dinner where you informed your court of the situation in the Nightmare Court.

The truth was already on the table: the alliance with the Night Court would not happen. They had nothing to offer your cause. One way or another, you would leave this court without ever seeing Feyre or Rhysand again. There was nothing else to be done about the alliance. Whatever he did or didn’t do now couldn’t change anything.

Feyre was fine, which had been your concern for years, and she no longer needed you. But it didn't change anything if, for your own peace of mind, you let yourself see her life and make sure that Rhysand really was the man you thought he was.

Ever since Feyre met Balerion and you had that talk, she had tried to spend more time with you, just as her court had tried to be less hostile toward you and your people—somewhat less aggressive toward the unknown presence you represented. They were still vigilant and clearly not letting their guard down, but you had reached some sort of agreement on how to treat each other. It seemed like the rest of them had absorbed Feyre's try-hard mentality.

In contrast, the way your people behaved hadn’t changed much.

Armin still had the same frown on his face as always, watching whenever he could like a guard dog. Mayhem wouldn’t let you walk alone or without knowing where you were going at all times. And Luka still drew his symbols and protections on the soles of your feet every morning to ensure they had some sense of security when they let you walk through those enemy lands with nothing but your riding clothes. You didn’t carry a dagger anywhere—something they always complained about, but that didn’t change because of your decision.

Morrigan was the only thing that seemed constant. As the main person in charge of negotiations between the Court and the Bay, she hadn’t changed the way she looked at or interacted with everyone. The only difference was that she was less politically correct at times now.

“Don’t you have any clothes other than riding clothes?” Morrigan made a point of asking that every morning she met with the Bay court for breakfast, and this morning was no different. Her tone of mock concern over your fashion choices made you smile. “Really, there’s no way you’d wear that much leather in the Bay too—you’d die of heatstroke.”

 “I have heat resistance,” you explained as you adjusted your gloves on your hip belt, securing them in place as you joined her in the hallway leading to the main dining room. “And you’d be surprised how quickly the temperature drops when you’re flying on a dragon. You’d think they’d keep you warm, but no—you freeze up there.”

Armin was already eating his breakfast at the table, as always waiting for you to arrive—diligent and unnecessary. You went to his side to sit down, and Morrigan, to your bewilderment, sat in the seat next to yours, sticking close to you.

Armin and you shared a look. It was a casual act, more casual than the blonde had ever behaved up to that point—lacking the etiquette that characterized the rest of the seating arrangements during shared meals before.

“Even when they spit fire?” Morrigan asked, arranging a napkin on her lap over her silk pants and taking a couple of pastries for her plate.

“Balerion is so big now that the heat barely reaches me when he spits. When he was younger, it was more stifling,” you explained as you poured yourself some tea. “The ash, on the other hand, does reach me and is more bothersome than any temperature.”

“We could get you some sunglasses to help with that,” Morrigan commented, laughing at the idea as she poured her own tea.

“I tried when we settled in the Bay,” you explained, adding sugar to your cup.

“We barely got her to keep the saddles and harnesses on. Good luck trying to put anything else on her,” Armin muttered bitterly, still offended by the lack of safety measures you had agreed to forego when riding your dragon. Morrigan looked at you curiously as she unwrapped her muffin.

“More safety for me means more weight. More weight means less mobility and control, which defeats the purpose of safety if I can’t handle the dragon properly,” you explained casually. “My council has been trying to get me to wear armor or some sort of protection while riding ever since we settled in the Bay. It’s a thorn in Armin’s side that he just can’t let go of. It’s annoying.”

Armin kicked you under the table and scolded you with his gaze, to which you pouted dramatically and rubbed the bruised area. Morrigan laughed softly.

You laughed too, but your smile faded when you saw the way Armin looked at you, even after the laughter died down and the room fell into silence. A sweet warning, born of affection itself: Don’t do that to yourself. Don’t get attached. You swallowed hard as the three of you finished breakfast without further incident, Morrigan occasionally making conversation with you, though your responses lacked complexity.

I'm not going to get attached, you told yourself. I’ll just make sure things are as they seem, and that’s it. Nothing more.

Feyre found you in the afternoon on the plain outside Velaris with Balerion, just as she had a few weeks before the trip to the mountains and the Court of Nightmares, during your first conversation. You hadn’t expected her to show up that day, but you smiled nonetheless when you saw her approach, and she smiled back. She was dressed in leather from head to toe, boots included, in what you assumed was some kind of training outfit.

“He’s been closer to the city lately,” she noted as she approached, gently stroking Balerion’s snout. The beast murmured contentedly, almost like a cat. “The first few days, we barely saw him fly—just the other two.”

“Yeah. I think the excitement of the forest and mountains has worn off a bit. Soon, he’ll start complaining that he wants to go back to the volcanoes or the Bay,” you replied casually, adjusting your gloves as you started putting one on. Feyre noticed.

“Are you going for a flight?” she asked, her tone light, though her hand paused mid-caress, still resting on the dragon.

“Yeah. I don’t want him complaining about ‘why don’t we fly’ and ‘why don’t we go home’ at the same time. There’s a limit to how much dragon whimsy I can take at once,” you said with a smirk, tugging the fingers of your left glove into place.

Balerion shifted, blowing a gust of hot air directly into your face with a force that nearly sent him sitting on his haunches. Feyre looked a little startled.

“Tch. I spoil you too much,” you muttered, rolling your eyes at the dragon’s attitude. You finished adjusting the glove silently.

It wasn’t until you moved to put on the other glove that you realized Feyre had stepped away, her expression tinged with a wariness that had faded weeks ago but now seemed to have returned as she regarded the dragon.

“Dragons like to play rough, and unfortunately, I’ve taught this one to play rough more than anything. He won’t hurt me—or anyone else, for that matter—don’t worry,” you assured her calmly as you put on the other glove. But Feyre still watched Balerion warily and looked at you with genuine concern.

“What if you lose control of him?” she asked, and you almost laughed. Of course, most people thought that riding Balerion was like riding a horse—a bond that could get out of control because, at the end of the day, the animal was just that: an animal. You could only think of one way to help her understand the truth.

You fastened the glove around your wrist and spoke to her.

“Come,” you said, gently taking her wrist and guiding her cautiously around Balerion’s wings.

You let go of her hand as you moved behind the beast’s wings. When you reached his massive torso, hidden from the world by those colossal wings, you motioned for her to come closer. Feyre hesitated but walked towards you.

As you watched her approach, you paused, considering whether or not you should proceed. You reminded yourself of the promise you had made after the visit to the Court of Nightmares. What you were about to do might feel intrusive; it could make her uncomfortable or seem like you were stepping out of line—and those were the last things you wanted. But at the same time, you weren’t doing anything wrong.

On one hand, you were simply reassuring the High Lady of the safety of her city, addressing her concerns about your dragons. On the other, you were sharing something deeply personal, revealing a part of yourself that was new, allowing your oldest friend to see a side of you that no one else ever had.

Balance was an illusion, but you took advantage of that illusion while it lasted.

When Feyre stood in front of you and took your hand, you gently stretched out her fingers with your thumb so she could show you her palm, and you guided her hand to rest on your chest, so she could feel your breathing and your heartbeat. Then you placed her other hand on Balerion's scales. You motioned for her to listen with your finger and rested your hand next to hers. And you breathed deeply.

Feyre listened to the way your breathing evened out so naturally that she could swear they were just one breath. You heard your hearts coordinate until they were one, the same way your breathing did. And you felt Balerion shift in place, accommodating himself under your touch, and you moved in place instinctively, mimicking his muscle movements.

“He and I, we are one.” You explained, and she didn’t look at you as you spoke, she was focused on listening to the way you both reacted, and you could feel her unintentionally press her hand tighter against your chest, as if she wanted to make sure she heard and felt correctly. “It’s not a matter of control, we are connected in body and soul. There is no reason or way for him to do something that doesn’t match what we both want. Nor can I do something that would make him lose control.” You took her wrist just as gently as you did before, and slowly pulled her hand away from your chest, before finishing your speech, “Your city is safe, you and Rhysand have my words, and my soul as your guarantee of that.”

She looks at you with a frown at that last sentence.

“I wasn’t worried about the city,” Feyre admitted, taking a step back, looking at him sadly, as if the fact that she had thought that hurt her

Immediately, you tried to escape the situation, walking past her and stepping onto Balerion’s wing, aiming to reach the mount on his back. But before you could make it to the beast’s torso, Feyre called out to you. You turned to face her, catching a glint in her eyes.

“This whole connection thing means it’s safe for you to take another person with you. Right?” she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

You were reminded of the first summer you spent in the woods together. One morning, you came to her with an apple. You still remembered how her face had lit up—she had told you that apples were her favorite as a child.

You’d told her you got them from a tree deep in the woods, a place you wouldn’t dare let her go—or go yourself—unless death by wild beasts suddenly became an acceptable way to die by your standards. That summer, she kept asking when you could get her another one, and every so often, you did. It took Feyre two more summers to realize there was no apple tree growing in those woods.

The truth was, you had stolen the apples from a merchant’s house, one that supplied them to the nobles in the area. They had so many that no one noticed a dozen or two missing now and then. You had started doing this because you’d heard apples were good for a child’s growth, and you’d bring a few to your mother so she could make purée for Rue.

When Feyre asked you for apples during that first summer—when she was still dangerously thin for her already young and small frame—her gaze would light up in such a way that you couldn’t help but get her more whenever you could.

That same excited, radiant gaze now adorned Feyre’s face as she asked if the pair of you could fly together.

“It does, indeed,” you said with a sigh. Nothing more needed to be said.

You jumped up from where you were on the wing to give part of your harness to Feyre. You returned to the ground and removed the section of your harness that went around your waist, leaving you with the straps that went around your thighs. You handed them to her silently and watched as she arranged the chains and leather over her own suit. The use of the harnesses contrasted with the crispness of Feyre’s garment. When she finished, she looked at you expectantly.

As you silently analyzed the harnesses, you approached her, almost nose to nose. You lifted the harness higher over her hips, adjusting it to better fit her waist, and made slight adjustments at the sides before releasing the main belt that was tied to the saddle.

“Okay,” you whispered without looking at her. “Follow me and step where I step.”

She sighed and followed you silently, stepping as you instructed on your dragon’s wing, one step at a time until you were on the beast’s torso. You walked along its back to the area where the neck joined the spine, where the bones curved upward like a camel’s hump, and there sat the saddle. It wasn’t much different from the one used on horses, but it had chains to help guide the dragon and many hooks where the beast’s harnesses were attached. The curve was a natural part of the dragon; it was where the fire would accumulate when it listened, and it was ideally suited for the saddle.

“You go first,” you instructed Feyre, who had no problem sitting on the back of the saddle, leaving room in front for you. When she was seated, you adjusted the harness hooks to securely fasten her to the saddle, giving a final tug to the harness belt and suddenly tightening it around her ribs. Feyre was surprised by the sudden loss of air this caused.

“Sorry,” you apologized softly. You were so used to this process that you forgot what it was like to do it for the first time. “If we spin too much, they come loose, and I don’t want to risk you falling off a cliff. It’ll get more comfortable once we move around more.”

“It’s okay,” Feyre assured you in a whisper.

You sat down in front of her in silence, settling your feet into the stirrups and hooking your own harness to the saddle.

“Put your boots under mine,” Feyre complied without question, letting out a murmur when she realized they fit perfectly. “They’re really just to make it easier for me to move around when handling the straps; they have no real use for handling the dragon. But I don’t want you kicking Balerion in the air. As big as this beast is, he doesn’t bend as smoothly as he did when he was young, and he doesn’t need distractions.” You scoffed, signaling that they were now secure, and Balerion growled at your comment as he began to rise, poking his head out of the grass first, offended but obedient.

“If you want to hold onto something—” Feyre clung to either side of your waist, not hugging you but fisting your clothes and belt. “—behind you, the saddle has handles in case you want something firmer.”

You didn’t wait for a response, and Balerion rose up onto his legs and wings, causing them to shake. Feyre let out a whimper, hugging you with one hand around your waist and grabbing the handle behind her with the other. You laughed, about to ask her if her husband had never taken her flying, but you cleared your throat at the memory that maybe you weren’t supposed to know that, and they couldn’t reveal how much your cut knew about hers.

“Takeoff and landing are the most jarring. Move with him as best you can. It helps,” you explained over your shoulder as Balerion stood on two legs, sitting upright and causing them to slide to the end of the seat. Your sword was now inevitably stuck to Feyre’s chest, with not even air able to pass between the two of them. Fey, moving more slowly, hugged you around the waist with both hands, crossing her fingers in front of you.

It makes more strategic sense for her to hold onto you instead of the handles in this position, so you didn’t give it much thought. You avoided thinking about the closeness that loomed dangerously over your back.

Focus on the flight, you told yourself while tightening your hands on the reins of the dragon.

Balerion began to flap his wings. The beast beneath them both lifted off the ground a few feet with a flap of its wings, then more with another, and even more until they were flying above the trees, balanced on the saddle. A few seconds later, after Balerion had been hovering over the city, you pulled on the reins so that you moved forward in the seat, away from Feyre.

It took a minute or less for the two of you to be within arm’s length of touching the clouds, and once there, you looked over your shoulder. You had expected to see Feyre upset or afraid from the experience, based on the way she still clung to your waist even though the flight had become calm. But, looking at her, Feyre had her arm outstretched. She let the fluffiness of the clouds pass through her fingers and looked at her fingers, now damp from the contact when she finished.

“I’ve traveled through them with Rhys, but I’ve never taken the time to touch one,” she admitted when she noticed you watching her.

Balerion let out a roar of delight at the height and the air hitting his gigantic snout. Feyre wrapped her arm around your waist, looking down at her city and resting her chin on your shoulder absentmindedly. You let out a sigh that she noticed immediately.

“I wanted to talk,” she finally admitted into your ear, causing your hands to sweat beneath your gloves and goosebumps to form under the long sleeves of your riding habit. “I thought it would be easier for you up here. And for me too, if I'm honest.”

Up here, no one hears or sees, so you can tell me anything here, was what Feyre was saying.

You nodded slowly, a lump forming in your throat. There was no conversation you would enjoy that required these conditions to happen. You looked at the reins in your hands, noting how the metal and worn leather contrasted with the leather and fabric of your new gloves, part of the outfit made just for this trip, just like Feyre’s suit—perfect and crisp—against the harness you wore every day.

You sighed and gave an order to Balerion in his language. Feyre sighed shakily against your neck and took her arms off your hips. You silently untied the harness on your legs and turned around to face Feyre in your seat, passing the reins over your head and letting them hug your waist. Hearing Armin's voice in the back of your mind, you hooked one of the harnesses on your thighs to the saddle again and crossed your other leg to hold it against you.

You stayed silent, and both of you looked at each other, for the first time truly absorbing what you were now. You admired the stars in Feyre's eyes, her half-up hair longer than you had ever seen it, and her pointed ears, which were the most distinctive feature about her you had ever noticed. She was surely the most beautiful being that had ever walked the world, without a doubt. She always had been.

She looked back at you.

(Feyre admired your eyes. They now had flashes of silver and light in them, like gemstones peeking out from beneath your natural color. The platinum blonde hair that fell in braids and a ponytail behind your neck cascaded loosely below your waist, different from the hair you used to keep short in your youth. The shape of your face had changed since then, and now your cheeks weren’t flushed like they used to be.

She didn’t know what it was, but she could smell and see that you were different. Everything about you was, just as she was.)

Her eyes scanned you silently until a detail at the line where your hair began made her eyebrows rise.

“Your roots,” Feyre pointed out, as if relieved, briefly admiring the baby hairs at her temple. “It’s your color that grows, not the blonde.”

“It is. My hair doesn’t burn; it just takes on this look in the heat. I don't really like it, but it seems to be part of the image I have now. I had all my hair like that when I conquered and liberated. So I keep it in public or on important occasions,” you explained, playing with the zipper of one of your gloves without looking at her.

As you did so, you looked down at Feyre’s hand, letting your gaze fall on the tattoo covering it. She offered it readily, wanting to show you something new about her, just as you had done when explaining your hair color to her. You took her hand in yours gently, feeling regret that you didn’t have your fingers free to feel it, but you still ran the leather over the ink in the open palm facing you.

Feyre lifted her other hand and played with the baby locks she’d been staring at, pulling them out of their place where they curled over her forehead and between her fingers, making it easier to see the tiny roots of your natural color that lay on your scalp.

You weren’t sure how long it had been there, but soon Feyre was braiding the center ponytail over her shoulder while your thumb remained over the mountain with three stars staring back at you.

As if you wanted to hide the sun with one hand, you mocked yourself.

“I told you everything in my letters, not because it was part of the plan, but because when I started writing to you, I realized that I wanted to tell you everything. It was like vomiting with letters; it had never happened to me before.” She laughed at herself, lowering her hand to her lap.

It is true, the first letter that had arrived at the Bay from her was a parchment envelope filled with pages and pages of her writing, with only your name on the front of the envelope indicating the recipient. But even before reading it, your hand had trembled when you tried to take it from Luka because it smelled like Feyre, as if she had left everything of herself on those pages and traveled to you.

“You have very nice handwriting. Elegant,” you told her, smiling mockingly. Feyre just rolled her eyes, and you both laughed a little at that. “I was almost tempted to put the letter in a painting; those strokes were so pretty. You are quite an artist, even in writing, Fey.”

“Yours was also very beautifully written,” she told you sincerely, and you felt bad, looking down in shame. She realized what that string meant. “Oh.”

You hadn’t written the answer to that letter or any of the ones that followed. Her disappointed sigh broke your heart, and you quickly tried to ease her pain.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t want to write to you myself, but my handwriting is genuinely a mess, even after years of education. Luka would have killed me if I had handled my letters with foreign forces in my scribbles, as he calls them. But it was me; I told him everything that was written,” you explained quickly, looking into her eyes again.

Silence.

“You didn’t say much in those letters; that kind of disappointed me,” she said again, moving her hand under your thumb to hold your hand inside hers.

“If I’m being honest—” you tried to start.

“Yes, be so. Please.”

Tell me everything; I don't mind. Tell me, please. She said to you with her eyes, like when she asked you to teach her more and more in the forests years ago.

“I wanted to answer you in person the moment I finished reading. But given my history of going places with my dragons and taking over governments, my court was worried that it would be taken as an act of war on my part, just by seeing me fly through your clouds.” You admitted, feeling the heat on your cheeks, which was something unusual for you, given your lack of sensitivity to temperature after the volcano.

Feyre looked at you, stupefied. (You had wanted to go find her, she thought. As soon as you received and read her letter, you were going to present yourself at her court to see her, but you had been prevented from doing so.)

“They also didn’t think that I would be seen as property in the eyes of your husband, who I have heard is quite devoted and protective, especially with your son still so young. Well, in the long run, it was better that I didn’t do that; it would have caused you a disaster.” You smiled at him, bitterness hidden in your throat, but he only looked at you seriously.

“I would have received you. Rhys would have understood, and he would have welcomed you… It was an option we were prepared for, if it had happened.” He explained, looking into your eyes, leaving no room for doubt about the truth of his words.

You imagined yourself running out of your residence in the Bay in your pajamas and robe, racing to Balerion and soaring through the skies without a harness, sleeplessly skimming the continent, flying over the Night Court at dusk and landing hard on the beach. You imagined yourself running frantically toward the streets where people were screaming and moving away from the beaches, searching the crowd for a familiar face. Until you saw her, approaching you in her own clothes, looking surprised but relieved. You imagined how you both walked and then ran to each other, hugging and clinging to one another as soon as you were close enough to touch with your fingertips. The screams and chaos around you would have disappeared as you held each other, almost breaking her ribs in the embrace. “You’re here,” Feyre would have whispered. “Yes, I’m here, Fey,” you would have replied in the same way. Balerion would have let out a roar in the distance.

You were silent for a moment, as if watching over what didn’t happen.

“Rhys would have made some comment about a dragon stealthily landing on his lands, but beyond that, he knows everything just like you do.”

You nodded absentmindedly, and you should have given her the impression that you didn’t believe him.

You didn’t. If the situation were the other way around, you would have certainly made more than a couple of comments; it would have been the most logical thing to do. But that was enough to sparked a surprising need to defend her mate in Feyre, and so she did.

“He’s good,” she pointed out. You looked at her without moving your head and asked her a question in the same tone.

“Do you think I wouldn’t have come here immediately if I had detected that he was nothing but divine with you in that letter?”

Do you think I wouldn't have burned this place to the ground and take you out of here if I weren't sure that he loves you more than himself? You almost asked her, but you closed your mouth, not wanting to add more and say too much.

(Feyre imagined something too. She imagined the day Tamlin had locked her away, envisioning that instead of Morrigan's arms lifting her up, you appeared in the sky. She imagined Balerion covering the manor like a cloud and the screams of the guards as you burned it down when htey got in your way, before descending into the courtyard in front of where she was huddled. She imagined you stepping into the midst of her power without fear, burning away the barriers she had put up in her panic so easy as if they were spiderwebs in your path. You would speak to her, and the sound of your voice, which she had missed so much, would slowly draw her out of her state, undoing her panic attack with each word and gently calling her back to reality.

She wouldn't know how you had gotten there or how you had known she needed help, but you would have offered your hand, and she wouldn't hesitate. “You won’t be coming back here, Fey,” you would have assured her, but she would have followed you without hesitation, even if she hadn’t wanted to. You wouldn't say anything, letting her save herself again, just like when they were children.

You would tell her softly in the midst of the chaos how to clime Balerion, who would crush all the roses in the garden when he landed, and before anyone could find out what was happening, you would make her rise into the air, taking her away from there to a destination she didn't know but trusted would be safe.)

“No, I don’t think so,” Feyre admitted softly, releasing the tension that had risen in her shoulders.

(She made a moment of silence, for what it could have been.)

She let out a heavy sigh and looked at you again. You knew the part you weren’t sure you were ready for was coming, but you let her say it anyway.

“I tried to get your father to tell me what he did with you for years after you disappeared. That morning, I went to look for you like always, and your father told me you’d left early, then slammed the door in my face. I thought he meant you were in the woods, so I went and looked everywhere for you. I tried everything I knew, everything you taught me, to find a trace of you, and there was nothing. Not long after that day, I went back to tell your father I hadn’t found you and saw you paying the doctor for medicine for the baby and your mother.”

The admission confirmed a part of your story you hadn’t seen but had suspected. You knew your father had sold you and your sister for the money he needed to keep the baby alive with medicine they couldn’t otherwise get.

“I went into the woods alone after that, but every morning I passed by your house. When they opened the door, I asked, and when they didn’t, I came back at night to try again. Even when the child—” Feyre stopped dead in her tracks, and you looked at her, a lump in your throat. But you shook your head, giving her permission to say it all.

“When the child died, I kept asking, even when your mother disappeared, but the whole town saw your father bury her in the yard with the rope still around her neck. The bastard had the decency to look sorry he was born. One day, I went to knock on the door before I went out into the woods; it was slammed open by me, and the place was deserted. There was nothing inside the cabin or outside, as if no one had ever been there. He left, and I felt like I lost you for the second time.”

“Fey, there was nothing you could do. Knowing isn’t going to change that,” you told her, partly to comfort her and partly to beg her not to make you say more.

“But I want to know, because you haven’t told me, and I feel like it’s more to protect me than you.” She took a breath to continue speaking urgently and determinedly: “It may have been years, but I know you better than anyone else could. That afternoon, you did the same thing to me as you do now.”

That afternoon. The day before they sold you to your sister. The last time you had seen each other.

That day, after spending the morning on a quick hunt to prepare for the cold months like every year, you and Feyre walked through the village back to your homes after selling the last of your remaining furs. Feyre was on your right, both of you with your arms entwined as you walked, the older girl’s pockets jingling with the coins she carried.

It had been a normal day. Unremarkable. Feyre wouldn’t remember anything particular about the day, only that last exchange before she didn’t see you for almost a decade.

“I really think we should go deeper into the forest,” Feyre had insisted, rolling her eyes at your stubbornness.

“Sure,” you exclaimed sarcastically as you walked down a more deserted street, away from the bustling market of the village. “That way, we can be kidnapped by some dark, ill-tempered fae lord and become his sex slaves for the rest of our lives. We won’t have to hunt anymore, so that seems like a good deal.”

“Oh, come on,” Feyre exclaimed playfully, hugging your arm. “Don’t tell me you actually believe those stories!”

“I guess I’m not taking any chances. And neither are you, my Fey,” you replied casually, tapping her nose to tease her a little in return. Feyre rolled her eyes.

That was what you had always called her. You used to tell her that you liked the nickname you had given her upon your first meeting because it sounded fair, and Feyre was fair in everything she did.

And Feyre liked it because it sounded like she was your faith, the most sacred and believed-in thing in that world. In a way, she had been projecting, because you had become her faith when you found her in the woods. You had given a stressed and hopeless eleven-year-old girl food, knowledge, and the strength to survive.

And yet, that day, she hadn’t even given you a hug when she dropped you off at the door. She had just wiped it away and poked you in the ribs playfully. Her last contact with you.

“Don’t let a fairy kidnap you while I’m not watching, my Fey,” she had told you, which had earned you that elbow. “Hey, I’m just saying that if it happens, I’ll complain for the rest of your life if I have to go all the way to Prythian to get you out.”

She had smiled mischievously, her pre-teen features shining with mischief.

“At least it would be fun,” she had teased one last time. After that, she had turned away, and you hadn’t looked at each other again. She hadn’t even looked over her shoulder or said goodbye properly. Nothing.

You were simply not there, as if when she had turned around that day, you had disappeared.

“You dodged my rebuke like you always did. You didn’t listen to me about going further into the woods—”

“Because it wasn’t necessary, Fey.”

“I know it wasn’t necessary,” the admission left her breathing heavily. You left her angry and gave her the silence she needed. “That day, when I gave you the idea, as bad as it was. That day, you knew something would happen; we both knew your father would do something, but you still didn’t say anything and pushed me away all day. I told you to go further into the woods because I knew you would wake up, and I thought you would say something. I wanted to help you like you had helped me; I wanted you to lean on me and see that I could handle myself. But you didn’t, because I was a child. But I’m not anymore.”

Feyre had her hands balled into fists on her lap. You looked up at the sky, avoiding her gaze and thinking of what to say.

She was right; as children, you had always put up this wall between you. You were the eldest, after all, and you saw her as that light in your life that deserved protection. You couldn't burden her with your problems; you were afraid to dim her light, but looking at her now, you knew that maybe nothing you said would extinguish that light.

Your Fey was a grown woman. She had gone through more without you than with you, and she had come out victorious. You had no right to protect her from anything, and she asked you to lean on her the way she wanted you to when you were children. Now you could, she asked you.

But you didn't know how. The only person who had never supported you like that was Ragnar. Your ship captain had been a famous pirate and one of your first private clients, one of those you always had. When you made your name as a courtesan, to the point of choosing your clients, he was one of the first to have his VIP pass to visit you whenever he was in the cigar. He had unwittingly turned you into the Pirates' Bride, with his fascinating stories that made you feel like you were outside the walls of the brothel where you were enslaved, even if only for a few hours.

But even he only knew one side of you; the weight you carried for him was nothing compared to the weight Feyre wanted him to share with her.

Feyre was fair. She had given you all of herself when she was just a child, allowing you to see her at her most vulnerable and building on part of what made her who she was today. She had given you her trust, and she wanted you to share your weight with her now, even if just a little, to balance the relationship that fate had left unfinished to mature for many years.

You began to think of what to say to her, but the first thing that came to mind was Rue—the blood covering her neck and your hands, her cold and lifeless face, the people running around you in terror knowing the guard was coming. The hole in your chest anchored you in that place, even though you had time, and they asked you to run away from what you had done in revenge for the life that had been taken from your little sister, who lay dead in your arms.

You shook your head sharply, pushing those memories out of your mind, causing your head to ache from the abrupt movement.

You couldn't. You didn't want to—or couldn't—do that to your mind now; that emptiness would consume you.

Feyre’s hand reached for yours, interrupting your little crisis. You looked at her and saw the concern in her eyes. She was no longer tense or angry or frustrated. She even seemed sorry for pushing you so far.

“I owe you,” she said, sounding frustrated now, and you looked at her in surprise. “Those years, you kept me alive in the forest, and even when you were gone, everything you taught me helped me survive. Even away, you are as much the cause of all this as I am. I want to know everything. I want us to be one again, like we were in the forest.”

You moved her hand over yours and then rubbed your eyes too hard, almost causing pain to your eyelids. You stayed silent, unable to look at anything but the stars in her hands, which became the only thing on your mind.

You wanted to tell her that when the rebellion at the volcanoes failed and you decided it was better to throw yourself into the lava than to live another day, you jumped into the lava, yearning for death, only to emerge from it spitting it out. You felt your bones moving and your skin covering you, as if suddenly your own existence was too much for your mind. You thought of her.

When you understood the dragons and the power they gave you, you thought of going back for her, of looking for her. You just wanted to go home.

You didn’t. You didn't think you had the words yet, and even if you did, you knew it would be too much to say, because you would have to tell her things you had understood on that island that no longer made sense to articulate.

She whispered your name, begging you to give her something.

“I’m sorry, it’s just—” You cleared your throat and let go of her hand. You ran your hands over your thighs, trying to get the sweat off, but you still had your gloves on, and you looked around for comfort as you found the words to say. “Fey, I promise I’ll tell you that story someday, but I can’t today. I don’t know if I can when this visit is over, but I promise I’ll try. I genuinely can’t right now, and I don’t know when I will be able to.”

Feyre squeezed your hand when your voice broke, and you looked up at her, expecting a sad smile, but it was no longer desperate or disappointed.

Liar. That’s what you were. You had just told her lies.

“That’s enough,” you whispered in comfort.

Liar. Just get it over with and tell her you don’t plan on a tomorrow for the two of you.

You didn’t, of course. You stayed in that deep illusion you had created around the two of you. When you arrived at the House of Wind, you helped Feyre get the harnesses off, and you both walked toward the house when you decided to tell her at least one truth.

“I know your boy’s birthday is coming up, or it was; I don’t know the exact date,” you admitted as you watched Balerion walk away into the mountains. “I hope it’s not out of line, but I bought him something. It seemed rude not to bring something. But I was told it could be misconstrued, politically speaking—”

“It’s not out of line,” Feyre cut you off gently and gave you the brightest smile you had received in years.

Next Part: (3.) DREAMS MADE HEAVY.

TAG LIST: @pinksmellslikelove @saltedcoffeescotch @raisam @asweetblueberry2 @kabekusa @throneofsapphics @makayla2036789 @jojodojo02 @kooterz

[atsro-slut]

Hi lovelyyyy! I hope you're doing well and that you're slaying/slayed your finals! So I nearly passed out like 3 mins ago from laying too long and then bolting up and that got me an idea 🤭 How about iron deficiency reader who gets up a little too quickly and gets caught off guard by a drop? Anyone is fine, you get to choose as long as it's nice and fluffy hehe 😊 Thank you!!! Xx

"Catch me, Sirius!"

Omg!! As an iron deficiency girlie I was so excited to write this!!!

Sirius Black x female!reader

When Y/N’s iron deficiency causes her to get dizzy after standing up too quickly, Sirius is there to catch her—literally. With a little care, some tea, and Sirius’s usual charm, Y/N realizes she doesn’t have to face the tough days alone.

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°☆.。.:☆

The warm glow of late afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows of the Gryffindor common room, casting soft shadows across the stone walls. The room was unusually quiet, with most students either heading out to the courtyard or finishing up assignments before the evening feast.

Y/N sat in her usual spot by the window, absorbed in a book. Her legs were tucked beneath her, and she had a cup of tea resting on the table in front of her. Despite the peaceful atmosphere, her mind wasn’t fully focused on the text before her. She was tired, her body feeling heavier than usual, and a slight dizziness had been creeping up on her all day. It was nothing new, of course.

Y/N had been living with iron deficiency for a while now, a condition that caused her to feel lightheaded, fatigued, and occasionally even faint when she overexerted herself. She’d learned to manage it with regular iron supplements and adjustments to her diet, but some days—like today—it was harder to ignore.

Sirius Black, her boyfriend of several months, knew all about her condition. He had been incredibly understanding when she first told him, always offering to fetch her something when she felt weak or suggesting that she rest if he noticed her getting pale. He cared about her deeply, and she appreciated it more than he knew.

As she turned another page, Y/N noticed a flicker of movement at the edge of her vision. She looked up and saw Sirius walking toward her with his trademark mischievous grin. His dark hair was slightly tousled from the breeze outside, and his gray eyes sparkled with mischief.

"Fancy some company, love?" he asked, his voice light and teasing.

Y/N smiled, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him. "I thought you'd never ask." She patted the seat next to her, moving the book aside.

Sirius slid into the seat beside her, his arm casually draping across the back of the couch. "What's got you so deep in thought? You look like you’re plotting something."

Y/N chuckled softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Just the usual, nothing too exciting. I was actually thinking about how much better I feel when you're around."

Sirius’s smile softened. "You're the sweetest. But, I hope you're not overdoing it with that book."

She shifted uncomfortably, the dizziness making her feel a little off balance. "No, it's fine. Just… you know, the usual fatigue," she said, trying to sound casual.

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "You haven’t been feeling too great, have you?"

Y/N didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but the truth was, she had been feeling off all day. Her energy levels were low, and the dizziness wasn’t helping. She knew Sirius would be worried, but she didn’t want him to overreact.

"Just a little tired," she said, giving him a reassuring smile. "I’ll be fine. It’s nothing new."

Sirius didn’t look convinced, but before he could press her further, she stood up quickly to grab her tea. The movement was abrupt, and before she could steady herself, the familiar dizziness hit her like a wave.

Her vision blurred, and the ground beneath her seemed to tilt, spinning as if the entire room was being pulled in every direction. She gasped for air, trying to find her balance, but her body betrayed her. Her knees buckled, and she stumbled sideways, reaching out in a desperate attempt to steady herself.

Before she could hit the floor, strong arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her up and pulling her close.

"Y/N!" Sirius’s voice was filled with panic. "What happened? Are you okay?"

She blinked, her head still spinning, and tried to speak, but all that came out was a soft, breathless laugh. "I think I got up too quickly."

Sirius gently guided her back to the couch, his grip firm but tender as he helped her sit down. "You need to take it easy. You can’t just rush around like that when you’re not feeling well."

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, trying to steady her breathing. "I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you."

Sirius crouched down in front of her, lifting her chin so that their eyes met. His expression was serious now, a furrow between his brows as he studied her closely. "Y/N, I told you before—if you ever feel off, you need to let me know. You don’t have to be tough for me."

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I don’t want to make a big deal out of it, Sirius. It’s just a little dizziness. I’ve been managing it for ages."

He frowned, his hands gently cupping her face as he looked at her with such tenderness it almost made her heart ache. "You don’t have to handle everything on your own. I’m here, and I care about you. So, don’t push yourself. Not when you feel like this."

Y/N felt her heart swell at his words, but she still hesitated. "I don’t want you to think I’m weak," she whispered.

Sirius’s gaze softened, and he shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. "No, you’re not weak, love. You’re the strongest person I know. But even strong people need a break sometimes. And right now, you need to rest."

Y/N swallowed, her throat dry. "I just hate feeling like this. It’s frustrating."

"I know it is," he said softly. "But it’s okay to not feel okay sometimes. You don’t have to be perfect all the time. I’m here for you, and I’m not going anywhere."

She blinked back the moisture in her eyes, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. Sirius was always so easygoing and confident, but in moments like this, he showed a side of himself that was so gentle and caring. She felt safe with him, even in her most vulnerable moments.

"I’ll take care of you," Sirius promised, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "How about I help you back to the dorms? You can rest, and I’ll make sure you have everything you need."

Y/N smiled weakly, grateful for his unwavering support. "I’d like that."

With Sirius’s help, Y/N slowly stood up, the dizziness still lingering, but it was more manageable with him by her side. He wrapped his arm around her waist, guiding her gently toward the door, his steady presence offering the stability she needed.

As they walked, Y/N leaned into him, her thoughts a little clearer now. She was still exhausted, but there was something about being in Sirius’s presence that made everything feel a little more bearable.

Sirius chatted lightly to keep her distracted, telling her funny stories about his adventures at Hogwarts. His voice was soothing, and Y/N found herself smiling despite the discomfort.

By the time they reached the Gryffindor tower, Y/N was feeling a little better, though still far from her usual energetic self. Sirius led her to the common room, where they settled into a cozy armchair by the fire.

"You just relax, yeah?" Sirius said, pulling a blanket over her legs. "I’ll get you some tea and your iron supplements. You need to rest up."

Y/N nodded, her head leaning against the armrest. "Thank you, Sirius," she murmured. "I don’t know what I’d do without you."

Sirius smiled, his eyes softening as he leaned down to kiss her forehead. "You’ll never have to find out, love. I’ll always be here."

As he left to gather the things she needed, Y/N felt a surge of warmth in her chest. She had been hesitant to admit her weakness, to let herself be cared for, but Sirius had shown her, once again, that it wasn’t weakness at all. It was just part of being human. And she didn’t have to face it alone.

A few minutes later, Sirius returned with her tea and supplements, settling next to her on the couch. He handed her the cup, watching her carefully as she took a sip.

"Feeling better?" he asked softly.

"A little," she replied with a small smile. "Still tired, but better. I think I just needed a rest."

"Good," Sirius said, his arm going around her shoulders and pulling her close. "You deserve to rest. And you deserve to feel well."

Y/N snuggled into his side, feeling the weight of the day slip away as she closed her eyes. She knew there would be other tough days, days when her iron levels dipped and the dizziness crept in, but with Sirius by her side, she knew she could handle anything.

She wasn’t weak. She was loved. And that, more than anything, made her feel strong.

[mint-yooxgi]

Kinktober Day 23 - Vampire!Jongho + Predator/Prey & Marking

Anonymous Said: Hey if you're taking requests for kinktober can I get Ateez (any member) with vampire and consensual predator/prey play and biting/marking A/n: I chose Jongho because I thought he would fit the concept well, and I think he did! It's a bit more playful than some of the others, but I like it! I hope you do, too! Warnings/Genre/Rating: 18+ MDNI - Smut, Mature, Established Relationship, Possession, Monster Features Word Count: 1,474 Kinktober 2024 Mini Masterlist

The stone floors of the castle are cold against your bare feet, heart racing as you run down the corridor. Your nightgown is torn in multiple places, white linen flowing behind you like wisps of smoke as you attempt to evade the predator stalking you at every turn. How it hasn’t fallen apart by now is a miracle in itself. You swear you can hear his laughter ringing in your ears, echoing around every corner and only serving to make your head spin as you fight air into your lungs.

Each statue you pass has you jumping, swearing you see his figure lurking behind every shadow. Dark scarlet eyes seem to stare at you from the darkness, and everywhere you turn, you swear you see the glint of pure white fangs ready to sink themselves into your flesh once more.

You swear you can still feel his hands dancing on your skin, his thigh pressed delicately into your core. You had only just managed to escape, but knowing him, he was the one who actually let you go.

“Darling,” A deep, ominous purr sounds from behind you. “Do you really think you can outrun me?”

The moment you round the corner, you collide with something solid. The force knocks you off balance, sending you tumbling to the ground. Your hands collide with the ground, but no pain comes. Not a single shockwave travels up your spine, either. Looking up reveals those all too familiar fangs glinting at you from behind a smug grin, lips still painted red with your blood.

“It’s cute how you think you can ever escape.” He chuckles, taking a slow step towards you.

Your breath hitches in your throat, eyes going wide. Hastily, you attempt to scramble backwards and away from him. Yet, for every inch you put between you, he takes another prominent step forward, closing that distance easily.

His brow quirks, and with one calculated step, his shoe pins a scrap of your nightgown to the floor.

A harsh tearing sounds around you, the cool air sending a chill right down your spine as you’re left in nothing but your panties. Your whole body begins to shake, shifting to cover yourself with one arm as you continue to scramble away.

Jongho clicks his tongue, tilting his head almost disappointedly as he stares down at you. “What did I say about hiding yourself from me?”

In the blink of an eye, you find yourself pinned to the floor. You didn’t even see him move, but now he has your hands pinned beside your head. His grip is surprisingly gentle, despite the firm hold his fingers have around your wrists. Even still, you’re surprised you didn’t hit your head.

A consideration on his part, which he never fails to extend.

The floor is cold, sending a shudder throughout your entire body as he presses himself into you. Easily, he settles between your thighs, and you can feel just how hard his cock has gotten since the last time he pinned you down.

“I’ll never tire of this sight,” He sighs, eyes fluttering in bliss as he revels in the feeling of your body pressed against his own.

A long exhale escapes your nose, lips tugging downwards in a slight pout. “You’re cheating.”

Jongho’s brow quirks, amusement shining in his eyes. “All’s fair in love and war, My Darling.”

Your heart stutters pleasantly inside of your chest.

“Says the one with super… well… everything.” You snort playfully, wiggling slightly beneath him.

“You said anything goes,” A soft growl escapes him, pressing his hips a bit firmer into your own, “but I’m glad to know you think everything about me is super.”

He leans in, nipping lightly at your neck, especially over the bite mark he’s already given you earlier this evening. The blood has long since stopped flowing from the wound, but that doesn’t stop the pride from swirling inside of his chest at seeing such a sight before him.

A giggle escapes you, hitting him lightly on the chest. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“How can I not?” He hums, tracing a line of kisses up from your neck and towards your lips. “The most beautiful woman in the world just said that to me. It’s hard not to get conceited about it.”

“That’s not the only thing that’s hard.” You grin, a teasing glint in your eyes.

Wasting no time, you reach between your two bodies, cupping him over his slacks and squeezing. The low moan he lets out is music to your ears, grin widening as his hips jolt forward against your touch.

Lightly, you begin palming him over his pants.

“Don’t forget who caught who here, Darling.” His voice rumbles out, shifting so that your wrists are now pinned by his one hand above your head while he sneaks the other between your thighs.

“I don’t know, Darling,” You coo, giving his cock a firm squeeze. The way his eyes flutter as he jerks in your hand says it all. “Seems to me that I’m the one who’s in control.”

A competitive gleam begins to shine within his eyes, his lips quirking upwards in amusement.

“I’m not the one who’s already soaked through their panties, Darling.” He drawls, cupping you firmly and pressing his fingers against your clothed slit. A low groan escapes him as he feels how wet you already are, the material soaked right through.

“That’s because someone made me use their thigh to get off the first time they caught me.” You hum, grinding lightly against his hand as you slip yours beneath the waistband of his pants. His lips part in a loud moan as you wrap your fingers around him, beginning to pump over him slowly before flicking at his tip with your thumb. “I’m surprised you didn’t tear this from me sooner.”

A pleased growl escapes him, eyes catching on the white nightgown beneath you, the shreds littering the floor.

“Believe me,” He leans into your neck, fingers pressing into your clit over your panties. “I wanted to.”

A small gasp escapes you, pleasure thrumming deep within your core. Already, you feel so close to tipping right over the edge, the buildup having worked you up more than you could have anticipated. Still, you’re so sensitive from your previous orgasms tonight, and from the way he begins to circle his fingers over that sensitive little nub of yours, you know that he knows this, too.

Humming lightly, you squeeze the base of his cock in your hand. “What stopped you?”

The moan he lets out is felt against your neck, his lips tugging upwards as he begins to nibble at your skin. His fangs tease over your pulse, beginning to thrust lightly into your hand in time with your movements.

“This.”

With that word, his fingers still over your clit, pressing hard against that sensitive little bud as he sinks his fangs deep into your neck.

Your reaction is instantaneous. The moment you feel his fangs sinking into your flesh, your vision goes white. Nothing but pure pleasure courses through your veins as you feel him drinking deeply from you, pleased growls reverberating against your skin. Your back arches, hand squeezing firmly over his cock as your orgasm crashes into you. The pressure of his fingers over your clit is almost too much to bear as you rest in his arms, crying out his name as he holds you to him.

Deep guttural groans escape him, his hips stuttering as he comes with you. The taste of you, combined with how your body sings for him in this moment makes his head spin, bursting all over your hand. His hips thrust into your grip, tongue beginning to lave over the second mark he’s just given you as you both ground yourselves to the other.

Slowly but surely, you both begin to come down from your highs. His fingers are still pressed against your clit, rubbing over you in small circles to help prolong your pleasure.

The way your hand languidly pumps over him a few times has his whole body twitching, head leaning in to rest lovingly against your own.

“I love you.” He nuzzles you affectionately, kissing over the new mark he’s just given you.

All you can offer him is a soft hum of agreement in response, finally releasing your grip on him and pulling your hand out from the mess he’s just made of himself. You smile, managing to kiss his cheek lightly as you catch your breath.

Gently, Jongho cups your cheek. He gazes deeply into your eyes, a tender smile pulling at his lips before his gaze darkens once more.

“You have ten seconds.”

Your brow furrows slightly, blinking at him in shock that he would start the chase all over again.

“Nine… eight…”

[moonselune]

By the Silk that Binds Us (pt. 13)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Matron!Minthara x Wife!reader

An arranged marriage, enemies to lovers fic: part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven part eight part nine part ten part eleven part twelve part fourteen

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The grand dining hall of House Baenre was a feast for the senses, its dim yet radiant glow casting a rich tapestry of light and shadow across the cavernous space. Flickering candlelight reflected off the polished blackstone walls, accentuating carvings of spiders spinning webs of power and intrigue. The dining table was a masterpiece of excess, heaped with a banquet of the Underdark's finest: tender rothé, glazed cave fish, and sugared fungi arranged alongside flasks of crimson wine poured into goblets adorned with amethyst spiders.

Tonight’s celebration was a rare reprieve, a moment of pride as the Baenre family gathered to honor Lira’s first kill—a rite of passage that carried with it the weight of both pride and consequence. Lira sat near the head of the table, her posture straight, her face carefully composed, but the faint tremor in her hands betrayed the thrill of achievement and the realization of what it meant. Her little ruby eyes burned with determination, a spark mirrored in her triplet siblings, Sarae and Viroen, who watched her with both admiration and a growing sense of rivalry.

The atmosphere was uncharacteristically light. Even Kyorlin, often reserved and aloof, had joined the festivities, his expression softened into a rare smile. Goblets were raised, and voices joined in a toast to Lira’s accomplishment, the sound reverberating through the hall like a hymn to ambition and survival.

Yet beneath the revelry, an unspoken truth lingered: Lira’s achievement painted a target on her back. In drow society, a first kill was more than a moment of triumph; it was a declaration of power, a signal that one had stepped onto the precarious path of political and familial ascension.

Lesaonar sat at the center of the table, his face a study in pride tempered by worry. He watched his children closely, particularly Sarae, who fiddled with her goblet, her lips twitching with the barely restrained urge to one-up her sister’s victory. When Lesaonar caught her gaze, his eyes softened, though his brow remained furrowed with a father’s quiet anxiety.

Kyorlin, seated beside him, leaned over to murmur something, his tone low and reassuring. Whatever he said seemed to ease Lesaonar’s tension, the faintest smile breaking through his guarded expression. It was a fleeting moment of familial solidarity, one that felt fragile but genuine.

The celebration held an air of inevitability. Sarae and Viroen, though outwardly congratulatory, were already measuring themselves against their sister. The rivalry between the triplets was palpable, but tonight, it was muted, their ambitions momentarily eclipsed by the unity of their house. This unity, however, would not last.

Days later, that fragile harmony shattered. The family was gathered again for the evening meal when Sarae limped into the hall, her movements stiff, her robes bloodied from a recent duel gone awry. Her head was bowed, and her crimson eyes glistened with humiliation as she took her place at the table.

The room fell silent, the once-celebratory atmosphere replaced by an oppressive weight. Melinoe, who oversaw the triplets’ training, fixed her daughter with a stern, unforgiving glare.

“A Baenre does not fail so miserably,” she declared, her voice sharp enough to cut through stone. “Especially not my daughter. I expected more from you, Sarae.”

Sarae flinched but said nothing, her fists clenched tightly in her lap. Lesaonar’s face tightened as he glanced at his wife, his jaw working silently. He remained quiet, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. Melinoe’s critique grew sharper, her words dripping with disdain.

“You will be better,” she continued coldly, “or perhaps I’ve expected too much. A true Baenre would never—”

“Enough!” Lesaonar’s voice erupted, startling even the youngest at the table. His fists slammed onto the table, rattling the silverware. “She’s still a child. How can you expect perfection from her at every moment?”

The hall fell deathly quiet. All eyes turned to Lesaonar, his rare outburst hanging heavily in the air. Minthara, seated at the head of the table, turned her gaze to him, her crimson eyes narrowing.

“Remember your place, Lesaonar,” she said, her tone icy and controlled. The weight of her authority settled over him like a shroud, a reminder of the rigid matriarchy within House Baenre.

Lesaonar hesitated, his anger still simmering, but he relented, sinking back into his chair with a look of resignation. Minthara’s gaze swept over the room, her expression unreadable, before settling back on the meal before her.

The tension, however, did not dissipate. Melinoe, emboldened by Minthara’s rebuke, turned her scorn back to Sarae.

“Perhaps she has simply inherited her father’s weakness,” she said, her lips curling into a sneer. “One would hope she would be stronger than—”

“Enough, Melinoe.” Your voice, calm yet unyielding, cut through the rising storm. All eyes turned to you as you met Melinoe’s gaze with unwavering calm. “Is it not you who oversees their training?” you asked, your tone steady but pointed. “If Sarae falters, does it not reflect on the skill and wisdom of her teacher?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Melinoe’s expression twisted with outrage, but she was rendered momentarily speechless. Minthara’s gaze flickered between you and Melinoe, her face a mask of neutrality, though a spark of acknowledgment flashed in her eyes.

“You hold her to impossible standards,” you continued, your tone softening but remaining firm. “But if she stumbles, perhaps the fault lies not solely with her but with the one responsible for shaping her.”

Melinoe’s face flushed, her anger palpable, but she bit back her retort. For once, she had no words, her authority undermined by your own and the weight of your argument. Minthara finally spoke, her voice steady and authoritative.

“The expectations upon the Baenre children are high,” she said, her crimson eyes sweeping over the room. “We all bear responsibility for their success and their failures. There will be no more blame cast without it being shared.”

Her words reestablished a tenuous peace, the family settling into an uneasy quiet. Lesaonar’s shoulders relaxed, and he offered you a small, grateful nod. Melinoe, though seething, remained silent, her gaze fixed firmly on her plate. The triplets exchanged glances, their rivalry momentarily set aside as they absorbed the tension between their parents and the house’s matron.

The meal resumed, though the air remained heavy with unspoken tension. Forks scraped against plates, and goblets were refilled in silence, the once-celebratory atmosphere dampened by the earlier exchange. Lesaonar remained quiet, his focus seemingly on his plate, though his crimson eyes occasionally flickered toward Sarae with a mixture of concern and pride. Sarae sat stiffly, her head bowed as she poked at her food, while Viroen and Lira exchanged wary glances, uncertain of how to navigate the strained mood.

It was Kyorlin who finally broke the silence, his deep voice cutting through the awkward stillness.

“I have received word from the barracks,” he began, his tone measured but tinged with cautious optimism. “The Seldarine threat might finally be ebbing. My old comrades say the extremists seem to be retreating. If it’s true, Menzoberranzan may finally see some reprieve.”

The statement hung in the air for a moment before anyone responded. Several gazes turned toward Minthara, whose expression remained impassive as she leaned back in her seat. Her eyes flicked to Kyorlin, and though she said nothing at first, the sharpness of her gaze spoke volumes.

“Reprieve?” Minthara’s voice carried a note of skepticism. She placed her goblet down with deliberate precision, the sound of the metal base meeting the table breaking the quiet. “If Eilistraee’s extremists have already joined their ranks, as we suspect, their retreat is nothing more than a feint. They won’t stop until we have every one of their heads severed on pikes and hearts served on silver plates."

Kyorlin tilted his head slightly, acknowledging her point. “Perhaps. But it’s possible their losses have weakened them enough to scatter. Not every enemy retreats with the intention of regrouping.”

Minthara’s gaze hardened. “And not every retreat is a sign of defeat. The Eilistraee worshippers don’t think like us. Their faith makes them reckless fools, but also dangerous. Until we are certain they’re eradicated, Menzoberranzan and this house, cannot afford to relax.”

Her words carried the weight of finality, and Kyorlin did not press the issue further. Around the table, the family listened in silence, each member considering the implications. Even Melinoe, who had spent much of the evening seething, seemed to pause it to nod subtly in agreement with Minthara’s assessment.

The meal concluded with little fanfare, the servants moving efficiently to clear the table as the Baenre family dispersed. Lira and Viroen left first, their hushed whispers trailing off as they exited. Lesaonar lingered a moment before gently guiding Sarae to her feet, offering her a quiet word of encouragement before the two departed. Kyorlin stood and bowed his head slightly toward Minthara, his departure marked by his usual quiet efficiency.

You, however, remained seated, your gaze fixed on Melinoe. She noticed your lingering presence and raised an eyebrow, her irritation from earlier still visible in the taut lines of her face.

“Melinoe,” you said softly, though your tone carried an undeniable authority. “A word. Alone.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded curtly, following you out of the dining hall and into an adjacent chamber. Minthara gave you a look but you murmured you would join her your chambers soon.

The room was small and dimly lit, its furnishings sparse—a stark contrast to the opulence of the hall. The quiet here was oppressive, the weight of what needed to be said hanging heavily in the air. Melinoe folded her arms across her chest, her ruby eyes narrowing as she regarded you.

“What is it?” she asked sharply, her tone defensive. “Come to reprimand me further?”

“No,” you replied evenly, meeting her gaze without flinching. “I came to speak plainly.”

Her expression faltered for a moment, but she recovered quickly, her posture remaining rigid. “Then speak.”

You took a step closer, your voice lowering. “I understand your frustrations, Melinoe. Your expectations for Sarae, for all of them, are high. And they should be. But tonight, your words went too far.”

She bristled, her lips parting to retort, but you raised a hand to stop her.

“I’m not here to argue,” you continued. “I’m here to remind you of something you seem to have forgotten. These are your children. Not soldiers. Not pawns. Children.”

Her crimson eyes flickered, a mixture of anger and something softer—something she worked hard to suppress.

“They’re Baenres,” she countered, her voice quieter now but still sharp. “They don’t have the luxury of being children. Not in this house. Not in this city.”

“And yet,” you said, your tone softening, “if you strip them of what little innocence they have left, what will they become? Weapons, perhaps. But weapons break, Melinoe. They shatter under the weight of what they’re forced to endure.”

She said nothing, her arms tightening around herself as she looked away. For a moment, the mask slipped, and you saw the flicker of doubt in her eyes.

“You are a brilliant tactician,” you said gently, stepping closer. “A formidable assassin. But you are also their mother. And they need you to be that, as much as they need your strength.”

Melinoe’s jaw tightened, but her gaze softened just slightly.

“You think I don’t care for them?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “That I don’t want them to succeed?”

“I know you care,” you said firmly. “But sometimes, in your pursuit of their success, you forget what it is they’re fighting for. They’re not just Baenres. They’re your children. And they need to know you believe in them, not just in their victories, but in their ability to rise after a fall.”

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not unbearable. Finally, Melinoe sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

“You speak as if you know better,” she said, though there was no venom in her words. “But perhaps… there’s truth in what you say.”

You nodded, offering her a small, genuine smile. “It’s not about knowing better. It’s about seeing what we often overlook. That is what keeps us alive.”

She glanced away, her expression thoughtful, and for the first time that evening, the walls she’d built around herself seemed to crack. Though she said nothing further, her silence spoke of a reluctant understanding. As you left the room, you couldn’t help but hope that tonight’s events had planted a seed—one that might, in time, bear fruit.

The long corridors of House Baenre were bathed in the dim, eerie glow of faerzress, their twisting paths quiet save for the soft click of your boots against the stone floor. One hand rested instinctively on your swollen belly, a protective gesture you scarcely noticed anymore. The baby within you shifted, their tiny movements stirring a warmth in your chest that momentarily eased the tension of the evening’s events. As you made your way toward your chambers, a particularly strong kick startled you, drawing a soft chuckle.

“Already restless, are you?” you murmured to yourself, your tone affectionate as you breathed through the sharp pang of pain, that had recently come with a bought of dizziness and a complete, albeit temporary cut off from your magic. As if the babe was taking it all for itself for a brief moment.

A faint sound from the shadows made you pause, your keen ears picking up the light tread of approaching footsteps. Turning your head slightly, continuing your breathing, you saw Kyorlin emerge from the shadows, his crimson eyes catching the faint light. His expression was unusually hesitant, a contrast to his usual composed demeanor.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice low but genuine. His gaze flickered briefly to your midsection before returning to your face, concern etched faintly in his features.

You smiled, the world coming back into focuse and the warmth of his concern a welcome respite after the tension of the meal.

“I’m fine, Kyorlin. Just tired,” you replied. Your hand drifted to your belly again as another small kick rippled beneath your palm, but this time you felt your magic return to you. “They’ve been particularly active tonight.”

Kyorlin’s eyes lingered on your bump, his usual stoicism faltering for a moment as curiosity—and something else, something unspoken—flashed across his face.

“Active?” he echoed, his voice tinged with a hint of bewilderment.

You hesitated for a moment before gesturing toward him with a small, encouraging smile. “Do you want to feel?”

His crimson eyes widened slightly, and he stiffened, clearly caught off guard by the offer.

“I—” he began, glancing away as if searching for an excuse to decline. But something in your expression, perhaps the gentle patience you extended toward him, made him pause. Finally, he nodded, albeit reluctantly. “If… you don’t mind.”

You guided his hand to your belly, placing it carefully where the baby had been kicking. For a moment, nothing happened, and Kyorlin’s unease was almost palpable. Then, a tiny movement stirred beneath his palm—a faint but unmistakable sign of life.

His breath hitched ever so slightly, his crimson eyes widening as if he couldn’t quite believe what he’d felt.

“It’s… strange,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The faintest hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was fleeting. Almost as quickly as he’d placed his hand, he withdrew it, his expression shifting back to something more reserved.

You laughed softly, brushing off his abrupt retreat as mere awkwardness.

“Strange, perhaps, but miraculous too,” you said warmly. “Thank you for humoring me.”

Kyorlin gave a small nod, his gaze flickering toward the ground for a moment before he straightened. His demeanor shifted slightly, becoming more purposeful.

“I wanted to speak with you about something,” he began, his tone carefully measured. “It’s about the guards.”

You raised an eyebrow, curious. “What about them?”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the corridor as if to ensure no one else was listening.

“Minthara has them working endlessly. The soldiers, too. Drills, patrols, constant vigilance—it’s wearing them down.” His voice grew quieter, a rare hint of vulnerability seeping through. “I’ve seen it in their eyes. They won’t say anything, of course. They’re too disciplined for that. But it’s hard to watch them pushed to their limits.”

You listened intently, his words stirring a pang of sympathy. Kyorlin had always been closer to the rank-and-file than most within the noble circles, his years of service in the barracks leaving him attuned to the struggles of those beneath him and you valued him for it.

“You think security should be relaxed?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

“I think…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I think balance is needed. The Seldarine may be retreating, as I said earlier. And if they’re not, the constant pressure will leave our forces vulnerable in other ways. Exhaustion is as dangerous as complacency.”

You considered his words, the truth in them undeniable. Minthara’s unwavering focus on strength and readiness was admirable, but even the strongest chain had its breaking point.

“I’ll speak to her,” you promised, your voice steady. “I can’t make any guarantees, but I’ll try to convince her to ease the burden, if only a little.”

Kyorlin inclined his head in gratitude, the tension in his shoulders easing ever so slightly. You felt a flicker of guilt, you would speak to MInthara but you can already picture her response - a mocking laugh and dismissal.

“Thank you,” he said simply, his tone sincere. He hesitated for a moment longer, as if there were more he wished to say, but then thought better of it. With a final nod, he turned and disappeared back into the shadows, leaving you alone once more.

When you return to your chambers, you find Minthara standing by the window, her arms crossed as she watches you approach. The faintest trace of impatience marks her features, and her eyes narrow as you close the door.

“Tell me,” she says, her voice low, “what you discussed with Melinoe.”

You lean against the door, your expression light, keeping your tone evasive. “We spoke of family matters.”

Minthara’s gaze sharpens, not missing your deflection.

“You softened her, didn’t you?” she accuses, her voice carrying an edge of irritation, as though the very idea rankles her.

You chuckle, walking past her to set aside the robes you’d worn to dinner, shaking your head. “Oh, don’t worry, my love. Whatever words I offered won’t be able to displace a lifetime of Baenre ruthlessness. She’s still herself, still the fierce creature you know.”

Minthara watches you closely, her eyes narrowing in appraisal, and though she opens her mouth to press further, she closes it again, grudgingly dropping the topic. She relaxes slightly, a faint, amused smirk tugging at her lips as she settles back against the edge of the bed, watching you with a new intensity. But before the silence between you grows too long, you turn to her with another matter on your mind.

“Have you tried dosing me with sussur lately?” you ask casually, though your eyes hold a trace of curiosity. "I’ve been feeling… off, as if my magic is distant. Sometimes it feels almost unreachable.”

Minthara arches a brow, clearly caught off-guard by the question. She meets your gaze, her own expression shifting briefly as though weighing how to answer.

“I have been giving you doses,” she admits after a pause, “but not of sussur.”

You hum thoughtfully, mulling this over. “Perhaps it’s just an odd reaction with my magic, then. Something seems different… more restrained.”

Minthara watches you, her gaze narrowing with concern for a fleeting moment before she recovers, her voice even and calm.

“I’ll look into it,” she promises, moving closer and resting her hands on your shoulders. “But it could be the child—magic thrives in the womb. Maybe they’re claiming it for themselves.”

You can’t help the smile that curves your lips.

“A strong child,” you say, a hint of pride filling your tone. “Likely siphoning my strength already.”

Minthara’s lips quirk in a faint smile, her hands sliding down your arms in a gesture of quiet reassurance.

“If that’s the case, then we’ll have nothing to worry about. They’ll come into the world with a power to rival the best of the Baenre.”

Her confidence and calm soothe you as she continues, her hands drifting to rest on your slightly rounded belly, her gaze filled with an unexpected tenderness. The quiet of your chambers was broken by a faint, trembling cry from down the room adjacent to you. Both you and Minthara turned your heads sharply, your attention drawn to the sound of distress.

“Lythaera,” you said softly, already moving toward the door. Minthara followed without a word, her usual sharpness replaced with maternal concern.

You found the child in her room, sitting up in her small, ornate bed. Tears streaked her pale cheeks, and her tiny hands clutched the blanket around her as though for protection. Her eyes were wide and frantic, darting around the room as if searching for something that wasn’t there.

“Lythaera,” Minthara said, her voice unusually gentle as she crossed the room swiftly. She scooped the child up into her arms, holding her close. “What’s wrong, my little one?”

Lythaera buried her face in Minthara’s shoulder, her sobs muffled but still audible. You moved closer, your heart aching at the sight of her distress. Gently, you reached out to stroke her hair, her small form trembling beneath your touch.

“Sweetheart,” you said softly, crouching to her eye level as Minthara held her. “Tell us what’s wrong.”

Lythaera lifted her head slightly, her cheeks flushed and damp with tears. Her voice was shaky, her words stumbling over themselves in her panic.

“I-I was burning,” she babbled, her small hands gripping at Minthara’s robes. “It was hot, Mama. Am I still burning?”

Minthara’s arms tightened protectively around the girl, and her expression darkened briefly—though whether it was at the imagined threat or her daughter’s fear, you couldn’t tell.

“You’re not burning, Lythaera,” Minthara assured her, her tone firm yet soothing. “You’re safe. Mama and I are here.”

You nodded, brushing Lythaera’s hair back from her face. “There’s no fire here, my love. Just us. You’re alright.”

The little girl sniffled, her tears slowing as she leaned into Minthara’s chest, comforted by your combined presence. Minthara sat down on the edge of Lythaera’s bed, cradling the child against her as you settled beside them.

For a few moments, the room was quiet again, the weight of the nightmare slowly lifting. As Lythaera began to calm, you glanced at Minthara, your earlier conversation with Kyorlin still lingering in your mind.

“Kyorlin approached me earlier,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “He asked me to speak with you about easing security. He’s concerned about the toll it’s taking on the guards.”

Minthara scoffed, her grip on Lythaera tightening slightly as she adjusted the child in her lap.

“Kyorlin is a fool if he thinks we can afford to relax now,” she said bluntly. “You’re pregnant. The Seldarine threat is far from over, and those Eilistraee extremists are like vipers in the grass. They’ll strike the moment we let our guard down.”

You’d expected her response, but you still felt compelled to press.

“He’s not wrong about exhaustion being a danger,” you said carefully. “We’ve pushed them hard. Perhaps we could find a way to—”

“No,” Minthara interrupted, her tone brooking no argument. “I won’t risk it. Not for their comfort, not for anything. Let them be tired. Better that than dead.”

At the mention of the Seldarine, Lythaera stirred, her small voice piping up hesitantly.

“S-sel-dar… Sel-darine?” she repeated, her tiny mouth stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

Minthara’s expression softened briefly as she looked down at her daughter, though her voice remained firm. “Yes, my little one. The Seldarine. They’re awful, terrible creatures. They would hurt us if they could.”

Lythaera blinked up at her, her brows furrowing in confusion. “Awful?” she echoed, her voice small.

Minthara nodded solemnly, her fingers brushing a stray curl from Lythaera’s face. “Very awful.”

Lythaera’s face scrunched up in concentration as she attempted another word she must have overheard. “And Eil… Eil-is-tree?”

You hid a small smile at her mispronunciation, but Minthara’s expression darkened slightly.

“Eilistraee,” Minthara corrected. “She’s just as bad, my love. Worse, even. Her followers want to destroy everything we’ve built.”

Lythaera’s little face twisted into a scowl, her crimson eyes flashing with childish indignation.

“I don’t like that name!” she declared, her small fists clenching. “Eil-is-tree is bad!”

Minthara’s lips quirked into a faint, approving smile, her fingers stroking Lythaera’s back soothingly.

“That’s right,” she said softly. “You’re a smart girl.”

You chuckled, leaning back slightly as you watched the exchange. Despite the tension of the conversation, there was something undeniably endearing about Lythaera’s fierce little declaration. Minthara’s protective hold on her daughter spoke volumes, her usual harshness tempered by a rare tenderness.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Unfortunately, your pregnancy had worsened over the past tenday. Now at 25 weeks, the dizziness that had plagued you occasionally during your pregnancy now came more frequently, sometimes leaving you lightheaded for long stretches. The baby’s movements were strong—sometimes too strong—and though you cherished the proof of their vitality, each kick seemed to sap what little energy you had. A faint, ever-present ache had settled into your body, and even simple tasks like standing for too long or climbing the estate's many stairs left you winded.

It was Minthara who called the healers, her tone sharp and unyielding when she ordered them to assess you. Their examinations were thorough, their probing hands and incantations leaving you feeling even more drained by the time they finished. When they finally delivered their conclusions, it wasn’t entirely unexpected, but it was no less frustrating.

“Stress,” the elder healer said, her lined face calm but firm. “The pregnancy is progressing normally, but the strain of your duties is taking its toll. If you continue like this, both you and the child may be at risk. I recommend stepping back from your responsibilities—earlier than planned.”

You bristled at the suggestion. Stepping back meant relinquishing control, even temporarily, and in Menzoberranzan, even a brief absence from power could invite ruin. Yet as the healer’s words settled in, you caught Minthara’s expression out of the corner of your eye. Her crimson eyes, sharp and assessing, left no room for argument.

“You’ll do as they say,” Minthara said bluntly, her voice brooking no dissent. “I won’t have you endangering yourself—or our child—because you’re too stubborn to rest.”

Reluctantly, you agreed. Over the next few days, you began to withdraw from your usual duties as Mistress of the house. Council meetings carried on without you, though Minthara kept you informed of their outcomes. Head of staff reported to Lesaoanar instead of you and the presence of the mistress' guard became increasingly present. You had caught one of them outside of bath chamber you had visited after a bought of nausea. You were not even allowed to mentor the younger girls of the house like you used to, Minthara had insisted that their shrill tones and excited shrieks were too much for you - although you supposed that was projection on her behalf.

You hated the sense of helplessness that came with your forced rest, hated the thought that the intricate workings of your house were happening without your direct involvement. But you couldn’t deny the faint relief you felt as the weight of responsibility began to lift, if only slightly. T

The routine changed fully when an emergency council meeting was called. Whispers had spread of Seldarine infiltrating other noble houses, a potential threat that required immediate attention. You instinctively rose to prepare for the meeting - surely this was too important for you to be excluded from? But Minthara intercepted you before you could leave your chambers.

“You’re not going,” she said firmly, stepping into your path.

“I should be there,” you argued, but the weariness in your own voice betrayed you.

“And risk collapsing in the middle of the council chamber?” Minthara’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll stay here. Watch the children. They’ll benefit from your presence, and you’ll benefit from not overextending yourself.”

You opened your mouth to argue further, but the faintest flicker of concern in her gaze silenced you. Reluctantly, you nodded, watching as she swept out of the room.

With only slight begrudging, you found yourself in the family common room, resting on a plush chaise as your child kicked within you. The triplets were already there, their usual boisterous energy filling the space. Sarae and Lira sat side by side, alight with mischief as they leaned toward Viroen. He stood a few paces away, his small arms crossed over his chest in an attempt to look defiant.

“You’re going to be sacrificed to Lolth next,” Lira said to Viroen, her crimson eyes gleaming with mock seriousness. Her delicate features, so much like her mother’s, were alight with amusement.

Sarae nodded solemnly, her expression an exaggerated mirror of her sister’s. “It’s true. The Priestess already said so.”

Viroen, to his credit, didn’t falter. Crossing his arms over his chest, he stared them down with a defiance that belied his years.

“You’re lying,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “We already sacrificed baby Kel’ren last tenday. Lolth doesn’t need another sacrifice so soon.”

The twins burst into laughter, their facade crumbling as their brother’s response only fueled their amusement. Even Viroen couldn’t suppress a small, smug smile, clearly pleased with his own retort.

You couldn’t help but chuckle softly, their morbid humor a testament to their Baenre upbringing. It was moments like these—brief flashes of innocence amid the cruelty of your world—that you cherished most.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed a small figure approaching. Lythaera, clutching her favorite plush spider, toddled over with determination. She reached your side and tugged gently at your sleeve, her wide crimson eyes filled with curiosity.

“Play colours?” she asked, her voice sweet and hopeful.

You smiled down at her, though your body felt heavy with fatigue. The game she suggested was simple enough, and you welcomed the opportunity to keep her entertained without expending too much energy.

“Alright, little one,” you said, adjusting yourself in your seat. “Let’s play. Tell me what color everyone’s eyes are.”

Lythaera’s face lit up with delight as she began the game. She pointed to each of the triplets in turn, her tiny finger aimed with precision.

“Sarae… red!” she declared with confidence. “Lira… red. Viroen… red.”

You nodded along, your smile growing. “Very good. And what about Mother and Unlce Lesaonar?”

Lythaera turned toward the door where her mother had last been, her expression thoughtful.

“Red!” she announced after a moment, looking back at you with pride.

You nodded again, pleased with her enthusiasm. “That’s right. And now… what about Uncle Kyorlin?”

Lythaera paused, her little brows furrowing in concentration. She tapped her chin with a finger, mimicking the way she had seen adults ponder, before speaking with confidence.

“Blue!” she declared, her voice clear and unwavering. You froze, the word catching you off guard.

“No, darling,” you corrected gently, though a faint unease stirred in your chest. “Kyorlin’s eyes are red. Just like everyone else’s.”

But Lythaera shook her head, her expression resolute. “No! Blue. Kya-oralin blue eyes.”

Her insistence made you pause, the certainty in her tone more unnerving than her words. You tried to brush it off as childish stubbornness, but the conviction in her gaze—so steadfast for one so young—sent a chill through you.

“Are you sure, Lythaera?” you asked softly, your voice tinged with curiosity and a creeping sense of dread.

“Blue,” she repeated, her voice firm. “Kya-oralin blue.”

The room, filled with the distant sounds of the triplets’ laughter, seemed to grow colder. A faint knot formed in your stomach, tightening with each passing moment. You wanted to dismiss it as nothing—a child’s imagination, a harmless mistake—but you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that her words held some deeper meaning, something just out of reach.

Your hand instinctively rested on your belly, the baby stirring within you as though sensing your unease. The warmth of Lythaera’s small presence beside you did little to quell the strange, ominous tension that now hung in the air.

“Alright, my love,” you murmured, your voice soft but distant. “If you say so.”

Lythaera smiled, satisfied with your response, and toddled back to her siblings, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The weight of her words lingered, echoing in your mind as a whisper of something you couldn’t ignore, no matter how much you wanted to.

The disquieting comment from Lythaera lingered, an unwelcome shadow in the back of your mind. Kyorlin’s eyes were red—of course they were red. Everyone’s eyes in your family were red. Yet the conviction in Lythaera’s voice refused to be dismissed. You told yourself she was just a child, prone to mistakes, but Lythaera was no ordinary child. She was sharp, perceptive beyond her years, often noticing details others overlooked. Her insistence nagged at you like an itch you couldn’t scratch.

To quiet your unease, you called the triplets over.

The unease gnawed at you, refusing to abate. Finally, as if to silence your own doubts, you turned to the triplets, who were still playing in the corner of the room.

“Viroen,” you said, your voice light, masking your unease. “What color are Kyorlin’s eyes?”

Viroen glanced at you, his expression incredulous. “Red, of course, Auntie. What else would they be?”

“And you, Sarae? Lira?” you pressed, your tone remaining casual. The girls looked up from their game, identical smirks on their faces.

“Red,” they said in unison, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

The answer eased you somewhat, though the doubt still clawed at the edge of your thoughts. When Lesaonar, Melinoe, and Minthara returned to the family room, you welcomed the distraction. They entered with a presence that commanded attention, their expressions grim. The tension in the air was palpable.

“What happened?” you asked, sitting up straighter despite your fatigue.

Minthara’s gaze softened slightly as it settled on you. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” she said firmly. “It’s being handled.”

You frowned, frustration flickering to life. “I deserve to know. If this is about—”

Minthara raised a hand, silencing you with a look. “Rest, my love. Stress will only harm you and the baby. Trust that we are taking care of it.”

The dismissal rankled, but you held your tongue, unwilling to press the issue in front of the others. Minthara picked up Lythaera, and from that simple act you could tell the meeting had not gone well. Minthara was not one to seek out comfort but there were ways she showed when she required it. Picking up Lythaera was one of those ways.

You wanted to continue to pry about the meeting but had no desire for an argument, so instead, you turned your attention to Lesaonar. “Where’s Kyorlin?”

Lesaonar shrugged, his usual relaxed demeanor returning. “He’s sulking in the training yard. Probably sharpening his swords or brooding over something ridiculous. You know how he gets.”

Melinoe smirked. “Especially when somebody didn't get their way in the meeting."

"But no surprise there," Lesaonar chuckled before turning back to you. “Do you want me to fetch him for you?”

You shook your head, rising carefully to your feet. “No, I could use the walk. It will do me good.”

Minthara’s sharp gaze pinned you briefly, assessing. Finally, she nodded, though her lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t overexert yourself.”

“I won’t,” you promised, resting a hand briefly on her arm before making your way toward the corridor.

The estate was quieter now, the weight of the emergency meeting casting a somber mood over the halls. Your footsteps echoed softly as you moved, your hands resting protectively over your abdomen. You were tired, but the walk felt grounding, helping to dispel the restless energy that had clung to you all day. It was silly really, checking if the brother you have known all your life actually had red eyes just because of a toddler. Call it pregnancy paranoia or a lapse in sanity, but you just had to check.

You caught sight of Kyorlin just ahead, his tall, lean frame silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. He was facing away from you, his shoulders tense as he leaned against the wall.

“Kyorlin,” you called softly, your voice carrying through the stillness.

He turned toward you, and in that moment, it was as though a veil had been lifted. His eyes—Lolth save you—were not red. Not the ones that beamed up at you when you first held him as a babe when he was brought into the world. Not the same red, you would dab tears from when your family's torment of him got too much. Not the red that had looked upon you in pain on your wedding day. They were a piercing, unnatural blue, glowing faintly in the dim light, almost unnatural. The sight hit you like a physical blow, and you stumbled back a step, your breath catching in your throat.

“Kyorlin…” The word was barely a whisper, your mind racing to make sense of the impossible. He’s not Lolth-sworn. Lolth has left him. He’s light-eyed. Seldarine. A traitor.

Before you could react, Kyorlin closed the distance between you with startling speed. His hand clamped over your mouth, muffling the cry that rose in your throat. His other hand flashed, and you felt the sharp sting of a blade piercing your side. The pain bloomed, hot and searing, as your legs buckled beneath you.

“This shouldn't have happened, not yet,” Kyorlin murmured, his voice low and regretful. “I didn’t want it to be like this.”

Your magic surged instinctively, but the energy fizzled uselessly as though snuffed out. Panic flared in your chest as Kyorlin smiled faintly.

“Seems the sussur is finally doing its job,” he said, his tone almost apologetic.

Your vision blurred, and you fought desperately to stay conscious, your hands scrabbling weakly against his arm. The poison from his blade spread quickly, leaving your limbs heavy and unresponsive. Kyorlin leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

“All will be right,” he whispered, his voice laced with fervor. “Under Eilistraee’s light, we will all be free.”

Darkness crept at the edges of your vision, and the last thing you heard before the world went black was Kyorlin’s voice, raised in a desperate, panicked yell.

“Help! Someone help! She’s been attacked!”

The urgency that filled the corridor was palpable as servants and guards clustered around your unconscious form. The whispers and rustling movements of their panic blurred together, creating a low hum of chaos. Kyorlin, still kneeling beside you, played his part with masterful precision. His hands trembled slightly as they cradled your head, his face drawn with just enough worry to seem genuine.

“Quickly! She needs the healers now!” he barked at the nearest servant, his voice breaking with carefully calculated urgency. “She said she felt tired, and then she just... collapsed!”

The gathered crowd accepted his explanation without question. After all, your recent ill health had been a topic of quiet concern throughout the household. You had been seen withdrawing from your duties, stepping away from council meetings, and struggling with exhaustion. That someone in your condition might faint was hardly surprising.

Several guards lifted you gently onto a stretcher, their movements precise and practiced. No one noticed the tiny cut beneath your robes, hidden and insignificant in appearance. To their eyes, it was nothing more than another bout of your worsening fatigue.

Minthara’s appearance silenced the murmurs. She strode into the corridor like a storm, her crimson eyes scanning the scene with a mix of confusion and barely restrained panic. Her grip on Lythaera tightened, the little girl held protectively against her chest.

“What happened?” Minthara demanded, her voice cutting through the noise. Kyorlin stood, his posture straightening as he met her gaze. His face was the perfect mask of concern and helplessness.

“We were speaking,” he explained, his voice low and calm. “She told me she was tired, and then she just collapsed. I called for help immediately.”

Minthara’s sharp gaze flicked to you, now being carried away by the servants. Her jaw clenched, her usual composure cracking at the edges. Lythaera squirmed in her arms, her wide eyes darting from her mother to you.

“I’m going with her,” Minthara said firmly, her tone brooking no argument as she took a step toward the retreating stretcher.

Kyorlin intercepted her, his movements careful, his voice soothing. “Minthara, wait. Let me take Lythaera. She shouldn’t see her mother like this—it will only upset her more.”

Minthara hesitated, her maternal instincts warring with her desire to stay at your side. Lythaera, perceptive even for her young age, looked up at her with wide, questioning eyes.

“She’ll be safe with me,” Kyorlin added, his tone softening as he held out his arms. “I’ll take her to Lesaonar and Melinoe’s quarters. You need to focus on my sister right now. She needs you.”

Minthara’s crimson eyes lingered on him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. She leaned down to kiss Lythaera’s forehead before handing her over.

“Look after her,” she said, her voice low and firm.

“Of course,” Kyorlin promised, his tone earnest. He cradled Lythaera gently, his grip firm but comforting. Minthara cast one last glance at you before hurrying after the stretcher, disappearing down the corridor toward the healers.

As soon as she was gone, Kyorlin’s expression changed. The concern evaporated, replaced by a cold smirk. He shifted Lythaera slightly in his arms, adjusting his hold as he turned and began walking in the opposite direction. His steps were measured, unhurried, as though he had all the time in the world. Lythaera, ever observant, tilted her head.

“Wrong way!” she said, her voice filled with the blunt curiosity only a child could manage. Kyorlin’s smirk widened, but his tone remained light and cheerful.

“No, it’s not,” he said. “We’re going on a little adventure instead.”

Lythaera’s brow furrowed, her small hands gripping the front of his tunic. “Adventure? Where?”

“You’ll see,” Kyorlin replied smoothly, his pace quickening. The shadows of the estate seemed to close in around them, and Lythaera’s unease grew as the familiar halls gave way to lesser-used corridors.

“Don’t like this way,” she mumbled, her voice growing quieter as her eyes darted nervously around.

Kyorlin’s smile turned cold, his blue eyes even colder, but he kept his voice gentle. “Don’t worry, little one. Soon, everything will be better. You’ll see.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Things were getting a little bit too chummy around here. Mwhahaha!

I hope you all enjoyed it, I think this chapter is a little shorter than others but don't worry lots to come!

Please let me know your thoughts and theories down below. I really love reading them and again, they are such amazing motivators for this series! Love you all! - Seluney xox

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[redsrooftopprincess]

Coming Home, Part 1

Fem Reader (but can easily be ignored) x Raphael

No warnings

Violent-orange geometric shapes of sunlight bisect the tops of buildings, as purple shadows bleed up from the streets below. You'd timed your flight perfectly.

The moment you step off the plane into the legendary insanity of JFK, you instantly relax into the chaos of home. You follow the veins and arteries of exhausted humans and eventually ascend to the streets to make your way to your brother's apartment.

Twilight bleeds through the city streets like ink. Nighttime always descends first at street level, the forest of trees blocking the sunlight from the floor below. It's early still, the calm before the evening rush on the block of apartment buildings.

Something small shoots across your vision and you stop short looking at where whatever it was went. Beside you, embedded in a flower pot of pink daisies, is a thin wooden dart. The red ribbon tied around the end flutters gently as it settles against the chipped ceramic. A smile blooms on your face.

You glance at the trajectory. Alley. Street level. He hasn't even made it to the rooftops yet. He must be as excited as you are.

You grab the dart and pocket it, then check for cars before picking up your suitcase and running across the street.

You slow to a stop as the shadows welcome you. In the darkness, an imposing figure has been waiting here for the last two hours, wildly oscillating between excitement and dread. It's been months since he last saw you. Ten in fact.

He knows what's coming. The inevitable train of longing that's going to hit him full force as soon as he catches your scent. But if your time apart has taught him anything, it's that he would rather have you here. He'll take this hit and every one after gratefully if it means he can just be near you.

As your eyes adjust to the gloom, your smile breaks into a grin. His does, too. He opens up his massive arms. "Welcome home, Princess," he rumbles. His voice is like quiet thunder, the first sign of rain after a ten month drought.

You don't need a second invitation. You drop your suitcase and dash forward into his arms. He wastes no time scooping you up, and spinning you in a circle, holding you tight against him. You're both laughing, whether in joy or relief neither of you are really sure and you honestly don't care.

You can feel his laughter in your chest and you bury your head in his shoulder to hide the tears that suddenly spring to your eyes. "Hi," you say softly.

"Hi," he sighs, chuckling.

You stay like that for several long moments, just holding each other, breathing each other in. You run your hands over the skipping stone texture of his shoulders, and he pulls you in tighter.

When the two of you first became friends, he was so touch-starved that he would feel you in his skin for days. The first time you held his hand, it had been hours and he'd still almost lost a sai while out on patrol. You'd noticed. You tried to minimize unintentional contact, and you always asked first. He always said yes.

He wanted it. Craved it, even. That's what scared him the most. Eventually, he began to seek it out. You stopped asking, because you no longer needed to.

It started small, a slight lean against you while standing in the same room, a hand on your shoulder while reaching for something over your head. It was slow going, but worth the wait. The first time he put his arm around you while you were watching a movie together, you were so happy you still have no idea what the second half of the movie was about.

Then hugs happened.

The first time he wrapped those big green arms around you, you melted, and you never stopped melting. In his arms was the warmest, safest place in the universe.

Over time, physical contact became your own secret language. You could say a thousand words with a single touch. Right now, there was only one.

Finally.

He breathes deep, filling his lungs with you. He can feel your scent bloom like roses inside his chest, and reawaken something that had withered since you left.

He buries his head in your hair to hide the stinging in his own eyes. Bramble vines of want and need wrap around his heart and dig in deep, and he can barely breathe around the sudden ache in his chest. He knows those thorns aren't going anywhere anytime soon, but the petal softness of you scattering inside him soothes the hurt. It's worth it for the roses.

He squeezes you tighter before setting you down. He holds your waist to steady you, and can't bring himself to let go for a moment.

When he does, your skin screams out in protest. You catch his hand before he gets too far, and he squeezes yours in return, smiling down at you.

"Come on, I'll take you home." He jerks his head in the direction of your brother's apartment, unable to stop smiling. It's only temporary, your living situation, until you can find your own place. But as he starts to lead the way, you dont move.

He turns and looks at you quizzically.

"Actually..." you say slowly, "I was kinda hoping I could stay at the lair tonight?" pleasesayyespleasesayyespleasesayyes You give him your sweetest, most hopeful, convincing grin, you even bat your eyes for emphasis. You don't need to.

His smile lights him up like the sun and he rocks back on his heels. It's all he can do not to jump up and down like a little kid. Christmas came early! "Yeah, of course! Everyone'd love to see you!"

Your bright grin matches his and you bounce in place, "Okay, cool."

You release his hand for only a moment to run and grab your suitcase. He uses the opportunity to remove the manhole cover. When you return, he takes the suitcase from you. You don't bother protesting. Wouldn't do any good anyway.

You grip freshly taped metal rungs and descend into the depths of the city. The moment you step off the ladder, he lands beside you, having jumped down. You roll your eyes, but can't help the smile on your face. "Showoff."

He smirks and shrugs, taking your hand, "Hey, if you got it." he swaps the remainder of the lyric for a rakish wink. The rush of warmth in your cheeks makes you very glad it's dark down here.

Ten months. Ten. Long. Months. A once-in-a-lifetime dream job had landed in your lap. The night you told him, you'd sat with him on the rooftop of your building, silently begging him to ask you to stay. You'd asked him if he could think of a reason why you shouldn't go.

That night had confirmed that you were alone in this. That this pull was one-sided and you were basically just like a sister to him. There was no reason for you to stay. So you went.

And you hated it.

It wasn't the job itself. That was great. It wasn't even the people. People are the same everywhere. It was him. You'd talked every single night, and he still texted you every time he got home after patrol, but it wasn't enough.

You couldn't run to him when things got overwhelming. You couldn't relax with him and unwind on your days off. And when a coworker got handsy, he couldn't just "gently convince" the guy to leave you alone. You'd made sure that guy got his, you didn't need any help and he knew that, but Donnie had still caught him looking up cargo flights.

You used to laugh at those stupid "I miss you" cards where one [insert random thing here] is missing [insert other random thing here], but you'd felt incomplete. Like the thing holding you together was suddenly missing and all the different pieces of you were just floating in free space. You'd clung desperately to any piece of him that might keep you from floating away entirely.

The night you realized the blanket he'd made no longer smelled like him, you'd cried yourself to sleep.

That hollow feeling persisted until he wrapped you in his arms. He swept you up and all the broken pieces of you came back together. Some parts weren't the same. Some had jagged edges like the night he told you go. But for the first time in ten months, you were whole again.

You walk towards the lair catching up and telling stories, as if you hadn't spoken on the phone every single night.

"You know, I was thinking about this the other day," he says, smiling down at you, "it's weird how it was you and me, right?"

You give him a quizzical look, "What do you mean?"

"That we're the ones that got close." He clarifies, "I mean, you're a huge fucking nerd."

"Acknowledged and appreciated," you interject with a nod and a grin.

"Anyone'd think you'd be closest with Donnie," he continued.

"What are you talking about?" You say, almost indignantly, "I love Donnie! He's my best friend!" You voice softens as you descend further into the labyrinth. "You're... something else."

He chuckles, suddenly nervous at your change in tone, "Something good, I hope."

You stop and pull free from his grasp, "Nope, you're awful, I hate you, I'm leaving, where's my plane?" you put your nose up in the air, turn around, and start marching back the way you came, but you're unable to suppress your smile.

He snatches your hand back, and pulls you into his plastron, "So what am I, then?" He asks, smiling down at you. He holds your hand to his chest, the other on your waist. Whatever he is to you, he's yours, and he's grateful.

He looks down at you with that soft smirk reserved only for you, and you need a second to catch your breath. Your hands itch to take his face in them, pull him down to you, and kiss him until he's having as hard a time breathing as you are.

But it only lasts a second. You compose yourself, looking down and away, thinking.

"You know... how... when things are really bad, there's that little kid voice in the back of your head screaming, 'I want to go home?'" You look up at him with everything you wanted to scream into the phone for the last ten months, and now he's the one who can't breathe. "That's what you are," you say softly with your own only-for-him smile, "you're Home."

The thorns dig in deeper, and the pain is exquisite.

You inhale and pull away, against everything pulling you closer, and continue down the tunnels. Your heart is pounding, and you know that if you stay there in his arms, you're going to kiss him or say something stupid, or start crying and ruin everything. You just got back, you don't want to lose him already.

"So what about you? What changed your mind about me?" At first, he was blunt and standoffish, especially suspicious when you just accepted them as they are without question or, even more surprisingly, screaming. But you wore him down.

"I don't know, I guess at first it was because you were the first person to treat me like I'm normal, you know? And not the kind of normal where you treat me like I'm human, and then very carefully tiptoe around the fact that I am very much not." He takes a moment to help you over a large gap in the tunnel. "You treat me like I'm normal, like all the weird turtle shit is normal."

You take his hand and continue walking, swinging your arms together, "It is normal, Raph."

He scoffs quietly.

"It is," you reiterate, stopping when the two of you reach the door, pulling him to a stop with you, "it's your normal, and you're the most important person in my life, so... it's my normal too," you say with a shrug and a smile.

Your roses fill his chest and soothe the hurt. He looks down at you with warm honey eyes, and prays that you never stop breaking his heart.

He places his hand on the wheel to the vault door, "Ready?"

You look at him with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, "Red, is anyone ever really ready for your family?"

"Good point," he nods, he looks at you almost sympathetically, inhaling a breath through his teeth, but a grin hides in the corner of his mouth, "Deep breath."

He spins the wheel and the door swings open.

...

Tag list:

@thelaundrybitch @the-cauldron-witch @fyreball66 @ninnosaurus @tmntngl @thegirlwiththeninjaturtletattoos @zagreustomb @ramielll @silverwatergalaxy @gornackeaterofworlds @footninja

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

On Your Six

Warnings: dark elements, stalking, violence.

Another sidequest complete (...or maybe you want more of this one? Let me know your thoughts!)

You have a second shadow. You're not alone. While your pursuer has given themself away, you're in no rush to do the same.

You keep going, slinking from pillar to pillar, balancing your target with whoever seems to have made you one. You keep your back to the wall as you grip your pistol, one ear listening ahead of you, the other behind you. You dip back into a pool of darkness and shuffle your foot to make it sound like you're running, let the noise peter off as you wait

A figure smoothly turns the corner and you stand unseen in the alcove. Shit, you know that goddamn strut. Even when he's trying to be covert, he's a dead giveaway.

What the hell is Hansen doing here? This isn't his kind of job. Unless you're his assignment.

You watch him creep past. He slows as he listens to the silence, stopping completely. You raise the barrel of your gun towards him as you tiptoe out from behind the pillar. He hisses into a cackle, raising his hands.

“Take it easy, toots,” he faces you slowly, “we're not enemies here.”

“Aren't we?” You approach with your hand steadied against your forearm.

“I'm just watching your six. Like a nice guy does.”

“Hansen,” you walk to him until you have the barrel to his back, “what the hell are you doing here? I'm not splitting the fee and I have no problem wasting a bullet in your ass.”

“Oh, I love it when you talk dirty,” he gives a dramatic shiver, unfazed by the gun between his shoulder blades.

“This isn't an open bounty,” you snarl.

“Toots, if you're not gonna use that thing, put it away,” he turns to face you slowly, “at least, that's what I've always been told.”

You shake your head and scoff, lowering the gun halfway. You sneer at him in the darkness and huff, “why are you getting in my way? Again.”

“Again? What– are you talking about San Paolo? I'm flattered you remember–”

“I nearly lost an eye.”

“Really? You're looking good, toots–”

You close your eyes and exhale through your nose, “I don't have time for this.”

You sidestep him and continue down the pillared walkway. You keep along the wall and stop as you sense him following once more. You pull back and holster your gun, just as swiftly slipping free your knife. You spin to bring it just along Hansen’s throat.

“I'll tell you one last time,” you hiss.

“I'm helping–”

“I told you, you're not getting a cent.”

“Trust me, honey, the view is worth it–”

“You are–”

“Deranged. Devoted. A total bottom.”

You bite down another snipe as the stone pillar beside you cracks and powder puffs in the air. Fuck. You dip into the shadows as Hansen shoulders past and raises his gun. Two shots before he crams into the alcove next to you

“Really?” You sneer.

“Tight fit, babe, but always figured it would be,” he chortles as he squints into the darkness. “Think I got th–”

Another shot silences him. You wonder if he's hit but don't really care. You duck down and switch out your blade for your fun. You creep along, listening to the approach of those that pest has drawn in.

You weave in and out of shadows, zeroed in on the echoing footsteps. The first silhouette falls before your silenced shot, the second doesn't notice his comrades collapse until it's too late and he joins him on the stone. The third you don't spend the bullet and use the but of your gun against the back of his skull.

You hear a scuff and raise your gun. Hansen waves and pants as he appears once more.

“Got one,” he puffs proudly, “damn, look at that.” He marvels at the bodies heaped around your feet, “you work fast, baby.. I'm more the type to take it slow.”

“Ugh,” you scowl and turn away.

As you do, you hear Hansen barrel towards you. It's too late for you to get your aim. You dodge as best you can as the rifle levels across from you only to be bowled over from behind.

You hit the ground as a shot fires and Hansen grunts. He fires back and the man lands on the rifle with a rattling gasp.

Hansen hisses and drops to one knee, grasping his side as he wheezes. You sit up, check your gun, and stand. He should've stayed away.

You flinch as suddenly a loud thrum cuts the night air. Fuck. You look above as the helicopter rotor whirls loudly. You harumph and kick a body near your feet.

“Fuck.”

“Don't worry, baby, I can take you on a nice vacation, you don't need the bounty,” he sucks in air and stands, “I got you.”

You look at him and scoff. You sneer and bring your gun up, aiming at his ass as you fire. He yelps and falls back down, grasping his rear. You shake your head and mutter.

“Fucker.”

You spin and walk back the way you came. Dimwit better get the hint. Next time you'll aim higher.

“See ya soon, toots,” he calls after you in a strained grit, “probably in my dreams.”