#I love her more than anything else in the world

[sasheemo]

Revenge and Reconciliation

Pairing: Ex gfs Bound!Agatha x Witch!Reader

Summary: When the hex shatters, the bond between you and Agatha reignites with a force too raw to ignore. Confronting her after decades of anger, betrayal, and yearning, you’re determined to make her pay. Power, passion, and a collision of unresolved emotions blur the line between vengeance and surrender.

Tags: Bitter Ex Gfs, Smut, Revenge Sex, Emotional Angst, Power Dynamics, Magic-Infused Sex, Magic Strap, Magic Cum, Magic Wrists Restraints, Slight Degradation, Cum Powered Reconciliation, Revenge Gets Sticky, Sub!Agatha (I know, wtf), Writing Sub Agatha Feels Illegal, Is It Subbing If She Still Wins Tho?

Word count: 6.6k

A/N: I wrote this fic as an attempt to wrestle my way out of the creative block that’s been clinging to me like an overly affectionate stray cat. I don’t think it’s the best thing I could have written, and I’m not entirely convinced by it, but the idea had been gathering dust on my list for a while, so here we are.

The concept of sub!Agatha has always intrigued me—mostly because, in my mind, it’s about as rare as a solar eclipse. I usually stick to writing Dom!Agatha, but hey, I think sub!Agatha is canon-compliant too… just in that “blink and you’ll miss it, alignment of the magical cosmos” kind of way.

For this fic, I decided to throw caution (and some very own personal hcs) to the wind and see if I could somehow make that dynamic work in an x Reader setting. Did I nail it? Definitely not. Do I feel like I truly captured the elusive sub!Agatha vibe that lives rent-free in my head? Eh, we’ll call it a work in progress. Maybe I’ll take another swing at it someday. For now, here’s my first attempt—enjoy! 💜

MASTERLIST

Read on AO3

It’s subtle at first—a faint ripple in the air, like a string pulled taut and suddenly slackened. But you feel it, deep in your body and soul, as if the ground beneath you shifted. 

The hex is broken. 

Agatha.

Her name lingers in your mind like a curse, dragging with it a torrent of emotions you’ve spent decades trying to bury.

Fury, white-hot and all-consuming, surges to the surface, clawing at the walls you’ve built around it. You can feel it all, the bitterness, the pain, the endless ache of betrayal.

Yet everything feels shushed by the unmistakable pull of her magic, faint but familiar, like the distant hum of a melody you can’t forget.

You’ve tried to sever this bond more times than you can count, poured every ounce of power into cutting the thread of magic that still ties you to her. 

But it never worked. Years of spells, rituals, and desperate attempts to scrape her magic from your soul couldn’t erase that connection, that cruel reminder of the love you once shared.

You don’t want to feel her. You don’t want to feel anything.

But with the hex shattered, she’s there—everywhere. The memories rise like a tide, drowning you in the ghost of what once was. 

The warmth of her fingers, trailing just long enough to leave a fire in their wake. Her voice, low and teasing, laced with promises that made your heart race. You remember the way she laughed, genuine and unguarded when she let herself forget the world, or the way her lips curled into a smirk when she caught you staring, daring you to look away. Those stolen nights, when her touch was tender and her kisses slow, felt endless, like she was giving you pieces of her no one else had ever seen.

And then… nothing. 

She left. Without a word. Without a reason. Without even a shred of decency to say goodbye. She disappeared like smoke, leaving only the cold, bitter truth: it meant nothing. You meant nothing.

The memories crash to a halt, mocking you, shaming you, for ever believing she could be anything more than one of her masterly crafted lies. 

Your magic surges in response, wild and vengeful, begging for release. You clench your fists, trying to ground yourself, but it’s futile. Her presence—or the absence of it—calls to you.

It’s been decades, but the wound is as raw as the day she abandoned you, as sharp as the moment you realized she wasn’t coming back. 

But you won’t give her the chance to run this time.

Without hesitation, you focus your energy, feeling the familiar pull of teleportation. The world shifts, and when you open your eyes, you’re standing outside her house in Westview. It’s dark and unassuming, the air around it heavy with the remnants of the hex’s magic.

The door slams open with a burst of energy, the wood groaning under the force of your magic. The faint remnants of Wanda’s hex still cling to the air, a metallic tang that pricks at your senses, but they’re nothing compared to the oppressive weight of her presence.

Agatha is sprawled on the couch as if she hasn’t a care in the world, her posture loose and unbothered despite the clear signs of exhaustion clinging to her. 

Her dark hair, longer than you remember, tumbles around her shoulders in wild, mussed waves, catching the light like ink kissed by moonlight. Her clothes are rumpled, the lines of her blouse wrinkled and her jeans have clearly seen better days, but somehow the disarray only adds to her maddening allure. 

And then there’s her face—those sharp cheekbones, that pale, smooth skin, and the glint in her icy blue eyes that even now refuses to dim. 

She looks up at you, her smirk curling with the same audacity that’s haunted you for decades, and for a moment, you hate how effortlessly breathtaking she is, how your heart still skips a beat whenever her eyes meet yours. Even now, even when she’s powerless.

“Well, well.” she drawls, tilting her head, her voice laced with a defiance she has no right to feel. “Come to gloat?”

You take a step inside and the air shifts, charged with the force of your presence. For the first time in decades, you’re the one with the power, and Agatha—bound, powerless, and alone—is at your mercy.

“You look terrible.” you say, your voice sharp, cutting. “What happened to the all-powerful Agatha Harkness? Shouldn’t you be out scheming, manipulating, destroying lives? Oh, wait—”. You step closer, savoring the way her smirk falters, “You can’t.”

Agatha’s smirk snaps back into place, but there’s a flicker—tiny, fleeting—of something behind her eyes. Fear? No, she wouldn’t let you see that. Regret? That would be even more shocking. Whatever it is, it’s gone in an instant.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you.” she says, leaning back against the couch. “I guess that hasn’t changed.”

Your jaw tightens, so hard you’re lucky you don’t chip a tooth. The sheer audacity of her, lounging there like she hasn’t single-handedly fueled centuries of your bitterness, makes your magic flare. 

The air around you hums with tension, a wave of heat radiating from your skin, but she doesn’t even flinch. Of course she doesn’t. Why would she? Agatha has always been maddeningly immune to the consequences of her actions. 

“Don’t you dare pretend nothing happened.” you snap, stepping closer until you’re towering over her. “You left, Agatha. You abandoned me without a word. No explanation, no goodbye—just gone. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

“I had my reasons.” she murmurs, voice quieter now, almost too quiet.

Your laugh is cold, bitter. “Reasons? That’s the best you can come up with? You destroyed me, Agatha. For decades, I tried to understand why, to make sense of how I meant so little to you.”

Her lips part as if to speak, but no words come out. For a moment, just a moment, you see something raw in her gaze—a vulnerability she’s trying desperately to hide.

“Don’t.” you say sharply, your magic flaring brighter. “Don’t you dare try to justify what you did. You don’t get to play the victim.”

Her smirk falls back into place, but it’s weaker now, almost brittle. 

“You’re really milking this righteous fury thing, aren’t you?” she quips, though her voice lacks its usual bite. “What do you want, then? Revenge? Closure? Or did you just miss me?”

The last question catches you off guard, her tone teasing but her eyes searching. Your magic is screaming at you to be unleashed, the rage bubbling so close to the surface as you lean in closer, your face inches from hers.

“What I want,” you say, your voice low and dangerous, “is for you to feel even a fraction of the pain you caused me.”

The heat of your fury presses down on her, forcing her back into the couch. Her sharp tongue falters, her bravado slipping just enough for you to see it: the crack in her armor, the shadow of fear in her eyes.

“Give me one good reason,” you hiss, venom drenching your tone, “why I shouldn’t end this now. Why I shouldn’t take everything from you the way you took everything from me.”

“Because you still love me.”

Five words, and everything you’ve built comes crashing down.

It festers like an old wound torn open, flesh ripped apart to reveal something gory beneath, bleeding and pulsing. It’s a visceral pain that feels like it might consume you whole, a dark, twisting ache that blooms in your chest and radiates outward.

Your grip on your magic falters, and for a fleeting second, you see her as she was all those years ago—the woman who once held your heart in her hands, who kissed you like you were the only thing that mattered.

The memory bleeds into the present, stark and jarring, clashing with the image of the woman before you now. She’s still breathtaking, but there’s a hollowness in her now, a shadow where the fire used to burn brightest. 

The contrast churns something bitter and broken inside you—resentment, grief, yearning, perhaps all three at once. It’s unbearable, the way the past and present collide, leaving you adrift in the space between what was and what is.

You force yourself to recoil, your magic snapping back to you as if burned. 

“Love?” you spit, the word a venomous hiss that cuts through the charged air between you. “You think I could still love you after everything you did? I fucking hate you, Agatha.”

Her laughter startles you—a sharp, bitter sound that carries no joy, only a rawness that sinks deep under your skin. It’s the laugh of someone who’s long since made peace with their own destruction.

“Hate’s just love that’s been shattered to pieces.” she says, her voice cracking, the edges sharp enough to draw blood. “And we both know you’ve been holding onto those shards for decades.”

You want to deny it, to unleash every ounce of fury you’ve carried for all these years, to rip her apart for daring to speak such a painful truth aloud.

But you can’t.

And it’s in this moment of hesitation, of vulnerability, that the rage in your chest shifts—twisting into something far more dangerous.

The bond between you roars, electric and alive, as if responding to your emotions. It’s always been there, tethering you to her no matter how much you tried to sever it. And now, it’s pulling you closer, wrapping around you like dense smoke.

It’s infuriating. It’s intoxicating. And you fucking missed it.

Even bound and powerless, Agatha looks at you as if she’s still in control, as if the years of pain and betrayal you’ve carried mean nothing.

Her eyes narrow, a glint of recognition flashing in that unnervingly sharp gaze. She sees it, she feels it, the way her words have struck a nerve. And, of course, she pounces on it.

“What’s the matter, hon?” she purrs, her voice a sickeningly sweet mockery of concern. “Can’t decide whether to kill me or fuck me?”

The words land like a match to gasoline, igniting a fire it’s far too late to extinguish. The line you’ve been toeing shatters, and before you can stop yourself, you close the final distance between you in one swift movement, your hand wrapping around her throat as you press her back against the couch. 

Her smirk doesn’t leave her lips—if anything, it deepens, her breath catching just slightly as her eyes gleam with something dark and infuriatingly pleased.

You can feel her pulse under your fingertips, quick and unsteady, and it only feeds the chaos roiling inside you.

“You don’t get to say that.” you hiss, leaning closer until your face is inches from hers. “You don’t get to act like this is a game.”

“And what if it is?” she murmurs, her voice low, almost daring. “What if that’s all we’ve ever been?”

The anger in your chest twists, warping into something raw and untamed. You hate her. You want her. The two emotions bleed together, inseparable, consuming.

Your grip on her throat tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her who has the power now. She doesn’t fight you, but she doesn’t look away either.

“You have no idea what you’ve done to me.” you say, your voice shaking with the weight of everything you’ve held back. “No idea what it’s been like to carry this—this anger, this pain, this fucking bond I can’t escape.”

Of course, you don’t expect her to apologize, she never would, but the flicker of regret in her eyes is louder than words.

The bond between you hums again, relentless and unyielding, pulling you closer even as you try to resist. You do hate her, but you also can’t deny the way her presence calls to you, the way her magic—even diminished—feels like a part of you.

“Why, Agatha?” you demand, your voice breaking as you lean in closer. “Why did you leave? Why did you—”

She cuts you off by brushing her lips against yours in the barest hint of contact. It’s not a kiss, not yet, but it steals the breath from your lungs all the same. 

As her breath mingles with yours, the world collapses to the infinitesimal space between your lips, a charged, aching void that demands to be closed.

And then, as if honoring that demand, she closes the distance. 

Her lips crash onto yours in a kiss that isn’t tender—it’s a storm, a battle, a clash of wills. Her mouth moves against yours with a desperation that feels like surrender, but there’s no mistaking the way she bites at your lower lip, as if daring you to take more.

You growl low in your throat, the sound vibrating against her lips as your hands find her hips, pinning her harder against the couch. She arches into you, her body a perfect, infuriating fit against yours, and the bond between you flares alive, pulling you deeper into the chaos of her.

Her tongue meets yours, and it’s molten—hot and demanding, tangled in a rhythm that feels like a fight for dominance neither of you is willing to lose. The couch creaks beneath you as you press her down, your weight covering hers completely, your hand sliding up to tangle in her hair, tugging just hard enough to make her gasp into your mouth.

This isn’t forgiveness. It isn’t reconciliation. It’s unfiltered emotion, punishment and possession, everything you’ve bottled up for decades exploding in a collision of anger and desire that leaves no room for restraint.

With a flick of your wrist, her clothes dissolve into shimmering wisps of magic, vanishing like smoke into the air. What’s left behind steals the breath from your lungs despite every part of you screaming not to react, not to let her affect you like this.

The sight of Agatha’s bare body, a masterpiece of soft curves and sharp angles, reignites memories you thought you’d buried—the way her skin once felt beneath your hands, how her body moved in perfect synch with yours, every sound she made etched into your soul.

It’s been decades since you last saw her like this, but time has done nothing to dull her power over you. 

Your pulse thunders in your ears, heat spreading like wildfire through your veins as your gaze trails over her, lingering on the lines of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the way her thighs tremble ever so slightly.

She’s bound and powerless in every possibile sense of the words, yet somehow she still holds the upper hand.

Her lips curl into the faintest smirk as if she knows exactly what she’s doing to you. “Still as easy to impress as ever, I see.”

The words snap you out of your trance, a surge of irritation mingling with the desire coursing through you. 

With another flick of your wrist, ropes of magic coil around her wrists, pulling them together and suspending them above her head. The glowing bonds crackle with energy, casting faint light over her bare skin. 

Her smirk falters, just slightly, as she tugs against the restraints, her muscles flexing in defiance and testing their hold.

And it’s that—that small attempt at resistance, her futile struggle against the bonds you’ve created—that makes something snap inside you. 

It’s not just power—it’s the realization that she, the woman who’s haunted your every waking thought and dream, is finally yours to control. The intensity of it almost scares you, the way it spreads through your chest like spilled ink, staining every corner of your mind in pitch black.

It’s a visceral, consuming need to claim her, to fill her, to mark her in a way that will sear into her soul, leaving no room for doubt or escape. The hunger burns through you, fierce and unrelenting, every ounce of your power thrumming with it, shaping itself into something tangible, something undeniable.

Your lower clothing dissolves into shimmering magic, leaving you partially bare—but not fully. The vulnerability of complete nakedness is a luxury you can’t afford. Not right now. Not with Agatha. You want the contrast to be stark—her, stripped of everything, exposed and powerless beneath you, while you remain in control. It’s a statement, a reminder, that here, now, you’re the one with the upper hand.

And then, as though summoned by your need, the strap materializes. And it’s not just magic—it’s a part of you, an extension of your body. 

The weight of it settles against your hips, grounding you, the connection immediate and intimate, as if it’s always been there.

Your gaze drops for a moment, drawn to the way your cock stands proud and commanding, and a smirk tugs at your lips. You take in its size, the thick, substantial girth that demands attention. You make no effort to hide your satisfaction as your hand wraps firmly around its base, stroking it in slow, deliberate movements that make your intent unmistakable.

Agatha’s eyes widen, her own gaze falling to your cock before flicking back to your face. Her lips part slightly, and her tongue darts out to wet them in a motion so instinctive, so sinful, that it sends a fresh jolt of heat through you.

For once, she seems utterly at a loss for words, the sharp wit you’ve come to expect from her silenced by the weight of the moment, and by you.

“Speechless?” you ask, your tone dripping with mockery. “Not like you.”

“Well,” she manages, clicking her tongue, her voice laced with an edge of forced confidence, “you’ve certainly… outdone yourself.”

You press the tip against her thigh, watching as her body tenses and her breath hitches. Slowly, teasingly, you trail it upward, letting it graze her glistening folds but never quite giving her what she wants. 

You see all of her defiance falter the second you tap the tip against her clit. You do it multiple times, teasing her until she’s a panting mess, her chest heaving as her body completely betrays her. 

And yet, her eyes stay locked on yours, burning with a mix of frustration and longing.

“Look at you,” you murmur, your hand sliding back to her throat, wrapping around it just enough to keep her grounded. Her pulse races beneath your fingers, and you feel her body relax into your touch, her submission becoming more evident with every passing second. “You’re supposed to be the powerful one, remember? The one who’s always in control. How does it feel to be at my mercy?”

She doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, a broken moan escapes her lips as you finally push the tip of your cock into her. The sensation shoots through you like lightning, raw and electric, and you can’t stop the low hum that escapes your lips.

“So wet for someone who acts like she’s above it all.” you say, your voice carrying a teasing lilt. “Tell me, Agatha—do you always get this needy when you’re powerless? Or is it just for me?”

Her cheeks flush, and she glares at you, but the humiliation in her eyes only makes your smirk deepen. She tilts her hips toward you in an attempt to take more, the motion drawing a smug chuckle from your throat.

“Pathetic.” you mock, “You used to have me on my knees, begging for you. And here you are now, so desperate for my cock you can’t even hide it.”

Her lips part in a sharp, trembling intake of breath, her chest rising and falling as her wrists strain futilely against the glowing restraints above her head. 

“You think you’re in control now?” she spits, though her voice trembles. “That this makes you powerful?”

You laugh, cold and merciless, leaning in until your breath fans across the shell of her ear. 

“Oh, I don’t think.” you whisper, your words nothing but a cruel taunt. “I know.”

To drive the point home, you push deeper, and the wet, obscene sound of her body yielding to you fills the room. 

She’s molten, deliciously tight, and her slick heat draws you in like a drug. Every inch you sink into her feels like a conquest, you can feel how her body stretches to take you, how her walls tremble and clench around the pleasurable intrusion, pulling you deeper as if begging for more. 

The sensation is so vivid, so overwhelming, that a loud, unrestrained moan tears from your lips.

“Seems like I’m not the only needy one.” she murmurs, her voice trembling but cutting nevertheless. “Such pretty sounds for me.”

Her words strike a nerve, and the moment they register, your hips snap forward in one sharp, punishing thrust, driving the strap so deep your hips collide with hers. 

The impact sends a jolt through both of you, her sharp cry echoing through the air before it’s cut off as your fingers tighten around her throat.

“Is that what you wanted? Mmh?” you hiss, your voice trembling with the effort to stay in control. “To be fucked like this? To feel what it’s like to be under me for once?”

She doesn’t respond, her voice swallowed by a series of breathless moans as you pull back and thrust in again, setting a slow, languid rhythm that feels more like a claim than a motion. 

You want to break her—but not physically. Even now, even with the all this anger coursing through you, the thought of truly hurting her is unthinkable. You know you’re big, and despite everything, you couldn’t forgive yourself if you let the fury bleeding into your movements cause her pain.

Instead, you pour that intensity into control, into precision, into the way you angle your hips just right to drag your length against every sensitive spot inside her. The sound of her wetness grows louder with each thrust, mingling with the faint creak of the couch beneath you.

“Gods.” you murmur, your free hand gripping her hip to steady yourself. “You feel that, don’t you? How wet you are for me? How much you want this?”

Her head nods slightly, the motion almost instinctive, as if her body answers before her mind has time to process, before the final syllable of your last question even hangs in the air.

“Yes—fuck.” she whispers, the word trembling on her lips. “Yes, I—”

“Louder!” you command, your tone sharp as you feel it—a fresh gush of wetness enveloping you, slick and hot, pulling you in. 

“Yes!” she screams, her voice cracking under the weight of her need. “I want it—I want you.”

Her admission is a spark to the inferno raging inside you, and you give in to it, your magic surging wildly. 

Your pace quickens, your hips snapping forward with growing intensity, each thrust deeper and harder than the last, the slap of your hips against hers a relentless cadence of possession that blends with her cries.

Her wrists pull at the restraints while her back arches and her moans rise higher, each one a testament to your power over her, a surrender you claim with every punishing thrust.

Your gaze drops involuntarily, drawn to the mesmerizing rhythm of her breasts bouncing in time with your movements, and the sight instantly makes your mouth water. The memory of their softness, the way they felt against your tongue and lips, rushes back unbidden, igniting a primal urge to lean down and take one into your mouth.

But you catch yourself, clenching your jaw against the temptation. This isn’t about her pleasure. You’re not here to make her enjoy herself. You’re here to ruin her, to make her crumble under your control.

“Fuck, don’t stop.” she whispers, her voice breaking. “Don’t you dare fucking stop.”

Your eyes snap back to hers, a wicked grin spreading across your lips as your grip on her throat loosens, your hand sliding down to join the other on her hips. With both hands anchoring her in place, your pace grows ruthless, each thrust drawing louder and more desperate sounds from her.

Her walls tighten around you, squeezing your cock as the connection between you deepens, your magic tangling with hers in a way that feels both chaotic and inevitable.

And then, just as you feel teetering on the edge of release, you pull back, slowing to a maddening pace. 

Your thrusts become shallow, deliberate teases that barely fill her, leaving her gasping and writhing beneath you. Her frustration is palpable, her hips bucking in search of relief, but you hold her steady, a cruel smirk curling your lips.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” you purr, each word dripping with satisfaction. “Just say the word, Agatha. Beg me, and I’ll let you come.”

Her body tenses beneath you, every muscle taut as she fights the command with everything she has, struggling to cling to the last fleeting semblance of control. Even as her thighs quiver and her hips twitch uncontrollably, her pride holds her back, refusing to surrender to you so easily.

But as each thrust reminds her of what she’s being denied, drawing out her torment, her nails curl into her palms, her jaw tightens, and her resolve cracks little by little under the relentless pressure. 

Finally, her head tilts back, her voice breaking as the words tear from her throat. “Please—fuck… please, let me come.”

Her words ignite something feral and all-consuming. Power surges through your veins, setting your every nerve ablaze as you answer her desperate plea and resume fucking her with renewed vigor. 

You slam into her with brutal force, each thrust hitting that soft, devastatingly perfect spot inside her that makes her entire body jerk beneath you. Her eyes roll back, her cries turning into incoherent, panting moans that fuel the raw, insatiable need driving your every motion.

“That’s it.” you growl, your hand sliding down to her clit. You circle it with fast, precise movements, your fingers slick with her arousal as you push her closer to the edge. “Come for me, Agatha. Come on my cock.”

Her moans climb higher, until they peak in a scream that tears through the air as the tension within her shatters all at once. 

Agatha’s orgasm bursts forth like a supernova, bright and devastating, her walls clenching and spasming around you in rhythmic pulses that leave you breathless. She cries out your name, her voice splintering into a sob as her body quakes with the force of her release.

The sight of her—head thrown back, lips parted, her chest heaving as she trembles in the throes of ecstasy—is almost enough to undo you. But you don’t stop. You keep pounding into her, forcing her to take every inch over and over as you drive her higher, helping her ride out each wave of her climax.

And then, as you revel in the way she’s gripping you as though she never wants to let you go, and your own release threatens to overtake you, you falter.  

Because her eyes—half-lidded, blown wide, and dark with need—lock onto yours, piercing through the haze of control you’ve clung to. Her lips part, trembling, and her voice cuts through the storm.

“Fuck—please, baby.” she gasps, each word breaking into a whimper that makes your stomach tighten and your magic throb. “Come inside me. I need it—need to feel it, need you to fill me up.

That’s it. Her words, how she begged for it, the pet name falling so effortlessly from her lips, the raw desperation in her voice, the sheer thought of filling her up with your cum, of watching her take every drop like she’s made for it. It’s all more than enough to tip you over the edge.

How utterly ruined she looks beneath you only adds to it, and whatever fragile grip you had on your restraint shatters instantly, obliterated by the force of her need.

Your hips snap forward in one last devastating thrust, burying your cock into her as deep as it can go, your climax slamming into you like an explosion. 

And then it happens.

The magic within you surges implacably, a relentless flood that erupts deep inside her in thick, scorching waves. Each pulse of your cock forces more of your release into her, a molten rush that fills her completely. The bond between you roaring with life as your magic claims her from the inside out, leaving no part of her untouched.

Beneath you, Agatha’s body goes taut, her back arching violently as the blue in her eyes gets rapidly swallowed by a swirling, familiar, luminous purple. 

You can feel her magic pouring back into her, she gasps as it all overtakes her, her body trembling violently as another orgasm tears through her. But this one is unexpected, different, and even more powerful than the first. 

Her cry pierces the air, a sound of pure ecstasy and unrestrained power, unlike anything you’ve ever heard. It’s primal, otherworldly, and devastatingly beautiful. For a moment, you’re left breathless, unwillingly captivated by the sight of her. A vision that makes something inside you ache.

When the final waves of pleasure subside, you collapse onto her, your breath ragged, your body trembling with exhaustion and the lingering hum of magic. 

The restraints on her wrists dissolve, fading into shimmering sparks, and her hands hover for a moment, uncertain, before they settle gently on your back.

Her touch is light, not hesitant but careful, as though rediscovering something long lost. And as your bodies press together, it feels as if no time has passed at all since you last lay in each other’s arms.

Agatha’s chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, her lips parted as her hooded eyes lock onto yours.

Her gaze is a labyrinth, a tangle of emotions so layered and profound it’s impossible to unravel. There’s no trace of defiance, no smugness, no sharp wit lurking in the corners. Instead, disbelief and shock hum beneath the surface, while a glimmer of something softer—gratefulness, maybe even devotion—burns faintly. And yet, woven through it all is an aching, unguarded longing.

It’s a silent confession wrapped in questions, and the absence of her usual masks, the sheer vulnerability staring back at you, stirs something deep in your chest, a feeling too overwhelming to even begin to name.

As you pull out of her, you catch how her hips twitch instinctively at the sudden emptiness, and the sound she makes—a quiet, needy whine—makes your breath hitch. 

The cock dissolves in a flicker of shimmering light, fading back into the ether, but your eyes remain fixed on what it left behind.

You watch your cum drip from her, thick and glistening as it slides slowly down her folds. The sight is mesmerizing and utterly filthy, making a new rush of heat coil low in your stomach. 

Agatha notices the shift in your gaze, lazily tilting her head to follow it. When she sees what’s caught your attention, a smug grin spreads across her face, equal parts infuriating and intoxicating.

“Hmm.” she hums, her voice a sultry drawl that sends shivers down your spine. “You always did know how to leave an impression, darling.” 

She pauses, her grin deepening as her eyes flick back to yours, gleaming with sharp amusement. “Though I must say, I never expected to get my powers back this way… not that I’m complaining.”

As soon as you register her words your jaw clenches, a flush rising to your cheeks as frustration surges through you. 

That wasn’t supposed to happen. The thought echoes in your mind, relentless and deafening. You didn’t plan this—hell, you didn’t even know you could do that, and the realization leaves you stunned, reeling. 

You came here to break her, to strip her of whatever scraps of control she had left, to show her just how worthless she was without her power. You came here to make her pay.

But instead, as always, in the end, Agatha got exactly what she wanted. 

The smugness etched into her face says it all. It’s infuriating. Humiliating. Maddening. Everything always plays out in her favor, no matter how the odds stack against her. The universe itself seems to bend for her, conspiring to deliver her victory, while you’re left choking on the ashes of your intentions.

And yet, even in your frustration, there’s a selfish, shameful flicker of satisfaction burning in your chest. You gave her back her power, yes—but you did it your way. Intimate. Indelible. Something neither of you can ignore or undo. 

No matter how powerful she becomes again, no matter how she wields what’s been restored, she’ll always know who gave it back to her and how. She’ll owe you, whether she admits it or not.

In that way, you did make her pay. And the twisted irony of it feels like a cruel, bitter triumph.

Agatha notices the shift in your expression, the way your gaze has drifted into the distance as if lost in thought, and her voice slices through the haze with a softness that catches you completely off guard.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re like this.” she whispers, her tone impossibly gentle, like a secret meant only for you. ”When you’re all mine.”

Her words land like a jolt, anchoring you back to the present and cutting through the fog in your mind. 

There’s something in her voice, an aching sincerity you didn’t expect, that makes something deep inside you twist painfully.

But even if her tenderness disarms you, it still strikes a nerve, clashing violently with the anger and resentment still simmering beneath your skin. You cling to that anger desperately, using it to shield yourself from the confusion clawing at the edges of your control and threatening to drag you under.

“I’m not yours.” you snarl, but the words lack conviction, and you know she hears it.

Her grin returns, sharper now, as if she’s savoring your futile resistance. 

“Oh, darling…” she whispers, her voice dripping with equal parts confidence and affection. “You’ve always been mine.”

You open your mouth to reply, to hurl another retort that might restore some semblance of control, but the words die on your tongue as her hand moves with startling speed. 

Her fingers curl around the back of your neck, her grip firm yet trembling, and she pulls you down roughly, her lips crashing against yours before you can resist.

The kiss is instant chaos, scattering your thoughts like leaves in a storm. Her tongue slides against yours, hot and insistent, tangling and teasing with a fervor that steals the air from your lungs. 

It’s wet, messy, the taste of her flooding your senses as she kisses you with the same confident, consuming intensity she always did. 

But beneath the confidence, there’s something unspoken. 

It’s in the way her body shudders beneath you, in the way her fingers dig into your neck, in the way her lips cling to yours as though letting go might unravel her completely. The vulnerability in her touch and the aching need in her kiss cut through the haze of anger, leaving you trembling and unsure whether the ache blooming in your chest is pain, longing, or both.

But right now, whatever it is you’re feeling, you refuse to linger on it. 

You won’t allow her another second of your time, your presence. The very air around her feels oppressive, making it harder to breathe, and you know that if you stay a moment longer it will be too late to resurface.

With all the strength and willpower you can muster, you push yourself up, breaking away from her touch and from her warmth. 

You wave a hand, conjuring back your underwear and pants in a blur of hasty magic, your movements jerky and unsteady while every fiber of your being screams at you to put distance between yourself and her. To leave.

Suddenly, the bond hums again, loud and persistent, gnawing and mocking at your resolve. You grit your teeth and force yourself to ignore it, taking a couple of steps toward the door, refusing to look back. 

You’ll leave. You need to leave. You want to leave.

But with Agatha, it’s never that easy.

“Wait.”

It’s not a command. It’s not teasing or smug. It’s quiet, almost unsure, and that alone makes you hesitate.

You glance back over your shoulder, your voice sharp with all the frustration burning hot in your chest. “What could you possibly want now?”

She sits up slowly, still completely naked, making no effort to conjure clothes with the magic now thrumming through her.

“Answers.” she says, her tone smooth but tinged with a sly undertone, her gaze locked on yours with unnerving steadiness. “That’s why you came here, isn’t it? To finally hear the truth you think I owe you.” 

She pauses, her lips curving into a faint, almost teasing smile as her eyes flick downward to her still-bare body. “Especially after… this.” Her eyes return to yours, glinting with amusement. “I suppose it’s only fair.”

You fold your arms across your chest, your anger warring with the pull of her words. 

“You owe me more than answers.” you bite back, your voice cutting and cold. “You owe me years of my life, years of trying to understand why you left.”

“And you’ll have them.” her voice softer now, almost disarming. “But not like this.”

Your eyes narrow, suspicion curling in the pit of your stomach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She rises slowly, her movements deliberate as she closes the distance between you. Her nakedness robs her of nothing—if anything, it sharpens her power, her control. 

When she reaches you, her hand lifts to cup your cheek, her touch infuriatingly warm, a silent challenge wrapped in unsettling intimacy.

“Stay.” she says, her thumb skimming your skin with a tenderness that makes your breath hitch. “We’ll talk. Over dinner. But only if you stay.”

You bristle at the condition, your pride flaring. 

“Using my need for closure as leverage?” you ask, your voice biting. “How very you.”

Her grin returns, sharper now, but her eyes betray a flicker of something gentler. 

“Oh, darling.” she purrs, her voice dripping with confidence, “I know you want this, so, let’s not play pretend. I’d say we’re well past that point, wouldn’t you?”

Your jaw tightens, the weight of her gaze making it hard to hold onto your anger. You hate that she’s right. Hate that you want to stay, that the bond between you has wrapped itself around your heart so tightly you can’t bear to leave.

“Fine. Dinner.” you say, your voice clipped. “But no games, Agatha. You owe me the truth.”

Her smirk deepens for a moment, a glimmer of mischief flashing in her eyes, before softening into a genuine, almost nostalgic smile. 

“No games.” she whispers, her tone unexpectedly gentle. “Just dinner… like old times.”

You shake your head, as if trying to clear the lingering warmth of her touch. But it stays with you as you watch her move toward the kitchen, humming softly to herself.

As you follow her, you can’t help but wonder if staying will be your salvation or your undoing. But with Agatha, it’s never a question of one or the other—it’s always both, tangled together in a way that, after all this time, you’re starting to realize you were never meant to escape.

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 10

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen, We have apparently now reached the time where I also bash Ferrari. I am sure they are super nice in real life too. They are not in this. Labour.

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Chapter 10 of 12!

“Breathe,” Victoria kept insisting.

“You are doing so well, Choupinette,” her mother cooed.

Colette was quite certain that she was going to die. 

At least it felt like it.

The pain was overwhelming. It didn’t feel like her body could take any more of it. The contractions were so strong and the pain was blinding in its intensity. She wasn’t certain if she could do this anymore.

“I can’t do this,” Colette choked out.

“Yes, you can,” Victoria insisted. Her voice was firm and steady. “You absolutely can do this. You’re already so far along, you just have to push. You can do this.”

"Just breathe," her mother said soothingly, stroking back her hair. "You are doing so well."

But she wasn’t doing well. 

She wanted Max. No, she needed Max.

She needed him so badly. She didn’t want to do this by herself. 

Colette cried out in pain as another very strong contraction hit her, clenching her teeth through it. "Max," she sobbed. "I need Max."

"I know," Victoria said, stroking her hand. "I know you do. But you can do this. Just a little bit longer, okay? It won’t be long now."

She didn’t want to do this without him. But what other choice did she have?

A strangled sob escaped her throat as she clutched her mother’s hand desperately as another contraction hit.

“We’re going to need you to push now,” the doctor said firmly. “You need to start pushing with the contractions.”

Colette cried out in pain as she tried her very best to push like they were telling her to. The pain was blinding in its intensity. But it hurt. Gods, it hurt more than anything that she had ever experienced. It was like her body was about to rip itself in half.

"You’re doing so well," her mother cooed.

"Keep Pushing."

Another strangled scream escaped her. "Max," she sobbed. "I need Max. I need him. I can’t do this.”

Victoria stroked her hair. "It’s almost over, Colette. It’s almost over. Just a little bit more," Vic promised her. 

Colette wanted to give up, she wanted to give in. She wanted the pain to end. But more than anything else, she just wanted Max.

Another scream was torn from her, a ragged cry of pain as a particularly severe contraction tore through her. She was certain that she wasn’t going to survive this. The pain was too severe.

"Keep Pushing."

"Keep Pushing."

"Push, Push, Push"

She didn’t understand how they expected her to keep going. She could feel herself flagging, she was so exhausted.

The room was a blur around her, dark spots dancing at the corner of her vision. The sound of her own screams echoed in her ears, the pain almost overwhelming. She thought she was going to pass out.

She heard the door open.

A small part of the pain-hazed part of her mind registered the sound. She thought she was hallucinating. Surely that wasn’t the sound of the door opening. Surely she was just losing her mind under the excruciating strain.

“That took you too fucking long,” Victoria snapped. Colette would have smiled, if she hadn’t been currently in the middle of pushing. Max's familiar voice echoed in her ears, and for one sweet second, the pain all but vanished.

And then he was there.  Her heart jumped and a small sob escaped her. Max. It was really Max. He was there. He was right beside her.

Dry lips pressed against her sweat slick forehead. “Liefje.“

He was there. He was really there. 

"Max," she sobbed out. "You’re here. You’re really here."

"Of course I am," he said shakily. He pushed back her sweaty hair from her forehead. "You didn’t think I was going to let you do this without me, do you?"

She wanted to tell him that, in all honesty, she had thought exactly that. If he hadn’t shown up, she would have had to do this without him. But she was too exhausted, and in too much pain to form the words. All she could do was clutch at his hand, desperately clinging onto him like a lifeline.

Max immediately threaded his fingers through hers, holding her hand tightly. "I’m right here," he soothed. "I’m not going anywhere.” He was giving her something solid to hang onto. 

“Another push,” the doctor encouraged.

With Max holding her hand, Colette gave one last, desperate push.

She was certain that she was going to pass out. She didn’t understand how she was still conscious. The pain was mind-numbing in its intensity. "Once more,” the doctor said firmly. “I can see the head. Just one more push.”

Colette whimpered, her breath coming in short sharp sobs. "I can’t,” she cried in exhaustion. "I can’t."

"You can,” Max said fiercely. “You are the strongest goddamn person I know, and if anyone can do this, it’s you. Just one more push, come on, liefje."

His grip on her hand was so tight, it was almost painful, but that brief moment of pain was worth it. Feeling Max's presence beside her, holding onto her so desperately with his fingers threaded firmly through hers, it was the only thing that gave her the last little bit of strength that she needed.

With a long, ragged scream, she gave one last push, pouring everything she had into it.

She could hear Max beside her, talking to her soothingly, but the words were all blending together. Her senses were slowly fading. "Push, you can do it, you’re almost done." The words were coming at her from all sides now, swirling and echoing amongst the darkness of her hazy vision, and it was all she could do to grip Max’s hand, and listen to the sound of his voice.

And then it was over.

The searing pain suddenly stopped. 

For just a moment, everything was quiet. 

A cry cut through the sudden silence

The sound echoed around them, small and shrill and so very loud in the stillness of the room. A choked gasp of relief escaped Colette as she slumped back against the pillows, utterly exhausted.

"There you go," Max murmured, gently wiping back the hair from her forehead. "It’s over, it’s over now. You did so well, liefje. You’ve done it."

She wanted to speak, to say something to him in return, but her tongue was so heavy in her mouth it would hardly form words. Her mind was still a blur of exhaustion, relief and adrenaline. All she could muster was a small whimper as she felt his hand gently stroking her hair.

The sound of the infant’s cries rang out again, more strongly this time. “Here,” the doctor said, sounding a little amused. “Let’s get that little girl on maman’s chest.”

Through the haze, Colette felt an immense amount of exhausted relief, as the doctor carefully placed a small, wiggling bundle on her chest.

The baby was beautiful. Small and new and perfect, and Colette felt like the very breath had been knocked out of her. All the exhaustion and the pain was suddenly entirely worth it as she cradled the tiny baby in her arms.

"Hello, bébé," she breathed softly, the words coming out as a whisper. “I thought you were going to be a boy,” she choked 

A broad smile covered her face as she gently stroked the downy soft tufts of dark hair covering the baby’s head. The small, tiny, perfect little fingers wrapped around her own, and Colette’s heart felt so full it felt like it was going to burst.

"I was right," Max said, the words somewhat choked. His voice sounded almost strangled, and she didn’t need to look to know that there were tears running down his face.

Colette looked up at him then, taking in with a mixture of affection and amusement how utterly awestruck he looked. He was crying openly, tears running unashamedly down his cheeks.

“We did it,” she told Max.

“We did,” He said, his voice still choked with emotion. “She’s so beautiful.” Max sounded utterly wrecked.

Colette couldn’t help but share his feelings as she looked back down at the baby in her arms. The small infant had opened her eyes for a brief moment, revealing the most vividly blue eyes that Colette had ever seen. “She got your eyes.”

“And your hair,” Max said, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch the soft dark locks on the baby’s head.

The baby gave a little gurgle, waving her tiny hand as if to reach out for his fingers. “Hello, mooi meisje,” he said softly, his voice still sounding a little choked, as the baby tried to wrap her fingers around his own.

"She's absolutely perfect," Colette whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the tiny, perfect bundle of joy in her arms.

"Just like her mother," Max said, his voice hoarse. He stroked his finger down the baby's soft cheek, the most gentle of touches.

***

In the end…he made it with minutes to spare.

He couldn’t describe the relief that he felt when he finally burst through the door, to find Colette in the midst of giving birth. He had been so terrified that he wouldn’t make it in time.

And now here he was, sitting beside her on the bed, their daughter in her arms, safe and sound and utterly, utterly perfect.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of them both. Colette was beautiful, despite looking utterly exhausted. Her face was pale and slick with sweat, but she had never look more lovely.

And their daughter… Their daughter was perfect. Tiny, and new, the sweetest thing that Max had ever seen. He gently ran his finger down her soft, plump cheek, marveling at the sheer fragility of her.

And he couldn't stop crying. This was his family. His.

They had hoped so desperately for so long, and now there was their little girl. And she had been worth it. Worth all the heartbreak.

His eyes stung and his throat was constricting, but he couldn't help it. He knew he must look a mess, tears running unashamedly down his face and throat choked up, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered. They were here, and safe, and together.

He looked down at the baby’s tiny, perfect face, her closed eyes, her nose. She had Colette’s hair, and his eyes, and Max thought that if it was possible to die of love, he was dangerously close to that moment right there.

He reached out a shaking hand to touch his daughter’s tiny fist, his own hand dwarfing hers. She opened her eyes again for a brief second, and he could have sworn that she smiled at him for just an instant.

The tears ran more freely down his face now at that thought. His daughter, his little girl, his precious perfect baby, smiled at him. It might have just been a trick of his own overjoyed emotional state, but right then, Max was convinced that it had been a real smile.

"She's perfect, liefje," he whispered, his words coming out a little choked. "She's so damn perfect.”

"Dad, you want to cut the cord?" the doctor asked him.

The question seemed to take a moment to register in his hazy emotional state, but when it did, Max’s breath caught in his chest for a moment. And then just as quickly, he nodded mutely.

In a daze, he reached for the small pair of scissors that the midwife handed over to him, cutting the umbilical cord under her careful supervision.

He was in a daze, even when they took his daughter from Colette to check her over and bath her. "Stay with her," Colette told him softly. "Go on."

Max nodded, unable to find the words to answer to her. He stood up on slightly shaky legs, watching as the midwife took his daughter over to the small bassinet and started to check her over.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his baby, tiny and perfect and theirs. All the years of trying, all the hope and the heartbreaks, and now there was their little girl, safe and sound.

He got to watch her be bathed and then swaddled right into a soft pink swaddle that he knew he himself had bought because Colette kept insisting that it was a boy...and then he finally got to hold her in his arms and cry some more, because she was perfect.

He cradled her small, tiny form in his arms, his fingers trembling a little as he gently touched the soft downy skin of her cheek. Her weight was barely anything at all in his arms, and for a moment, terror gripped his heart. Was he holding her too hard? What if he hurt her?

"You aren't going to hurt her," Victoria said suddenly and he stared at his sister that sat down next to her. "You aren't. I promise you. Babies aren't as breakable as they look," she teased him softly. "Congrats, Maxie."

Max nodded, a little startled. He had honestly forgotten that his sister was even there, the arrival of his baby girl had taken up most of his attention.

"Thanks, Vic," he managed, his voice still choked. 

He looked down at the baby in his arms again. They had wrapped her tightly in the pink swaddle that he himself had insisted on months ago. He had been so sure that the baby was a girl. And he had been right.

He wouldn't have cared either way, but...he had been right.

"She's perfect," he whispered, his eyes burning.

Victoria smiled, watching him with a softness in her eyes that Max wasn't sure he had seen before. “You’re a father,” she said simply. “How does it feel?”

“Like my heart’s going to explode with pure happiness,” Max admitted, looking back down at his daughter in his arms. “Like I can’t breathe. Like I’m dreaming. I don’t…I don’t know how to describe it.”

"Welcome to the sleep deprivation community that is parenthood," Vic joked softly. "You are going to be the best father," she told him.

It made him choke up. That absolute certainty with which his little sister said that, a hand on his shoulder. "You are going to be the best father to her," Victoria promised him fiercely.

Fresh tears welled up in his eyes as he looked up at his sister. “I’ll do my best,” he managed to say, his voice a little choked. “I’ll do absolutely anything for her, for both of them. Anything in the world.”

They didn't often talk about their childhood...about all the things that had gone down...the long drawn out screaming matches they could remember before their parents had divorced and the separation that came afterwards...

They didn’t like to talk about it. It was one of those things that they usually just skirted around, because when they brought it up, old feelings and emotions came up with it. And the fights weren’t pleasant to remember...

But in that moment, Max felt a profound sense of relief. For the first time, he was glad those fights had happened, because if they hadn’t…he and Vic wouldn’t have the relationship they had now, and he wouldn’t have learned, from all of the pain and heartbreak of those fights, what not to do. He never wanted his daughter to grow up like that. He never wanted her to feel the pain of a broken family like they had.

And he knew that he would do absolutely everything in his power to prevent that from happening. He and Colette would keep their family tightly together and protect and love their little girl with everything that they had.

No matter what.

A fresh wave of tears welled up in his eyes at the thought of that. "I don't ever want her to grow up like we did, Vic," he managed to say, the words still a little choked. "I don't ever want her to feel like we did."

"She won't," Vic assured him, her voice still soft. "Because you're going to be a great father. She'll grow up feeling loved and wanted and safe. I know that, Maxie."

His throat felt as if it was slowly closing up. "Thanks, bink," he managed to say, his voice cracking. "It means a lot. I..." His eyes stung, and he swallowed hard. "I couldn't ever thank you enough for being here. For being with us."

For coming even when he handn’t asked…for somehow knowing without being told what they needed.

His sister just smiled at him, her blue eyes, so similar to his own, sparkling. "She’s my niece," she reminded him. "You're not getting rid of me. I'm going to spoil her rotten, you know that?"

"You are going to have fierce competition, Victoria" Pascale said softly.

He looked up to where Colette's mother was tucking her own daughter back into the bed, fussing over her. Colette looked better than she had before, freshly showered, still exhausted, but no longer...no longer looking like she was going to faint any minute.

Colette was already sitting up, even though she would be in pain for a while, a testament to her usual stubbornness.

"Maxie." Colette didn't need to say more than that, as he stood and crossed the room, safely putting their daughter back on her mother's chest.

He sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to jostle her too much. "Hey," he said softly, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders. "How are you feeling, liefje?"

"I'm okay," she said softly, resting her head weakly against him. "Sore. Tired. Happy. Went through 6 hours of labour, only to give birth to your and Charles' clone," she said drily, making her mother laugh.

Max smiled faintly, resting his head against hers. “Charles?” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"She does look awfully similiar," Pascale agreed.

Max gave a small laugh, glancing back down at the baby. He supposed there was a resemblance, if one knew what to look for. “She’s not a clone,” he countered, a note of mock offense in his voice. “She’s a perfect mix of us.”

"With what I am pretty certain is Charles' nose," Colette said drily.

Max laughed faintly, reaching out to gently touch the baby’s tiny nose with his finger. It narrowed just so at the tip… “Maybe,” he conceded thoughtfully. 

His daughter stirred faintly at the contact, a small noise coming from her mouth that sounded a bit like a grumble. Max smiled at the sound. 

“And I’m pretty sure she’s just as stubborn as her mother,” he teased Colette.

She reached up to lightly smack his hand, but her smile was fond. “Like you aren’t just as stubborn,” she retorted.

Their daughter took that moment to complain loudly for once and Colette shifted her slightly, unbuttoning her pyjama top.  At least one thing went down with absolutely no fuss whatsoever. A few minutes later, their daughter had greedily nursed, burped and was back to slumbering quietly. 

"Are the three musketeers still outside?" Colette asked.

“They are,” Max confirmed, brushing a strand of hair back from Colette’s face. He had all but forgotten about Colette’s brothers.

"Get them," Colette said softly.

Max smiled. "All of them?" he teased. He knew that was exactly what she had meant."All of them," she nodded.

[yamumsyadadd]

the forgotten girl (11)

originally posted on my old account. Trip loading twice weekly :)

Alexia’s pov 

“Ale please stay. Don’t leave me, please.” Hearing her beg for me not to leave her broke my heart. 

“I’ll be right back bebé, I’m just getting some water.” 

Alba and Mami were sitting on couch when it went out to the kitchen. 

“She asked me not to leave, so I’m going to go back in there. You should go home. Thank you for your help.” I set back off to Amelia’s room. The heart breaking scene of her curled into a ball, her eyes red and swollen, and the sound of sniffles through the air. 

I put her phone on charge and her water bottle on her bed side table, quickly making my way to the other side of the bed and climbing in. Pulling her into my arms and holding her until she fell asleep. After she had been asleep for half an hour, I messaged Keira and Lucy. Telling them I had Mil and asked them to come to her apartment. I didn’t know what to do. Im not good with my own emotions, and helping someone who is so deeply hurt is new to me. 

Keira Walsh: I’m here. Let me in please. 

Reluctantly, I got up, slowly in hopes to not wake Mil. The afternoon sun has lit up the apartment, it was bright and golden, a solemn contrast to the way Mils room felt. Opening the door, I was shocked to see someone else with Keira. Leah Williamson. 

“Hi Alexia.” The England captain shyly said. I opened the door further to let both women in. 

“Sorry, I thought it would be best to call Leah. She knows everything that happened with Milly and she got on the first flight here.” I nodded my head in understanding, that was smart in Keira’s behalf. 

“Is she asleep?” 

“Yeah. She was at the beach surfing and Mami bought us back here. She was just sitting in the shower with boiling water on her, she looked.” I had to take a second to compose myself, I would not be crying in front of Leah. “She looked broken.”

Keira and Leah just looked at each other. Sharing knowing looks and then Leah spoke up. 

“She said she loved you, right? That’s what caused this?” 

“Yes.” 

“I think we should all sit down. You need to hear this Alexia.” 

There were a few things in this world that make me anxious. Meeting my sisters new girlfriends, doing interviews in English, teenage boys and Amelia Higgins. 

“Okay so obviously you know the public details of what happened with Emily and her?” 

“Si” 

“Emily was going to end things. She had written down on a piece of paper everything she wanted to say. Basically consisted of that she was still in love with Mil. Mil was still her favourite person and that Mil was her soulmate, but Emily wasn’t hers.”

“Right? Okay?”

“Emily always knew that Mils heart didn’t completely belong to her. I think she hoped that over time it would change but it never did. Mil has always loved you.” 

I didn’t say anything. This was a lot to take in, her own friends telling me she has always loved me? What could’ve happened if I had said something earlier? Ended things with Jenni earlier? 

“Ale.” Keira grabbed my hands, taking my attention away from ripping my nails off. “She doesn’t want to love you because she’s scared. After being given the note, she blamed herself. Mil thinks she caused this. She doesn’t want anything to happen to you or to your family. If you truly love her like I think you do, you’ll need to let her come to you. There’s nothing more I want than to see you both happily together but that won’t happen unless she comes to you.” 

“I’ll wait for her. I don’t care how long it takes but I won’t leave her.” 

We didn’t talk after that, the sun started setting and they were talking about ordering food for dinner. 

“I think I’m going to go home. I think it’ll, uh, it’ll be better if I’m not here when she wakes up.” 

Before Leah or Keira could reply, Amelia yelled out from the bedroom.

“Alexia? Alexia? Fuck ale please come back. I need you to come back.” her voice broke, thinking I’d left her when she needed me the most. Running back into the room, I quickly climbed into the bed and pulled her into my chest. 

“No amor. I’m here. I’m not leaving you, okay? I’m here.” I felt her nod her head against my chest, then her tears slowly wet my shirt. I didn’t care about Keira or Leah in the lounge room, all I cared about was Amelia and making sure she felt safe and comfortable. 

Leah came in a short while later, letting me know she would be staying in the spare room and to yell out if either of us needed anything. As I lay there with Amelia’s head on my chest, her arms wrapped tightly around my waist, and mine around hers, the only thing I could think of is how I could get used to this feeling. Selfish I know but it’s the truth. 

By 9pm, the house was completely quiet and dark. Everyone was sleeping or enjoying the peaceful evening. 

As the sun came through Amelia’s bedroom curtains, I felt lighter. Slowly opening my eyes I noticed she wasn’t in the room, the side of the bed she slept in was cold, her phone was gone and her favourite hoodie and wetsuit that hung on the back of her door. She was surfing. Of course. Deciding now was the best time to leave and go back to my own house, I quickly made her bed, opened her bedroom window and got the bottles of water to put in the bin. 

I had forgotten Leah was there, Keira seemingly had come too. 

“Morning capi” Keira handed over coffee. 

“Gracias.” Inhaling the smell of coffee before taking the first sip. 

“Is she awake?” Leah jerked her head towards the door. 

“She’s surfing.” No one said anything for a moment. “I’m gonna go. I’ll see you later.” Turning quickly , before either could stop me. 

I sat in my car contemplating what to do, I thought about messaging Alba, but it was too complicated. Mapi was next, but again, complicated. The only person I truly wanted to talk to was Amelia. But I wasn’t sure if she wanted that. Despite the thoughts telling me to leave her alone, I made my way to the beach. Stopping to get her a coffee so she could have it when she got out. 

Since it was still early, it was easy to park and find her stuff. I made myself comfortable and waited. I didn’t have to wait too long because she had noticed me and started making her way back to the shore. 

“I got you a coffee. Caramel latte right?” I asked as I handed it to her. 

“Thanks Ale.” She sat down, closer to me than usual. 

Silence engulfed us. 

“So Leah’s here huh?” She said more as a question than a statement. 

“Yeah. She came last night. Keira rang her apparently and she got on the first flight.” 

“I don’t know how to do this Ale.” She whispered, I turned to look at her, confused. 

“Do what?” 

“Us. It was easier when I lived in England. I didn’t have to see you everyday, be close to you, listen to you laugh at something Mapi said or watch you with Vicky and Jana. I could watch you from a distance, love you from a distance. But now? Now I’m here and it’s almost too much. It’s so-“ 

“Overwhelming?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I feel the same way.” She rested her head on my shoulder, my arm wrapping around her shoulder. 

We stayed like that for a while. It was nice. But it wouldn’t last. 

[goodlucktai]

one of the rotten ones

rottmnt word count: 2k pairing: don & leo, don & OC title borrowed from anthems for a seventeen year old by yeule part of the archer au :) read on ao3

x

“I don’t think Gio likes me,” Donnie blurts. 

He’d feel self-conscious if he was pressed to admit it anywhere else, but he’s in the infirmary, and the only one around to hear him say so is his twin. 

They’re moving into hour two of Leo’s “faves” playlist and the fourth consecutive Taylor Swift song even though he swore he put it on shuffle. Leo is going through cabinets and shelves systematically, updating inventory on his phone, while Donnie infodumps about energy storage and projectile dynamics and the breaking strength of crossbow string. 

Donatello’s base knowledge of this particular ranged weapon is severely lacking, which is a significant personal problem for him now that he has a sibling with a preference for archery. He needs to be the world’s leading expert on the subject yesterday. He has half a dozen half-formed plans for things like sonar bolts for 3-D mapping, which may or may not have been inspired by the Jupiter Jim Pluto Vacation run.   

Only every glance at the project folder simply labeled ‘G-01’ causes an uncomfortable feeling to squirm to life in his stomach, not unlike the Krang tentacles that had attached themselves to his carapace on the day the world didn’t end. 

Donnie isn’t good at people. He doesn’t know how they tick, and there are no reliable lines of code or handy user manuals that he can fall back on when he’s mystified by human behavior. 

His siblings don’t have the same problem. Leo is perceptive to a degree that borders upon clairvoyance, Mikey is the single-most emotionally intelligent member of their family, Raph is more charming than he gets credit for, and April can talk her way through any closed door, police tape or VIP-only entrance. None of them fumble the way Donnie does when a social interaction goes off-script, like it’s a volleyball that got served his way without the ample warning he needs to be anything approaching passable at the sport. 

But he knows he’s not imagining it—the way Gio seems to brace himself when Donnie comes into the room, like he’s expecting a confrontation every time. Like the last thing Donatello could want with him is something good. 

Donnie can be a lot. They all can. They come by it honestly, equal parts chaotic lab experiments and their father’s sons. And not every structure is built to withstand hurricane winds. Not every person is equipped to deal with a Hamato level weather event. 

But he has never seen Gio flinch away from anyone else. 

So he did what he always did when confronted by something outside his formidable repertoire—he took it to Leo. 

There had never in Donnie’s life been a problem that couldn’t be made into their problem. It came with twin territory. 

And Donnie’s twin in particular is good at translating Donatello and translating other people for Donatello, and jumps on any chance to be helpful and feel wanted, and absolutely loves problems. It’s one of the most annoying and endearing things about him. If there is any trouble within a hundred miles, Leo will find it. He will worm his way into the center of it and then puzzle his way out from the inside. Most other clever and curious people were satisfied by the daily Wordle; Leo would chew through a wall unless he had something more hands-on to occupy his mind with. As polar-opposite as the two of them could be in, in that regard, they were one and the same. 

It’s somewhat reassuring to Donnie that Leo’s immediate reaction is plain incredulity. He looks baffled, like Donnie has just started throwing stuff around the room for no reason. 

(He knows better. In the medbay, of all places, that would be a death wish. Leo runs a tight ship here and only here.)

“Sorry, you don’t think Gio likes you?” Leo says slowly. “Our Gio? The guy who let you infodump about the mycelial networks of fungi to him for almost two hours, all because Mikey mentioned he was making mushroom stir-fry for dinner?” 

Donnie scoffs, but he can’t help but feel warmed by the reminder. Gio had settled right in, the way he always did once he was sure of his welcome, and watched Donnie talk like nothing more interesting existed on this side of the equator.

“His eyes didn’t even glaze over,” Leo goes on, doing what he always does and pressing the advantage. “That’s a new personal best in this family. Even April started looking for a window to climb out of at the thirty minute mark.”

“There was bound to be at least one other mutant turtle in the New York metropolitan area with an appreciation for botany,” Donnie says imperiously, tilting his chin up. 

But the worry is still there, firmly rooted, trying to flower. Leo must be able to tell because his frown deepens, playfulness evaporating by the second. He pauses the music and sets his phone down. The room rings in the sudden silence, but it’s not uncomfortable, because it’s a room Donnie exists in with his twin. 

“I just want him to like me,” Donnie says. It’s a childish want, it makes him feel half his age, but it’s true. 

He was never one of those human kids lingering near the playground, on the edge of the classroom, desperate to fit in. He was never on the outs because he never had the chance to be. But this is probably what that would have felt like. 

Giorgio is quiet by default, absorbing everything with dark brown eyes, always pausing to think before speaking in a low, flat register that is becoming as familiar to Donnie as Raph’s comforting rumbles and Mikey’s energetic shrieks and Leo’s sweet or sly laughter. 

He hasn’t been anything but kind since he got here. He saved Leo, brought him home from a place it should have been impossible to come home from, so Donatello would put up with any manner of assholery from that quarter in exchange—but it’s not that at all. 

Once Gio’s initial guard goes up and then comes down, once they outlive that moment of consideration that verges upon scrutiny without ever crossing the line, the eldest turtle softens for any younger one like clockwork. He indulges whatever noise or nonsense they’ve brought with them like there is no better use of his time. 

It doesn’t seem like a lie. But Donnie is the least qualified person he knows to make that judgement call. 

There’s a lot at stake if he’s wrong, is all. 

Leo looks like Donnie has taken a melon baller to his insides just for fun. 

“I’d know if he didn’t like you,” Leo says with absolute certainty. And he probably would. And he would take it so personally. He wouldn’t let Gio know a single moment’s rest until the spotted turtle had a coming-to-Jesus moment and acknowledged his wrongdoings in canceled Youtuber apology video format. 

Since that isn’t the reality they live in—and Leo’s daily relentless pestering of Gio is harmless and little-sibling-shaped and decidedly not mean-spirited by any stretch of the imagination—some small part of the tight, unhappy feeling in Donnie’s heart has no choice but to accept that as the compelling argument it is. 

“He probably misses you, Tello,” Leo adds, something softening in his face that it hurts to look directly at. “His you, I mean. I know I would be a train wreck cosplaying as a person if I had to go someplace I’d never see you again. Can you imagine how screwed-up I’d be?”

Donnie’s whole soul shudders at the idea, at the nightmare that almost came true when the portal closed around the Technodrome and as good as severed Donnie clean down the middle. At the glimpse of a life he’d be forced to live with one leg, one lung, one arm, one eye, half a heart. 

“That’ll never happen,” he says, a little too loud. 

“You’re stuck with me,” Leo agrees. He means it, Donnie can tell—even after that almost-nightmare he put his family through, he means it. It’s one thing to take the nuclear option at the actual on-paper end of the world, it’s another to sit in a safe, warmly-lit room with his twin brother and try to conceive of an existence in which their dynamic duo was whittled down to a solo act. 

When they were little, Donnie once tried to explain how big the unobservable universe was. He told Leo that light from the big bang hadn’t reached Earth from all the way over there yet. It was a concept he struggled with as a child, that something could be so unknowable and immeasurable.

“That’s how big my ‘I love you’ is,” he said, all of seven years old and putting it into words the best way he knew how.

“I love you bigger than that,” Leo said promptly. 

“Ugh, you can’t,” Donnie said, frustrated at his twin for always trying to one-up him, for not understanding the huge thing Donnie was trying to compress and fit into his hands. “It’s not possible.”

“It is,” Leo said firmly, eyes gold to match Donnie’s, warm and shining in a way that was all his own. “I do.”

And then Leo went on to prove it. In a way Donnie never would have wanted him to—in an explosion that split the sky and left flash burns in their eyes, and the hollow pain of a surgical removal as the still-beating heart of their family was cut away, and the discordant electronic fuzz where a beloved voice had been rushing through last words, replaced by the sound of a radio without a signal, a device unpaired—but he proved it in a thousand other ways, too. 

He was even proving it now, this afternoon he spent leaning on a forearm crutch and ambling around to various shelves and cabinets to keep up with his stock of medical supplies that had been severely depleted in the weeks after the invasion. Leo had carried bandaids and lidocaine spray in a tiny tote bag since he was two feet tall. He couldn’t stop bad things from happening but he could try to make the bad things better. 

He’s looking at Donnie like he would right every wrong for him if he knew where to start. Like the unobservable universe was small enough to fit in his pocket compared to the lengths Leonardo would go for Donatello. 

Leo is the younger twin, but sometimes the only thing there is for Donnie to do is shuffle over and bonk their foreheads together and believe him. 

“If Gigi hated you, he wouldn’t be a Hamato,” Leo announces, muffled and silly and entirely correct. “It’s a required qualification. You must have missed that meeting with HR.” And then, because it’s important, he whispers, “I promise, okay?”

“Okay,” Donnie whispers back. 

At about that moment, TSwift’s I Think He Knows comes on, proving once and for all that there is actually no way Leo’s playlist is on shuffle. The weighted moment they’re holding on tight to transitions into a lighter one that gets flung haphazardly around as an immediate life-or-death struggle for the phone ensues. 

Stalemate is only reached when Splinter barges in to read them the riot act for daring to roughhouse while they had a non-zero number of broken bones between the two of them. Leo is bright-eyed with mischief and already fast-talking their way out of trouble the same effortless way April can rattle off her brothers’ favorite coffee orders, and Donnie’s worry has been soundly evicted, all its belongings in boxes in the yard. 

Sitting around has never been his style. He’s a turtle of discovery and invention. And now that he’s been reassured that the absolute worst-case scenario is not on the table—that it, in fact, was never on the table to begin with—curiosity rears its head and snaps up the dregs of anxiety like a hungry wolfhound who mistook it for an unattended rack of lamb. 

Hypothesis: Georgie isn’t being weird out of dislike of Donatello. Leo’s certain he’s not, so certain that he was willing to promise, point-blank and absolute, instead of being tricky and sly in the name of cheering Donnie up instead. Leo even offered a much more palatable alternative, but further evidentiary support is required. 

So after dinner a week later, as the whole family crowds comfortably around the banana split bar spilling across the entire kitchen island and argues over which toppings Gio and Casey should stack their bowls with first, Donnie blurts, “Can I see your crossbow?”

Giorgio really is one of the clowns in this circus. He proves it by putting his ice cream down, and picking the bow up from where it was relegated to the bench seat where everyone tosses their coats and shoes when they get home, and passing it right over. No normal person would put a loaded weapon in Donnie’s hands just because he asked nicely. 

As if in tacit agreement, both of Casey’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline and Raph makes incredulous scoffing noises. April says, “You did not just—” at the same time Splinter blusters, “Purple, you fire that thing off in this house even once and I am grounding you from everything you know and love, including Orange!” and Donnie screeches, over Mikey and Leo’s hysterical laughter, “I can be trusted with projectile weaponry!”

The crossbow has been carefully maintained, but it hasn’t been used in weeks that Donnie is aware of. They’ve all stuck pretty close to home since the invasion, and it’s not like Gio knows anyone but them—it’s not like they need firepower for grocery hauls or pizza runs, though, knowing their luck, that could change any given day. 

But Gio still cleans it regularly, and he’s become a familiar sight at the kitchen table; parts spread out on an oil-stained rag, meticulous and methodical with the one belonging he brought here with him from the future other than the clothes on his back and the colorful friendship bracelet on his right wrist. 

It’s important to him, clearly, but he’s letting Donnie handle it with an indulgent look on his face. Like there are no better hands to leave it in than his little brother’s. 

Because he’s at risk of having a whole emotion about that out loud, where his entire family is assembled to witness it, Donnie quickly turns his mind onto the much safer road of gadgetry.  

He has never actually held a crossbow before, has never built or used one, but he’s been doing a lot of research. He has a lot of ideas. He wants to print mechanical broadhead arrows with explosive tips, or tear gas canisters, or EMP charges. It’s a brand new world of creative chaos and that’s not even touching all the build customizations Donnie has in mind. His fingers are already itching to dismantle and reassemble the machine into something better, something that won’t ever fail, something his big brother will love. 

Only—huh. What feels like a low-level electric current thrums to quiet life like it was waiting to be noticed by the right pair of eyes, just enough of a static shock to get his attention and guide his hand to the rail. Glowing purple does the work of an allen wrench in seconds and a handful of screws clatter to the table. Donnie removes the scope in one sure motion, and moves on to snap the rail from the stock. 

Raph says, low and warning, “Donnie,” intimately familiar with gremlin gadget mode and all the kitchen appliances and shared toys destroyed in Donnie’s early years in the name of science. But he’s not breaking this time, he’s just looking. 

He flips the rail over in his hands and finds the source of that odd electricity-conductive feeling. Hidden on the underside is a small embossed logo that Donnie would recognize anywhere, because it’s his.

“A-ha!” he says, absurdly pleased with the discovery. “A Genius Built mod.” 

The rail was one of the first things he’d had in mind to upgrade, but it looks like he’d beaten himself to the punch. 

“With a custom rail, we can add whatever attachments we want to the stock, way beyond just an average scope or a rangefinder,” Donnie says eagerly, his mind darting ahead in three different directions at once. “The world is our oyster, Georgie!” 

He can’t help grinning. His logo on Gio’s prized possession is that last little bit of evidence he needed. He’s never been happier to be wrong, and will endure Leo’s smugness for an unheard of two entire business days before initiating retaliation. 

No version of Donatello would put that mark on anything unless he really cared about it. 

And Gio wouldn’t lift the rail from Donnie’s hands, and touch his thumb to that stylized “D” as if to prove to himself that it was real, an expression of painful wistful longing on his face, unless he really cared, too. 

[clarkeyhill]

jealousy, jealousy | Arthur hill

Angst.

It started with a stupid comment, one of those offhand remarks that shouldn’t have meant anything but hit harder than it should have. We were at a party, the music pounding, the room crowded with faces I barely recognized. Arthur had been standing by the bar, laughing with some girl I didn’t know—a tall, effortlessly gorgeous blonde who had been flipping her hair and leaning in just a little too close for comfort.

When he came back to me, drink in hand, I couldn’t help the sharp edge in my voice. “Making friends?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, his usual smirk tugging at his lips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said, crossing my arms, the words already dripping with sarcasm. “Just looked like you and Barbie were hitting it off.”

And that was all it took.

“What, I can’t have a conversation without you getting jealous?” Arthur snapped, his tone harsher than I expected.

“I’m not jealous!” I shot back, though the heat in my cheeks said otherwise. “I just don’t appreciate you giving her all your attention while I’m standing here like an idiot.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, the tension between us thickening. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you’re being an asshole,” I retorted, stepping closer, the space between us crackling like a live wire.

The argument spiraled fast, our voices rising above the music, drawing a few curious glances from nearby partygoers.

“She’s just a girl,” Arthur said, his hands gesturing wildly. “You’re the one I’m here with. What more do you want from me?”

“What I want,” I hissed, my voice sharp enough to cut, “is for you to stop acting like I’m overreacting every time you flirt with someone.”

Arthur barked out a laugh, though there was no humor in it. “You think that was flirting? God, you’re impossible.”

“Oh, I’m impossible?” I shot back, shoving his chest. “You’re the one who can’t go five minutes without charming someone new!”

“You’re unbelievable,” he growled, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous low. “Always looking for a fight, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t give me so many reasons!” I shouted, my chest heaving as the anger bubbled over.

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his eyes dark with frustration—and something else. Something that sent a shiver down my spine despite the heat of the argument. He stepped closer still, his body crowding mine, and for a moment, I thought he was going to shout again.

Instead, his voice dropped, low and rough. “You know what your problem is?”

I glared up at him, my breath hitching at the intensity in his gaze. “Enlighten me.”

“You like this,” he said, his lips curling into that maddening smirk. “You love pushing me, getting me all riled up. It gets you off, doesn’t it?”

My stomach flipped, and I hated how right he was.

“Shut up,” I said, though my voice had lost its bite.

Arthur took my chin in his hand, his thumb brushing over my jaw as he tilted my face up to meet his gaze. “No, I don’t think I will.” His eyes searched mine, the tension between us shifting, turning hotter, heavier.

“Arthur—”

But before I could finish, his lips crashed into mine.

The kiss was fierce, consuming, a collision of frustration and passion that sent sparks flying between us. His hands slid to my face, his touch firm, possessive, as if he was staking his claim all over again. My fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and the world around us disappeared.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing hard. “You drive me crazy,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.

I smirked, my lips brushing against his as I whispered, “Good.”

Arthur chuckled, the sound warm and rich, and then he kissed me again, softer this time, though no less intense. The argument forgotten, we lost ourselves in the fire that always seemed to burn between us, a flame that only grew brighter when we clashed.

-

🫶🏻

[half-of-a-gay]

Armor Between Us

Knight!Sevika x princess!reader

When political corruption, forbidden love, and an old enemy threaten the realm, Sevika must navigate her loyalties, her growing feelings for the princess, and the ghosts of her past to protect everything she holds dear.

link to chaper 2

(after this it gets more romantic I promise)

Chapter 3

What Remains

As Sevika struggles to recover from her injuries, the weight of her scars—both physical and emotional—begins to set in. When the princess visits unexpectedly, a simple gesture of kindness becomes a quiet, unspoken bond that leaves Sevika more conflicted than ever.

---

The world was heavy.

Sevika’s body ached as though it had been crushed under the weight of the earth itself. Every breath dragged like it had to claw its way up her throat, shallow and labored. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if she was alive.

Her eyes fluttered open, but the light was dim, her vision blurred around the edges. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar, its high wooden beams stretching into shadows. A sharp, medicinal scent filled the air, mingling with the faint, coppery tang of blood.

Pain rippled through her left arm, so intense it made her jaw clench. Instinctively, she tried to move it, but the limb didn’t respond. Panic prickled at her, her good hand twitching weakly against the coarse blanket covering her.

“Easy, Sir Sevika,” a low voice murmured from somewhere nearby. “Don’t try to move. You’re safe now.”

She turned her head slightly, her neck stiff and sore. A healer stood at her bedside, their face lined with exhaustion. They dipped a cloth into a bowl of water, wrung it out, and pressed it gently to her brow. The coolness was a relief, but it did nothing to soothe the throbbing in her arm and cheek.

“What…” Sevika’s voice cracked, barely more than a rasp. Her throat was dry, her lips chapped. She swallowed and tried again. “What happened?”

“You’ve been unconscious for days,” the healer said quietly. “You were brought back from the battlefield after the siege. Your arm—” they hesitated, their gaze flickering to the thick bandages wrapped around her shoulder and upper arm—“it was badly injured. The surgeons… they did what they could.”

Sevika stared at the ceiling, the words sinking in slowly. Memories came back in jagged flashes: the sword hacking into the space where two pieces of her armor meet and into her arm, the agony as she fell, the blur of a soldier dragging her back through the chaos. And then… nothing.

Her voice came out flat. “How bad is it?”

The healer didn’t answer immediately. They busied themselves with wiping blood and grime from her good hand, but Sevika caught the flicker of hesitation in their expression.

“It will take time to heal,” they said carefully. “You must rest. Don’t strain yourself.”

She knew what they weren’t saying.

Her gaze drifted to her left arm, which lay limp and heavy at her side. She couldn’t feel anything beyond the pulsing ache of pain. Not the weight of the blanket. Not the coolness of the air. Nothing.

Her good hand clenched the edge of the blanket, the fabric rough against her fingertips. Her chest felt hollow, as though something vital had been carved out of her and left to rot.

“I’ll leave you to rest,” the healer said, their voice softening. “You’ve been through more than most ever will. But you’re alive, Sir Sevika. That is no small thing.”

Sevika said nothing.

The healer gathered their supplies and slipped quietly out of the room, leaving her in silence.

Her head swam with feverish disorientation, her mind clawing through the haze. She could feel the weakness in her body, the way every muscle screamed with the strain of simply existing. But there was something else—something faint and familiar.

Her hand twitched again, brushing against the edge of the mattress. There. Beside her.

A scrap of fabric.

She turned her head with great effort, her vision focusing just enough to make it out. The handkerchief. Its golden embroidery was dulled by grime, its edges frayed, and dark stains marred its once-pristine surface.

Her fingers closed weakly around it, and the princess’s voice whispered through her mind like an echo from another life. You fight for the people who believe in you. And I believe in you.

Someone must have placed it there, beside her. Perhaps the healer, or one of her soldiers.

The words should’ve comforted her, but instead, they pulled at something raw and fragile inside her. She clung to the handkerchief as if it were a lifeline, though she didn’t know if she held it for herself… or for the princess.

Her eyelids grew heavy again, the exhaustion dragging her under. As she drifted back into darkness, one thought lingered in her mind.

What’s left of me now?

---

The flames of the fireplace crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the walls of the princess’s chambers. She sat in the window alcove, her knees drawn to her chest, staring out at the quiet courtyard below. The rest of the castle had long since settled into uneasy silence, but sleep eluded her.

Her thoughts were with Sevika.

It had been days since the knight was carried off the battlefield, bloody and broken, her armor hanging from her like dead weight. The image had burned itself into the princess’s mind, surfacing whenever she closed her eyes.

The reports had been grim. An arm rendered useless. Scars that would never fade. The princess shivered, wrapping her arms around her knees.

All because of me.

Her fingers tightened on the thin fabric of her nightgown, her knuckles white. She couldn’t forget the look on Sevika’s face that day in the courtyard—the way her stoic features had softened, just for a moment, when she’d accepted the handkerchief. The princess had given it as a token of hope, something to shield Sevika’s spirit as she rode into battle. But what good had it done her now?

A soft knock at the door broke the stillness.

“Come in,” she said, her voice quieter than she intended.

Her handmaiden entered, her steps hesitant. “Your Highness, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I only thought… you might wish to know that Sir Sevika is awake.”

The princess’s heart clenched. “How is she?”

“She’s alive,” the handmaiden replied, though the words lacked comfort. “She’s… resting. The healer says she’ll need time to recover. She’s in a great deal of pain.”

The princess closed her eyes, her jaw tightening. She could picture Sevika now, lying on that narrow infirmary bed, her powerful frame rendered frail and vulnerable. For so long, Sevika had seemed untouchable—a force of nature, all steel and strength. And now…

Her handmaiden hesitated, then stepped closer. “Your Highness… they’re saying the king plans to discharge her.”

The words hit her like a blow. “What?”

“It’s been discussed quietly among the council. They believe she’s no longer fit to serve.”

The princess rose to her feet, her bare toes brushing the cold stone floor. “She nearly gave her life for this kingdom,” she said, her voice trembling with anger. “How dare they dismiss her like this?”

Her handmaiden lowered her gaze. “I only thought you should know, Your Highness.”

The princess turned away, her hands trembling at her sides. Discharge. As though Sevika’s worth began and ended with her sword. As though the sacrifices she’d made could be swept away the moment she was deemed… imperfect.

“No,” she whispered, her voice sharp and certain. “I won’t allow it.”

Her handmaiden’s head snapped up, startled by the steel in her voice.

The princess turned back, her chin raised and her expression firm. “If they will not honor her sacrifices, then I will. Sevika will not be cast aside like some broken tool. She will remain in the castle, under my protection.”

“Your Highness… do you think the king will agree?”

“I will make him agree.”

Her hands clenched into fists as she moved to the hearth, staring into the flames. She could feel the heat against her face, the flickering warmth a poor substitute for the fire in her chest.

She wouldn’t let this happen. Sevika had fought for the kingdom. For her. The least she could do now was fight for Sevika in return.

And yet, as the anger coursed through her, something quieter stirred beneath it. Fear.

When Sevika awoke and learned of what the princess had done—of how she had intervened in a decision meant to strip her of her station—what would she think? Would she see it as an insult? An act of pity?

The princess pressed her hands to her face, exhaling slowly.

“I only want to protect her... She must never know.” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire.

She hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. The handkerchief had been a gesture of hope, nothing more. But now, it felt like a tether, binding her to Sevika in a way she didn’t fully understand. And for all her resolve, she was afraid.

Afraid that Sevika wouldn’t want to be saved.

---

Sevikas pain never stopped.

It dulled at times, reduced to a low, throbbing ache that radiated from her shoulder and spread across her back like fire smoldering beneath her skin. But then, without warning, it would flare—sharp and jagged—making her teeth clench and her breath hiss through her nose. The healer had given her tinctures to dull it, bitter liquids that left her head foggy and her stomach twisting in protest. But none of it was enough.

On the third day, Sevika tried to sit up.

She gritted her teeth, bracing her good hand against the cot as she pushed herself upright. The muscles in her chest and shoulder screamed in protest, and for a moment, she felt like her body might collapse in on itself. Her left arm hung at her side, heavy and limp, the bandages stark against her brown skin.

“Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, glaring at the useless limb as though sheer willpower could force it to move.

She tried again, flexing the fingers of her left hand. Nothing. Not even the faintest twitch. A cold knot formed in her stomach, her chest tightening with something she refused to name.

“Sir Sevika?” Her esquire stood at the doorway, hesitant, his young face pale beneath his unruly curls. He held a tray of food, but his hands trembled slightly, and Sevika realized with a pang of irritation that he was afraid of her.

“What do you want?” she snapped, the words harsher than she intended.

The boy faltered. “I—I thought you might need this,” he stammered, setting the tray down on the table beside her cot. “The healer said you should try to eat.”

Sevika didn’t respond. She stared down at her useless arm, flexing her good hand into a fist. Her esquire lingered for a moment longer before shuffling out, his footsteps echoing faintly down the hall.

Alone again, she exhaled slowly and reached for the water on the tray.

It was a simple motion. A gesture so small and automatic that she didn’t think about it. Her good hand wrapped around the cup, and she raised it to her lips. But as she set it back down, the edge of the tray tilted slightly, and the cup wobbled, spilling water across the table.

Her first instinct was to reach for it with her left hand.

The pain came first—blinding and sharp, slicing through her shoulder like the sword that had cleaved it. But worse than the pain was the cold. The absence of motion. Her arm refused to obey her. It lay there, limp and useless, as the water soaked into the blanket beneath her.

She stared at it, the weight of the moment crashing down on her like a tidal wave.

Her breathing quickened, and for the first time since waking, her composure cracked. The knot in her chest tightened, and she gritted her teeth, her good hand balling into a fist so tight her knuckles turned white.

“What’s left of me now?” she whispered hoarsely.

Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. Instead, she turned her gaze away from the offending limb, her attention landing on the small table beside her cot.

The handkerchief sat there, neatly folded. It had been cleaned since the battle, though faint traces of blood still clung to the delicate embroidery.

Her fingers twitched toward it, hesitating.

The memory of the princess’s voice echoed in her mind, soft and unwavering: You fight for the people who believe in you. And I believe in you.

She snatched the handkerchief and squeezed it in her good hand, her jaw tightening. It should have been a comfort, a reminder of why she had fought so hard. But it wasn’t.

It felt like a mockery.

Sevika’s hand trembled as she held the handkerchief. Why did you give this to me? Why did you make me think I was more than this?

The anger flared suddenly, sharp and hot, and she hurled the handkerchief across the room. It fluttered to the ground like a fallen leaf, landing at the corner of her bed with a quiet finality.

She stared at it for a long time, her chest heaving.

Her gaze darted to her useless arm, then back to the bloodstained fabric lying crumpled on the floor. The knot in her chest tightened further, the helplessness pressing down on her like a weight.

She wanted to retrieve it. To hold it again, even if she hated it, even if it mocked her. But her body wouldn’t let her. She couldn’t get up.

Instead, she slumped back against the cot, her good hand dragging over her face. Her scars pulled tight, stinging.

A soft knock at the door broke the suffocating silence.

Sevika froze.

The knock came again, followed by a voice she recognized instantly. “Sir Sevika? May I come in?”

The princess.

Sevika’s throat tightened, her heart lurching in her chest. She swallowed hard, forcing herself to sit up straighter. “Enter,” she said, her voice low and rough.

The door creaked open, and the princess stepped inside, her presence as quiet and deliberate as always. She wore a simple gown, her hair falling loosely over her shoulders. But her expression was what struck Sevika most.

Concern. Genuine, unguarded concern.

“Your Highness,” Sevika muttered, dipping her head slightly. She avoided meeting the princess’s gaze, her good hand tightening against the edge of the cot.

The princess hesitated near the door, her eyes sweeping over Sevika’s bandages, her scars, her arm resting limply in its sling. Her hands clenched at her sides, but her voice remained steady. “I… I wanted to see how you were recovering.”

“I’m alive,” Sevika said curtly, the bitterness slipping into her tone before she could stop it.

The princess’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, she seemed uncertain. Her gaze flickered to the corner of the bed, where the handkerchief lay crumpled on the floor.

Wordlessly, she stepped toward it.

Sevika stiffened, her good hand clenching into a fist. “You don’t need to—”

But the princess was already kneeling. Her fingers brushed the bloodstained fabric with care, lifting it from the ground as though it were something fragile. She turned it over in her hands, smoothing the wrinkles with delicate, practiced motions.

“It’s dirty,” Sevika muttered, her voice cold.

“It’s still yours... You've keept it safe,” the princess said softly, with a small smile. She walked to Sevika’s bedside, the handkerchief folded neatly in her hands. She held it out, her eyes meeting Sevika’s for the first time.

The knight hesitated, her jaw tightening. Slowly, reluctantly, she reached out and took the handkerchief, her fingers brushing against the princess’s palm.

“Thank you,” Sevika said stiffly, her voice strained.

The princess smiled faintly, though her eyes lingered on Sevika’s face, tracing the scars as if committing them to memory. “You have nothing to thank me for,” she said quietly.

Sevika didn’t reply. She let the handkerchief rest in her palm, waiting to be tucked beneath her bindings once more.

The princess lingered for a moment longer, as though searching for something more to say. But when the silence stretched too long, she turned and moved toward the door.

Just as she reached it, she glanced back over her shoulder. “Rest well, Sir Sevika.”

The door clicked shut behind her, and Sevika let out a long, shaky breath.

Her thumb stroking over the handkerchief, absentmindedly tracing its edges beforetuckingit into the bindings that cover her chest. She didn’t look at it this time. She couldn’t.

But the memory of the princess’s touch lingered, stubborn and unshakable, long into the night.

---

The room was quiet, save for the faint crackling of the lantern on the table. Night had settled over the castle, and the muffled sounds of life beyond her chamber walls—the distant hum of voices, the shuffle of guards on patrol—faded into the background.

Sevika sat on the edge of her cot, her elbows resting on her knees, her good hand cradling the bloodstained handkerchief. The bandages around her shoulder were stiff with dried balm, and the weight of her injured arm dragged on her body like a stone.

Her gaze flickered to the small piece of polished steel propped against the table—a makeshift mirror left behind by her healer. She stared at her reflection for a long time, her scarred face etched in the dim lantern light.

The cuts across her cheek ware deep, jagged, and raw, the stitches pulling her skin tight in uneven lines. She could still feel the sting of it when she moved, a sharp reminder of the battlefield.

Her fingers brushed the edge of her jaw, tracing the scars with a quiet, simmering anger. This was what was left of her. A broken arm, a marred face, and a hollow feeling in her chest where something vital used to be.

She looked away from the mirror, her lips curling in a grimace.

Her hand tightened around the handkerchief, the fabric rough against her palm. She should have thrown it into the fire. She should have left it in the infirmary, buried beneath the bloodied sheets. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t let it go.

You fight for the people who believe in you. And I believe in you.

The words haunted her, slicing through her thoughts like the sword that had taken her arm. She wanted to believe them. Part of her still clung to them, desperate and silent. But the rest of her… the rest of her wasn’t sure she believed in herself anymore.

Sevika let out a sharp breath, shaking her head.

She unfolded the handkerchief and stared at it, the faint golden embroidery catching the lantern light. The bloodstains were dark and permanent, smeared across the fabric like a cruel reminder of her failure.

Her failure as a knight.

Her failure to protect herself.

Her failure to be worthy of anyone’s belief.

The anger flared again, sharp and biting. She folded the handkerchief carefully, as if the act itself might still her trembling hand. Then she tucked it beneath her bindings once more, over her heart, where it had always been.

It wasn’t an act of reverence. It wasn’t an act of hope.

It was a reminder.

Sevika stood slowly, wincing as the weight of her injured arm in a sling pulled at her shoulder. She turned her back to the mirror, her jaw tightening as she blew out the lantern. The room plunged into darkness, but the image of her reflection lingered in her mind.

The scars. The handkerchief. The silence.

Sevika lay down, her body stiff and unyielding against the cot. Her fingers brushed her bindings where the handkerchief lay hidden, and her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t pray. She didn’t even sleep.

She just lay there, the anger and the emptiness swirling together in the cold, suffocating quiet of the night.

[goodqueenaly]

Does it seem odd that when Robert Arryn brings up the hope of marrying 'Alayne' the issue of them being officially stepsiblings isn't brought up? Does this indicate that it is considered acceptable in the 7K or could it just mean that it doesn't occur to Sansa as they're merely cousins or she doesn't feel that Robert is really able to understand this? After all, Lyonel Hightower had trouble with the Faith over marrying his stepmother. Though if we're looking for real-world analogues, in Islam stepsiblings is permissible but stepparents aren't.

A couple things.

Number one, when Lysa first mentioned the marriage between Robert and Sansa (when the latter was disguised as “Alayne Stone”), she did so knowing full well who “Alayne” really was:

“I … [sic] I am married, my lady.”

“Yes, but soon a widow. Be glad the Imp preferred his whores. It would not be fitting for my son to take that dwarf’s leavings, but as he never touched you … [sic] How would you like to marry your cousin, the Lord Robert?”

(It goes without saying, of course, that this proposed marriage was never so much as formally announced, much less actively planned, in the brief period between Sansa and Littlefinger’s arrival and Lysa’s murder.)

Number two, whether or not Robert ever learned from his mother that he would marry “Alayne” someday, I wouldn’t take the beliefs of young Robert as any sort of accurate reflection on Westerosi politico-religious statutes or tradition regarding marriage. Having lost essentially the only woman in his life, not to mention the only person who ever showed him anything resembling affection (a full critical review of her parenting notwithstanding), Robert has very clearly taken to Sansa-as-Alayne as a sort of surrogate mother. Being all of eight, not to mention very sheltered and infantalized by his mother, Robert does not have a real, practical idea of what marriage in a Westerosi context means; for Robert, marriage to Sansa-as-Alayne would mean “sleep[ing] in the same bed every night” while Sansa-as-Alayne would “read [him] stories”, “sleep[ing] and kiss[ing] and play[ing] games” with him - that is, essentially what Robert already did with or wanted from Sansa-as-Alayne. Robert isn’t thinking about what the Faith of the Seven or Westerosi law would say about marriage between step-siblings (or, maybe to put it more accurately, a stepson and a bastard daughter); Robert is trying to keep close to Sansa-as-Alayne as the only person giving him some modicum of comfort, stability, and love as his mother had.

Indeed, to that point, Sansa-as-Alayne underlined the impossibility of their union for Robert:

She put a finger to his lips. “I know what you want, but it cannot be. I am no fit wife for you. I am bastard born.”

“I don’t care. I love you best of anyone.”

You are such a little fool. “Your lords bannermen will care. Some call my father upjumped and ambitious. If you were to take me to wife, they would say that he made you do it, that it was no will of yours …[”]

…

Alayne stroked his fingers. “There, my Sweetrobin, be still now.” When the shaking passed, she said, “You must have a proper wife, a trueborn maid of noble birth.”

“No. I want to marry you, Alayne.”

Once your lady mother intended that very thing, but I was trueborn then, and noble. “My lord is kind to say so.” … “Any child of ours would be baseborn. Only a trueborn child of House Arryn can displace Ser Harrold as your heir. My father will find a proper wife for you, some highborn girl much prettier than me. You’ll hunt and hawk together, and she’ll give you her favor to wear in tournaments. Before long, you will have forgotten me entirely.”

Again, because none of this has ever gone beyond the imaginations of Lysa or Robert, it is impossible to say whether the aristocracy of the Vale, much less anywhere else in Westeros, would have reacted to a betrothal ostensibly between Robert and “Alayne Stone”. (And I say “ostensibly” because even in Littlefinger’s current nuptial scheme, Sansa is going to reveal herself as Sansa Stark, rather than “Alayne Stone” at her wedding to Harry Hardyng.) It is interesting to point out that Sansa-as-Alayne’s argument to Robert isn’t that they can’t marry because his stepfather is (officially) her natural father, but that they can’t marry because this marriage would be seen as too ambitious and tyrannical a move by Littlefinger - not necessarily mutually exclusive ideas, but certainly not synonymous either. That’s not to say Sansa is any more versed in the nuances of Westerosi law and/or the doctrines of the Faith to know whether or not this marriage would also be unlawful in the eyes of man or the Seven, of course, but at bare minimum we can say that Sansa-as-Alayne’s instinct with Robert regarding this marriage is to cite the gulf of rank between them, and the perceived influence of Littlefinger, rather than any idea that such unions are objectively forbidden.

(And, when it comes to Westeros legal-religious tradition, I don’t think GRRM has really put much thought into it, as indeed I’m not sure, for example, what the High Septon could or would have done about Samantha Tarly’s allegedly incestuous marriage. Generally speaking, I don’t think GRRM puts very deep thought into the religious and legal details around rules for marriage, much to my curiosity and sometimes chagrin.)

[icarusflewsworld]

Rhysand & Cassian & Azriel X OC

Hello, here is the chapter 23 of a fanfiction on the world of Acotar where our three favorite Batboys are the mates of a single woman.

TW for this chapters : Violence, blood, vomit. Be careful to what you read not to put yourself in a bad mood. Take care of yourself. ❤️❤️❤️❤️

I hope you'll enjoyed the chapters ! Don't hesitate to tell me what you think about it, please ! Also, I am apologizing again for the late. 

I have exams coming so I think I will not be able to post more than once a week but I will try my best ! The next chapter or chapters will be out on Friday, January 10 ! 

! Don't forget to read the previous chapters ! : Here

Love you all ! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Chapter 23

After what seemed like long minutes, Luxiana was finally regaining sensation and control over her senses. "That was incredible," she managed to articulate in a tired voice even inside her skull.

The smiles of the three Illyrians reappeared as they cast tender glances at her. "I want to do it again," she added suddenly with a cute pout. The dark-haired Illyrians lost their smile. Azriel grunted through clenched teeth. He thought she was perfect. Cassian looked up at the ceilling, trying to keep his excitement from exploding. But Rhysand didn't even try to stop what he felt, way too much aroused by what just happened with their mate. He got to his feet, dragging Luxiana with him.

He wanted to wear her, but he couldn't. Not here, not in front of these Fae. If they suspected that he liked Luxiana, they might come after her, and she was only a fragile human. He didn't want to take that risk. He placed her gently on her feet. "Can you walk?" he asked her worriedly.

Luxiana nodded with a gentle smile.

"Great," added Cassian with a seductive air but rapid breathing, "because we're going to have to run to a room so we can make you something a little more... better."

Azriel grabbed Luxiana by the hand to pull her towards the door, and Rhysand and Cassian followed. "We have to leave," Rhys simply justified to the Fae present and to Mor's father.

Keir, feeling unrespected, wasted no time in replying with a grimace of disgust aimed at Rhys. "I didn't expect anything else anyway, you seemed to have a pronounced taste for fucking instead of taking care of your court like the whore you are."

The four of them froze a few steps in front of Mor's father.

Azriel and Cassian were boiling with anger. How dare that filthy rat talk about their brother like that after he had sacrificed himself to save his court. Cassian took a threatening step towards Keir, ready to fight, but Rhysand raised his hand to stop him.

The high lord, though electrocuted t by a mixture of anger, guilt and bad memories tried to keep a cool head. "Let's calm down, it's nothing. It doesn't matter, we mustn't let them understand that it does," he thought to calm them.

Cassian didn't move any further, although he was dying to. Rhysand gave Keir a dark look of warning. "That's because this court isn't worth it. But don't forget who you're talking to Keir, next time you open your mouth without permission, I'll shut it."

Keir gritted his teeth but nodded in resignation before lowering his head.

Rhysand moved to get around him, but Luxiana grabbed him by the arm to stop him. Rhysand turned to face her. Her eyes were wide and her brows furrowed, but a burning rage smoked inside her pupils with such violence that the three Illyrians recoiled at the sight. "Aren't you going to do anything? Are you going to let him talk to you like that?" she asked, almost shouting into Rhys's head.

Rhysant was at first pleased for a second that she felt such anger for him before pulling himself together and replying. "It doesn't matter."

Luxiana released him, dropping her arm limply to her side and lifting her chin. "It does to me." Rhysand widened his eyes but had no time to say anything as Luxiana added, "I guess I'll have to do something myself then."

Without anyone being able to do anything about it, and with lightning speed, Luxiana grabbed Truth Teller out of his scabbard on Azriel's thigh. Then, in the blink of an eye, she stood in front of Keir to thrust her hand into his mouth, grab his tongue, pull it out and slice it at the base with a sharp, precise stab.

Mor's father - who had barely had time to take a step backwards and raise his hands to stop Luxiana - widened his eyes, screaming his head off in pain as he fell to his knees on the floor.

The three Illyrians hiccupped in surprise as they reflexively took a step forward towards Luxiana to protect her, but stopped mid-stride, opening their mouths and eyes wide. They were paralyzed with shock as their pupils focused on their mate, who held Keir's tongue at the top of her fingertips.

A general exclamation of surprise went up in the assembly of Fae, most of whom were clapping their hands over their mouths in fright.

What Luxiana thought was Mor's mother ran closer, shouting Keir's name. Luxiana raised the knife towards her, giving her a cold, creepy look that immobilized the fae from head to toe. "Come any closer and I'll cut your tongue out next."

Mor's mother cast a horrified glance at Rhysand. "Are you going to let her do this?

Rhysand didn't even calculate her, far too surprised by his soulmate's cold, psychopathic expression. He'd never seen her like this and he hadn't even considered for a second that she could do this. Their sweet Luxiana. He blinked several times to compose himself, but the blonde moved.

She tilted her head with a smile, making her look even crazier. "Who do you think gave me the order to do this? I'm only the executor of your lord's orders. So the next time, chew your words before you disrespect Rhysand." Another hiccup of surprise echoed through the room.

The three Illyrians, if that was possible, widened their eyes even more. She'd just said Rhys was controlling her. She was doing all this to save his honor. They couldn't believe it. They couldn't even think straight.

Luxiana laughed wildly. "By the way," she leaned forward towards Keir to run her index and middle fingers under his chin in an attempt to raise his head. The fae glared darkly at her first, then became white as he saw the cold pupils filled with power of the blonde. "You didn't chew your words enough before you spoke..." She brought the tip of Keir's tongue up to his nose. "You must fix that, right ?" She let go of his chin to stand up and vulgarly throw her tongue tip in front of him. "Chew!" she ordered curtly.

"What?" shouted Mor's mother as she took a step forward, but an umpteenth cold look from Luxiana dissuaded her from continuing.

Luxiana returned her eyes to Keir to look at him. "I said chew you fucking tongue and don't make me repeat myself."

A gleam of rage exploded in the fae's eyes. He deployed his power to shatter that pitiful human's neck, but he couldn't do it. His power wasn't working. His power was completely stuck, as if completely asleep. He glanced at his lord. Had he blocked his powers? Yet Rhysand didn't even look at him, just stared at the blonde strangely. Keir wanted to destroy this human. He jumped to his feet, screaming strangely, to throw himself, hand first, at her and snap her neck with his own fingers.

Rhysand, Cassian and Azriel managed to take their eyes off their mate to put them on Keir and when they saw him rise to his feet and lunge at Luxiana, they gasped. The three of them were about to intervene, but before they'd even had time to move a muscle, their Luxiana grabbed one of Keir's wrists, went underneath and went behind him. She gave a swift, sharp kick to his bent knee, forcing him to fall to the ground. Using her grip on his wrist, she pulled him backwards, catched him by the shoulder to deliver a shin kick to his arm, which snapped in two with a horrible sound. Two pieces of bone ended up going out from the skin of the fae's arm, which had taken on an odd angle.

The three Illyrians recoiled in disbelief. What she had just done was a professional fighting technique.

Keir screamed, but Luxiana wasn't done yet -without letting go of his wrist- she grabbed the piece of tongue on the floor and swung it into the mouth of the fae, who cried out in pain with his eyes closed.

Feeling his own tongue in his mouth, the fae widened his eyes and wanted to spit it out, but Luxiana pressed her palm against his jaw to close it savagely and snap his teeth. She locked his lips with her hand while keeping his jaws closed with her index finger and thumb under his chin.

When Keir tried to move and struggle, Luxiana's grip on his wrist twisted his arm a little more, awakening the pain of his broken bone. "Keep moving and I'll break the other arm."

The fae stood still, trembling with fear. Luxiana smiled creepily. "Good, now, chew!" Her voice was cold and filled with disgust and hatred.

The three Illyrians didn't recognize her. 

Azriel was so shocked that he didn't know what to do or how to react. Had she really just done that? Was she really doing this?

Rhysand’s heart was pounding hardly in his chest. The way she talks coldly. The way she seemed so powerful and confident. She was incredibly hot.

Cassian took a step to the side to get a better look at his soulmate's face -on which Keir's red cell had splattered- and his blood migrated back to his penis. She was incredibly sexy. Her gaze was cold, sure, authoritative. She looked strong and powerful. Cassian's eyes lit up and his heart began to beat with admiration in his chest. No, not admiration, love.

Keir pleaded with his eyes, shaking his head in the negative. This answer did not please Luxiana who straightened up and suddenly kicked his forearm with her foot, breaking the bone there this time. The fae screamed as loud as he could with Luxiana's hand over his mouth. "I said chew,"she repeated.

Keir began to cry, trembling all over as he began to chew his own tongue. He vomited several times into his mouth, but he couldn't let anything out because of the blonde's hand clamped to his lips. "Good boy," she smiled. "Now swallow."

Keir swallowed his tongue with difficulty, his body shaking with the contractions of his stomach. Luxiana couldn't hide her smile at the satisfaction she felt. After waiting for a few seconds for his tongue to fall down entirely into his stomach, she released him.

Keir bent over to puke out all his guts, almost choking on his own vomit.

Luxiana took a step back, detailing him from her height. Then when he finished, she grabbed his hair to lift his head toward her. "You'll never disrespect your lord again, will you?"

He nodded in confirmation, tears rolling down his cheeks. Luxiana released him abruptly before straightening up to spin around and shoot all the other faes present with her pupils. "Does anyone have anything else to say about Rhysand?"

They all shook their heads and took several steps backwards. Then, all at once, Luxiana lost her cold, dark and crazy expression. "Great then," she jumped out of joy, smiling sweetly and innocently. She ran slowly towards Azriel -still motionless- to replace Truth Teller in its scabbard. Then she turned to Rhysand to wrap her arms on one of his and pull him out.

Cassian detailed Keir's bleeding body on the floor, grinning through his teeth. He glanced back at Luixiana, who was leading Rhysand to the door. "Woah," he managed to say in their minds. Then he began to follow her cheerfully.

Azriel followed them, walking robotically, staring into space. What had just happened?

They left the room and after a few minutes of walking, Rhysand blinked to compose himself. Realizing everything, he paralyzed, coming to a standstill in one of the long corridors. "What just happened?" he shouted breathlessly, lowering his pupils to Luxiana.

Luxiana wanted to continue pulling Rhysand but he stopped moving and she could feel the other two stop just behind them, giving her the same shocked look that burned her skin. She closed her eyes fiercely as she let go of Rhysand and gritted her teeth. "I'm not going to apologize, okay?" she shouted a little angrily.

She let go of Rhys to take a few steps forward, turning towards them and positioning herself in front of them. She crossed her arms, glowering at the lord. "You're the high lord of the night court, you can't let someone disrespect you like that!"

Rhysand widened his eyes again but Luxiana continued. "You may consider yourself mature and reasonable and kind enough not to react but not me dammit. I'm the exact opposite of that and there was no way I was going to let anyone talk to you like that, Rhys, not after what you've been through under the mountain!"

The blonde, seeing Rhys's surprised expression, thought it was sadness shining in his pupils. She huffed as she calmed down, feeling suddenly guilty and showing it on her face. She made an adorable pout that made the Illyrians hallucinate. Her face was so childlike and different from the one she'd had a few seconds ago in the throne room.

"I'm sorry," she finally mumbled, lowering her eyes as she juggled from one foot to the other. "It's just that I told you I'd protect you and not let anyone talk bad about you since you saved Feyre under the mountain and now I want to protect you too because I like you and I know I couldn't keep my cool but I was so..."

Something exploded in Rhysand's chest, sending vibrations of joy throughout his being and even warming his eyes. He didn't even let her finish her sentence as he cupped his soulmate's face to raise her head to him. "What did you just say?"

Luxiana accentuated her guilty pout when she saw Rhysand's even brighter eyes. She'd hurt him and she didn't mean to. "I said I was sorry and that..."

Rhysand shook his head to interrupt. "No, you said you liked me!"

Luxiana pursed her lips, drawing out her dimples. She looked away for a second, blushing. "Yes.. Why ?" she admitted, not understanding why he was asking her that. Was he going to make fun of her?

Rhysand let out a delighted laugh in one breath before throwing himself on Luxiana to kiss her full on the lips. Luxiana, not expecting it, hiccuped in surprise as she allowed Rhysand to put his tongue into her mouth. She didn't wait to return his kiss, which tickled her to the core.

Rhysand pulled away from her to stare at her with a big smile and eyes shining with playfulness and confidence. "So you like me." Rhysand wanted to jump for joy.

Luxiana bit her tongue as she backed away from his grip and gave him a jaded look.

Azriel came back to reality, shaking his head, his eyes still wide. "Does it surprise anyone but me that she just cut out Keir's tongue and fed it to him after breaking his arm?" he shouted in total shock.

"No, it surprised me too," Cassian said seriously, crossing his arms and then glaring at Luxiana. "But damn, that was sexy."

Luxiana laughed, lowering her head to hide her cheeks. Why was she blushing so much with them?

Azriel moves around Rhys to stand in front of Luxiana. He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger to plunge a serious, wary gaze into his soul mate's. "How did you do that? You just made a fae eat his own tongue without batting an eyelid."

Luxiana winced, blushing from head to toe. She felt so small and intimidated by Azriel. "Believe it or not," she began in a voice more high-pitched and uncertain than usual, "but, this isn't my first cut tongue and broken arm."

Azriel frowned, prompting him to elaborate. "Well, I worked in a bar. There were bound to be people with inappropriate behavior that I had to correct." She shrugged as if this were normal.

"And where did you learn to do that?" the Illyrian asked, loosening his grip on Luxiana's chin a little, relaxing when he noticed she wasn't lying.

"Keydan explained how to do it and taught me. He wanted me to be able to protect myself if need be."

Azriel understood her sincerity and released her completely, but he couldn't calm his anger. "It was still a dangerous and thoughtless thing to do, Luxiana. I don't know why Keir didn't use his powers, but if had, you could have been hurt or worse, died. Don't ever do that again!"

Luxiana pursed her lips with an apologetic look and a cute, guilty face that made Azriel swallow hard. "Are you angry?" She stepped forward to surround her arms around the master spy's torso and buried her face in his pectoral. Azriel froze for a second, feeling his heart melt entirely as she straightened her head to rest just her chin on his chest and look at him with an adorable pout. "Excuse me," she added.

Azriel's whole body tickled from the inside. He could only calm himself by taking a deep breath. Why was he even angry? He placed a hand on the blonde cheek to lean in and place a long kiss on her lips. Damn it, there was no doubt in his mind. He loved this woman with all his body and all his heart.

Footsteps behind them forced them to separate and turn to see Mor striding in their direction. Luxiana hiccupped in surprise at the sight of Rhys's cousin, then winced with concern as she realized that she had just seen her cut her father's tongue out in front of her. "Mor, I'm sorry," she apologized, taking a step toward her. "I shouldn't have..."

She couldn't finish her sentence as Rhys's cousin threw herself into her arms to hug her with all her might. "I adore you. God, that feels good!"

Luxiana was surprised at first, but then laughed with Mor and returned his hug.

Rhysand detailed his soul mate laughing with her cousin, then glanced knowingly at his two brothers. She wasn't as weak as they thought, and in fact she was incredible. She'd done all this to protect his honor. To protect him. She was made to be his high lady. She was made for him. He stared at her and it wasn't with tenderness or affection but with love. He was in love with this woman, damn it.

[sapphicstoria]

Can we, please, talk about how Charlie has a song with both Vaggie and Lucifer called “more than anything” and they’re both about how Charlie is grateful to have Lucifer as a father and the reprise being how she loves Vaggie more than anyone or anything else in the world. Pretty much confirming that these two mean the most to Charlie out of anyone else, and they’re the two people who support her the most. I adore both songs, and scenes, so much. They make me very emotional. 💜🤧

[nova--spark]

I saw your Matrix AU and I've gotta state the obvious: Although this is for TFOne's OP growth, this will also be Bayverse's therapy session, and a Massive one at that 😅

Though I'm curious regarding them and this version of, as they would see it, an alternate version of themselves from the past. Will they tell him about the friends and foes on the way? Of Earth and the humans? Their relationship with Elita, friendship with Bee, and complicated conflict with Megs?

And the differences... Oh Primus, the differences...

TFA: What do you mean that Primus and Unicron are real?! I thought that was just some ancient Myth!

TFP: Maybe in other realities it may be that way, but I fear in others they're the founding reality of the cosmos.

Primal: Yeah, although in mine and my ancestor's reality they weren't anything but someone else's creation. Destructive but not divine- uh, Undivine.

Bay: At least your origins are far more noble than that of my kind. Damned be our Creators! Especially their backstabbing traitor of a sister Quintessa!

G1: Quintessa? That's the name of the planet of the Quintessons! Maybe those "Creators" of yours are some versions of our Quintessons, seeing as they are also our creators in my and Primal's reality. Hey, new guy, do you have Quintessons in your reality?

TFOne: ... W H A T ???

THIS

this is all of the things i wanted.

And yes!

It can focus on any of the Primes at a given time.

TFP needs guidance or insight? He can speak to the brothers of other worlds to be guided.

TFA?Kinda newbie too so he and TFOne are in the same boat of "what did we get ourselves into???"

TFA because the mystic side of the Matrix and AllSpark were not expect, help

TFOne because his death and rebirth are FRESH ans also we went through robot divorce--

Bay is the feral one/j and needs some heavy therapy.

He is quite...closed off, from his brothers by comparison and it's taking a lot of time to adjust.

And yes!!

They speak of their teammates and loved ones often.

Each one has spoken of their Elita's and their bond to them.

TFOne is baffled his boss is being dated by the others, like, what

TFOne: She punched me!? Several times! How can you all date her!?

G1: Oh young bot...

TFA: My Elita turned into a spider hybrid

Primal:...That sounds like someone I know. And she's certainly not dating a Prime in my time

Bee is all their son or lil bros, and they all wish they could protect him better.

Megs is a...touchy subject for many.

TFOne has needed the most support. TFP helps him the best.

[yanderejustforyou]

Oh The Hurt

Peter Parker x Reader

You never asked for this. You didn’t ask for the love that coursed through your veins like molten lava, fierce and all-consuming. You didn’t ask for Peter Parker, the boy with the soft smile and eyes that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unsaid words, to be the one to make your heart ache in ways you never thought possible.

But here you were.

You had always known that loving him would be a kind of torment—like dancing on the edge of a razor blade, feeling the cold metal graze your skin every time you took a step. His secrets were buried deep within him, a wall he built high and strong, and you knew that one day, that wall would break. And when it did, it would bring both of you to your knees.

You didn’t need to know all the details. You didn’t need to understand the full scope of his responsibilities as Spider-Man. But you did. You understood that every moment you spent with him was precious because it was fleeting. It was borrowed time, given to you in stolen seconds between the chaos and the danger that followed him wherever he went.

And every time he left, every time he disappeared into the night, part of you died a little more.

You hadn’t meant for it to come to this, for the relationship to unravel in the way it did. But love, for all its beauty, often burns the brightest right before it fades.

It started small. A quiet distance, a hesitance in his touch, the way his eyes would dart away from yours as if he couldn’t bear to look too long. You told yourself it was nothing—just the weight of his dual life, the mask he wore in both his worlds. But deep down, you knew the truth.

Peter was slipping away, and you couldn’t stop it.

The first time you saw him with her, your heart shattered.

You had caught a glimpse of them together, her laughing as Peter touched her arm, his fingers lingering far too long. It was nothing—nothing more than a harmless moment between friends, or so you convinced yourself. But then you saw the way he looked at her, the way his smile seemed to shine a little brighter, and that was when the walls you had built around yourself started to crumble.

You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move. Your world tilted on its axis, and for the first time in your life, you realized you were losing him.

The confrontation came after a night spent pretending everything was fine, pretending you hadn’t seen the way his eyes had softened when she spoke to him. You could feel the weight of your emotions pressing down on you, suffocating you. It had to be said. You couldn’t keep living in this silence.

“Peter,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you stood in front of him. “Please… don’t do this.”

He looked at you, and you could see it—the guilt, the sorrow, the part of him that knew this was wrong. But it was already too late. He had already crossed the line. There was no going back.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words themselves would wound both of you.

“You’re already hurting me,” you shot back, your chest tight with pain. “I see it in your eyes. You’ve already chosen.”

His face twisted, and for a moment, you saw the boy you loved—the one who would do anything to make things right. But even that wasn’t enough. His shoulders slumped as if the weight of his choices had finally crushed him.

“I didn’t mean to…” Peter trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

“You didn’t mean to,” you repeated, your voice raw with a bitterness you had never known. “But it doesn’t change the fact that you’re choosing her. You’re choosing someone else.”

He reached out to you, his hand trembling as it hovered near your arm, but you took a step back, the sting of his touch a reminder of the distance that had already formed between you. A touch you couldn’t bring yourself to feel, not when the reality of it all was too much to bear.

“I can’t…” he whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I don’t know how to choose.”

You didn’t know how to respond. How could you? You had spent so long pretending that maybe, just maybe, there was hope for you both. But the truth was, Peter had always been torn. Torn between the man he had been and the hero he had to be. Torn between the love he had for you and the guilt that would never leave him. And in the end, it wasn’t you he would choose.

The night stretched on, an endless black void that swallowed you whole. Every step you took, every thought you had, led back to him. To Peter. To the way he had looked at her, the way he had touched her, the way his heart seemed to beat for someone else.

And yet, even as the tears burned your eyes, even as your chest threatened to collapse under the weight of the ache, there was something inside you that couldn’t let him go. You hated him for it. You hated him for choosing her. But more than that, you hated yourself for not being able to hate him. You still loved him. Even as he tore you apart, piece by piece, you still loved him.

And that was the cruelest part.

You hadn’t expected him to show up at your door that night. You hadn’t expected him to come crawling back after everything had already fallen apart. But there he was, standing on your doorstep with the same haunted look in his eyes, the same broken boy who had once made you believe in something greater.

“Please…” he whispered, voice cracking. “Please let me fix this. I can’t stand the thought of losing you. Please, I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

Your heart twisted, and for a moment, you thought you might break in his arms. You could feel the weight of everything he was saying, the desperate plea in his eyes. But no matter how badly you wanted to believe him, you couldn’t. You couldn’t because you knew that it was already too late. The damage had been done. And in the end, love wasn’t enough to save either of you.

You stepped back, shaking your head, and before you could say the words, the tears had already begun to fall.

“I can’t do this anymore, Peter,” you whispered, your voice trembling with every syllable. “I can’t keep waiting for you to choose me. I can’t keep pretending like everything will be okay when it never will be.”

His hand shot out, reaching for you, but you were already too far gone.

“I love you,” he pleaded, his voice barely a whisper now, like a prayer. “I love you so much. I never wanted to hurt you.”

But you could see it—the truth in his eyes, the lies wrapped in his promises. The love he had for you had never been enough to make him choose you. Not truly. Not when the world needed Spider-Man more than it needed Peter Parker.

And that was where it ended.

You closed the door quietly, your heart cracking in a thousand places, and you let the silence swallow you whole.

There was no happy ending. No redemption. No moment where Peter would choose you over everything else. He would always be torn between the man he was and the hero the world demanded him to be. And no matter how much you loved him, no matter how badly you wished for a different outcome, it would never be enough.

Some loves were doomed from the start, and you both had always known it.

Days passed, though they felt like an eternity. Each moment dragged on, every breath you took heavy with the suffocating weight of your decision. There was no closure. There was no peace. You had tried to erase him from your life, to let the wound heal, but his absence only made the pain more unbearable.

You walked through the days in a haze, numb to everything around you. The world had become a blur of colors and sounds, but none of it mattered. You couldn’t focus. You couldn’t think. All you could do was replay that night over and over in your mind—the look in his eyes when you closed the door on him, the rawness in his voice as he whispered that he loved you, and the way his hand had trembled as it reached for you, only to fall short.

You hated him for what he had done, for making you feel like you weren’t enough. But you hated yourself more for still loving him. Even after everything. Even after the way he had chosen her, even after the way he had torn you apart.

The nights were the hardest.

It wasn’t just the silence. It wasn’t just the emptiness that seemed to seep into every corner of your life. It was the memories. The way he used to laugh, the way he would pull you close and kiss you like the world could end at any moment, like the love you shared was the one thing that would keep it from falling apart. Those moments replayed in your mind with painful clarity.

You could still feel him, his warmth, the softness of his touch, the way his voice would soothe your fears. And it was those memories that hurt the most because they reminded you of what you had lost.

And then, just as you thought you might crumble under the weight of it all, he came to you again.

The knock on your door was soft but unmistakable. Your heart skipped a beat, and a familiar coldness crawled up your spine. You didn’t want to see him. Not like this. Not after everything. And yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from opening the door.

There he was, standing on your doorstep, eyes haunted and bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept in days. His clothes were wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and there was an almost palpable desperation clinging to him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Peter said, his voice breaking, sounding so fragile that it made your chest ache. He took a step forward, but you instinctively stepped back, the distance between you both a painful reminder of everything that had transpired.

"Why?" You couldn't help the bitterness in your voice. "Why now, Peter? After everything? Why come back when you've already broken me?"

His face contorted with pain, his hand reaching out toward you, but you flinched, the rawness of your emotions surfacing all at once.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I’m so sorry. I know I hurt you. I know I screwed up. I can’t undo it, but I need you to understand something. I... I can’t live with the thought of losing you. I thought I could handle it. I thought I could do this alone, but I was wrong. I need you, and I’ll never forgive myself for how I hurt you.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest, each word tearing through you like a fresh wound. You wanted to scream, to push him away, but the truth was, you couldn’t. Not entirely. Because despite the pain he had caused, despite the deep wound he had left in your soul, you still loved him. And you hated yourself for it.

“I can’t keep doing this, Peter,” you whispered, the tears finally spilling over. “I can’t keep waiting for you to choose me. I can’t keep being your second choice, your backup, your convenience. I deserve more than that.”

His face crumpled as he stepped closer, his hand finally brushing against your arm. It felt like fire. You recoiled instinctively, the warmth of his touch searing through you, burning you in ways that felt too familiar. You wanted it, and yet, you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because every touch, every word, every glance from him was a reminder that this wasn’t love—not anymore. It was an illusion, a broken version of something that had once been real.

“I’m so sorry,” Peter said again, his voice thick with emotion. “I never meant to hurt you like this. I don’t know how to fix what I’ve done, but I can’t keep pretending that this—” He gestured between the two of you, his eyes full of guilt and longing, "—isn’t what I want. It’s always been you. Always."

You swallowed hard, stepping back again, your chest tight, your breath ragged.

“No,” you choked out, shaking your head. “No, Peter. It’s not enough anymore. You can’t just come back when it’s convenient for you. You can’t just waltz in and expect everything to be okay. You’ve already chosen her. And I can’t—I can’t keep being the person you come to when it’s easier. I won’t let you destroy me anymore.”

Peter flinched as if your words physically struck him. You saw the hurt flash in his eyes, but there was also something else. Something darker, more painful than you’d ever seen before: regret. And it was almost unbearable to watch. Because in that moment, you realized that no matter how much you loved him, no matter how deeply he cared for you, you would always be the one to suffer.

This—this broken, painful thing between you two—would never heal. You both had tried to pretend it would, tried to hold on to the pieces, but the cracks had already run too deep. You could both feel it, the inevitable unraveling of a love that was never meant to be.

And so, with one last, lingering look, Peter turned to leave. You didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. The weight of everything you had gone through together, and everything you had lost, was too much. The air felt thick with sorrow, suffocating, and as he walked away from you for the final time, you felt the fire inside you flicker and die.

You tried to move on. You tried to walk away, to let the pieces of your broken heart fall where they may, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t escape him. Every part of you still ached for him, still wanted him. But the truth was, there was no way out of this. There was no way to make it right. You had both tried to hold on, to make it work, but love was never enough. Not when the world was constantly pulling him away from you.

And as the days turned into weeks, you realized—some things were just never meant to be.

[no-nic]

bbyto 🧡

convinced he is going to be an absolute badass in the far future. he will be! soon! ...and that he can reinvent mokuton if he tries hard enough. sorry obito, that's not happening

not a baby genius; too hard on himself because he is in unreasonably talented company

very! excited! boy!

source of random information: -- grandma gossip -- insight into people (kakashi facts in particular) -- classified snippets (knows more about the rinnegan & edo tensei than about e-rank academy jutsu)

strong fire affinity

favorite colors are purple ("nooo, it's not just because of rin, shut up") and rust orange

loves all & any weapons. the tenten of his generation

big saboteur potential

unlearns shame, cries a lot, embraces bisexuality, blushes easily

introduces rin with "if anything happened to her i would kill everyone in the world and then myself :)" then says he hopes he will feel the same about kakashi

has a lot of plans for if he goes evil (don't worry, he will not), just in case; obviously so nobody else tries to sell him their own evil plan when he's compromised

#and they lived au; this obito cries more but his life goes better than in canon ^^

[anxiousapplepie]

I already said it in the tags of your post, but your Rose Knights world is very cool and has been rotating in my brain for the past couple hours lol. I would love to hear more about these characters if you want to share!!

MY BUDDY considering my Rose Knight tag atm doesn't have a lot of stuff in it??? that is deeply amusing and incredibly cool you've latched onto these vibes so much! thank you! <3 Also you've just said the magic words mate and I'm about to dump a bunch of character information and also some art for good measure! >:3

I've already talked a lil about Lapis and Jim, so lets talk about another one of my favorite idiots:

This is George! He's Lapis' *ahem* "big brother" and partner in crime, and a major pain in the neck for anybody who's trying to have a normal day without anything breaking or coming to life unexpectedly XD George grew up in the woods without getting much contact from either Roses or Dragons, but his parents made sure he had a... 'well-rounded' education and as much enrichment a kid like him could get in the circumstances.

He's also the first one to learn that Lapis' hair color wasn't actually blue. Between knowing her origins and needing to keep her fake hair a secret from everybody else, he's very protective of his 'little sister' and won't hesitate to leer ominously over her head and give a very toothy smile to anybody who dares imply she's anything less than amazing and brilliant.

Lapis is also extremely fond of this lanky and awkwardly genuine doofus :3 She might not trust him with her valuables, but she'll trust him with her life and he's the first one she'll go to if she has a metaphorical body to bury.

[hunters-vigil]

Pain Relieving Hugs

Summary: Reader is AFAB but using they/them pronouns (most of fic is in 2nd person) and has really bad periods. Reader has been seeing Xilonen but it's not official yet. This fic is a bit personal to my sufferings with my period over the last few months.

Warnings: talks of periods, it gets detailed when describing how the cramps hurt, painkillers not working, symptoms associated with periods, atypical symptoms according to google but i deal with them every month so ???, swearing, R is insecure about having rough periods. Originally the pronouns were going to be she/they in the fic but wasn't sure how well that translates, so... I wrote this for me😅

Fic under the cut, don't repost my stuff on other platforms, i have ao3.

Originally you thought you had over-done it when helping Kinich with some deliveries. Maybe Ajaw had been right about you dragging him down, affecting his efficiency. At least over-doing it would explain why you felt so worn out when you tried to get out of bed the next day.

Maybe you had eaten something that didn't agree with you. Maybe that was the reason why you could feel cramps in your abdomen, front, back, sides... like you were being stabbed from all angles with sharp weapons that Xilonen had crafted. She could make anything anyone wanted as long as they filled out the form well enough for her to understand.

It wasn't food you ate, or just regular over-doing it working. It was your period's warning signs. Signs that you began to recognise before it was too late. Unfortunately, nobody else had recognised them. Not even the woman you were seeing, whose workshop you would often visit if she wasn't sunbathing up a tree or napping somewhere.

The stabbing pains weren't extinguished by any of your attempts for painkillers. You were trying to be careful, but the first few days were always hell, and your only other option was what Chuychu had suggested as a remedy. It was better than nothing, but you forgot to pick up the remedy she suggested.

"Well, fuck me I guess..." you grumbled, leaning your arms on the table to try and block out the aches. The world was getting fuzzy, but you needed to try eat something. You were usually at Xilonen's workshop by now, but walking hurt horridly, barely being able to focus on your surroundings.

The food you managed to find was tasteless, your stomach too busy cramping to want to digest any of it, and your tiredness made it even more bland. The shower you had taken before it all got worse was the only refuge, not getting too lightheaded this time at least.

Sobs tried to claw their way up your throat, but you choked them down with the closest glass of water in reach. The chalky taste almost choking you.

Enough was enough. Wobbling like a baby deer, you forced yourself to walk back to your room, curling up under the blankets, regardless of the thin layer of sweat coating your skin, or how cold your hands felt against you as you held yourself to try self-soothe.

///

Meanwhile, Xilonen was stuck in her workshop. Her attempt to wrap up everyone's commissions for the day had been usurped by the Pyro Archon. Her Archon had broken her sunglasses again and wanted a new pair as soon as possible.

Mavuika had gone from shouting outside of her workshop for her, to trying to discuss intricate details that were unnecessary for anything but the paperwork Xilonen required regular customers to fill out. Things for the Archon were a little different however... Mavuika loved to talk through her ideas, how the shape could be altered a bit, the frame bridge of the sunglasses could be adjusted a little... fine, fine, fine. On the condition that the archon didn't ruin them two days later. Or the bike that was constantly being revised and took her three months to build...

"Where's your personal peacemaker anyway?" Mavuika enquired playfully, a smirk on her lips as she glanced around the workshop, wondering if Xilonen had hidden you somewhere.

"Uh, what? My personal what-now? Oh, because they stopped us arguing last time?" Xilonen frowned, recalling you had said she would see you tomorrow, yesterday, which was today, "honestly, I have no idea. They're usually here by now."

"Are they now?" Mavuika raised an eyebrow, smirking until Xilonen huffed.

"Do you want your sunglasses fixing or not, Mavuika? Because teasing me about my- the person I'm seeing isn't helping."

"You two aren't official yet?" Mavuika's curiosity spoke for itself, even as Xilonen distracted herself by looking at blueprints, the furnace, anything but to tell her archon about her relationship. "What happened?"

"They just thought that they overdid it yesterday when they were helping Kinich. Ajaw can be too much with them too. They'd usually be here by now..." Xilonen confessed, not usually one to want her stress to eat away at her. Maybe it was different with her when it came to you.

"How much work do you have left today?"

"Besides your sunglasses, nothing that can't be done tomorrow." Taking one glance at her comissioned work, she sighed, giving Mavuika a pointed look.

"Fine... go check on your lover. Ask them out and I'll forgive you for delaying my sunglasses until tomorrow."

"You're lucky you're the Archon." Xilonen gave rolled her eyes at Mavuika's teasing teasing, heading out of her workshop and making a beeline for where you lived.

///

The curtains of your house were still shut, and the delivery of fruit and vegetables that she could only assume was from Ifa was untouched on your doorstep.

Her knuckles against the door produced no sign of life, and kicking your door in wasn't exactly the greatest plan... but she could make you a new door, if she needed to.

Scouring her surroundings, Xilonen spotted the plants on your porch, unlike her own, they were budding with life. Nudging each pot carefully, she eventually found the key to your front door.

An empty glass and a plate covered in crumbs laid in the kitchen, abandoned. From what she could tell, the chair had fallen back from someone standing up, but there was no sign of you so far.

She knew where you slept, she had been there a few times, but you two had only made out a few times there. Never any further, especially when there was a lack of official titles for the relationship so far.

The door stood ajar, the curtains closed, and a blanket was half on the floor. Xilonen couldn't help the sigh that escaped her lips, spotting you curled up under another blanket, fast asleep.

Her footsteps quiet on the floor, Xilonen gently stroked your face, smiling as you began to stir with a whine.

"Mm... Xilonen?" your eyes barely opened, looking up at her tiredly as a tired smile crossed your face.

"How are you feeling?" the geo vision holder enquired, her hand resting on your forehead, noticing how warm you felt, "are you sick? Your forehead feels warm."

"No. I, ugh, I feel like a blood bath... and like my insides are being churned up in a bread mixer." You immediately grimaced, trying to hide under the blanket but any and all movements felt like you were being stabbed in the abdomen. "Sorry, that's so... too much information. You can go, I'll be fine."

"Is it usually this bad?" Xilonen shook her head, sitting on the edge of the bed to coax you out of the blanket.

"Usual painkiller remedies stopped working. Forgot to pick up a new one to try out... I'm sorry, this is all really gross. I didn't want you to see me like this." You fought back tears of frustration, trying to fight back the thoughts in your head, telling you that you had ruined everything. You really liked Xilonen, but being reduced to this once a month? You didn't blame her if she wanted to leave and not come back.

"Hey, it's okay. You're not gross, you just have really bad periods, onesleave you in bed all day." Xilonen replied, stroking your face as you looked at her with watery eyes.

"You came here during your work hours?"

"Well, you got me out of listening to Mavuika's sunglasses specifications again. Plus, I was worried about you. She noticed, and said her sunglasses could wait, so I made my way here." Xilonen explained, shuffling down to lay on the bed with you after removing her vision necklace so you'd both be more comfortable.

Burying your face in her chest, you held onto Xilonen to absorb her comfort, feeling her arms around you, holding you close. A soft rumble underneath you led to your eyes flickering, burying your face further into Xilonen as she purred, snuggling her face into the crown of your head.

"Do you want me to make you some food? It might help you feel better..." Xilonen proposed after a while, feeling you let out a soft sigh against her skin, "I brought in the fruit and vegetables that Ifa left on your doorstep."

"Okay, but can we stay like this a bit longer? You're hot, and you smell really nice." You sneakily moved your head up to press a kiss to her jaw, unable to reach her cheek.

"Oh, uh, thank you, sweetheart." Xilonen flustered, trying to fight against how her tail swept side to side, displaying how happy she was feeling.

"Was that too much?" you asked after a while, your eyes fluttering open to try gauge how Xilonen felt at your affection.

"No, no, it was fine, I like you a lot so, I'm not opposed to this. Especially these naps, it was about time for me to have one anyway. So having one with you, my- having one with you, is nice." Xilonen corrected herself quickly, a small smile creeping onto your face, but slightly moving yourself wiped it away with a pained grimace. Your body just had to remind you of your cramping.

"You can call me what you want, as long as it's not derogatory. Moving hurts, can we stay like this a bit longer?" your request was granted, as Xilonen answered by snuggling you closer, closing her eyes to go back to sleep. She'd like to call you hers, she thinks. But that conversation can wait a little longer, since it's time for a nap...

[rosewoodcafe]

You're Losing Me

I can't focus so here is this little one-shot story.

After years of being with Sebastian, he has only descended further into the Dark Arts, driving away Ominis and Anne, leaving only you. It's becoming too much to handle as he is still desperately searching for a cure.

Sebastian x Reader

[This is based off of You're Losing Me by Taylor Swift]

[I plan to do more stories like this because it was incredibly fun]

I sat in our home in Feldcroft. He had been gone for hours, saying he was at work but I knew better than that. I knew he wasn't cheating, Sebastian was a better man then that, but it still felt incredibly empty without him here.

My body was hollow, a feeling I had started to get used too, which frightened me tremendously. I blew out the candle that lit our dining room table, taking the two untouched plates of food to the kitchen sink. Everything felt empty, my motions, my thoughts, everything I did, I was so alone in this world.

The door to our cottage opened as I was walking to our bedroom, his silent approach being the only thing to halt me. Without a word he planted a small kiss on the top of my head, walking to the other room where his office was and shutting the door behind him.

I washed up, cleaning my body in the warm water. Eventually making my way to our bed, the one we used to be curled together in every night, laughing like little kids. I curled up the same way I used too, holding onto the shreds of happiness in this hopeless home.

Ominis warned me of this, that his obsession of the dark arts would overtake everything else he cares about. He warned that the murder of his uncle would only be the beginning, that sending him away would be the only option. I refused, telling him that Sebastian was a good man, that he could change. Ominis, for Anne, and my sake, didn't turn Sebastian in. Sebastian was grateful, but Ominis was right, the obsession didn't stop.

I felt the tears roll down my face as I pressed it into the pillow. The weight dropped on the other side of the bed, not even a touch to signal he was there, but I knew it was Sebastian.

The morning came and with it the usual hollow feeling. I pulled myself from bed, heading to the kitchen.

"I love you." Sebastian said sleepily. His hair was a wreck, but he looked happy upon seeing me too.

"I love you too." I said back, barely above a whisper.

He didn't say anything else, just looking at me happily. The sun shined through the window, casting a glow across his bare upper half, he was beyond handsome.

I walked out into the kitchen, making myself some tea.

I wished I had someone, anyone, who understood what I was going through. To understand who Sebastian has become. The only ones who would have long since contacted me, opting to keep out of his way.

I remember how he was when I met him, how full of life he was. How excited I was. Everything felt perfect, he was happy, we were finding a cure. It was some fantastical dream, but instead of staying bright and beautiful, its changed, becoming dull and gray from wear.

Out the window I saw our neighbors, recently engaged, gardening under the sun. Sebastian had told me we would get married, with a wonderful wedding that I would love. He promised that before we were twenty he would as me. We were nearing twenty four, and I can't understand why. The cure was his excuse at first, that Anne needed help, but Anne has long since died. Anne has been dead for years, leaving Ominis to grieve alone as Sebastian refuses to accept her death. I felt as if I am a ghost, haunting his home until he gets rid of me.

His arms wrapped around me. Sebastian's face in the crook of my neck.

"You look lovely dear." He whispered.

"Thank you." I replied blankly.

Sebastian went about the kitchen, preparing himself food as I stood there unmoved.

"I will be out at work for awhile." He eventually said.

"Ok." Is all I could muster.

"Don't wait up, I probably won't be home for awhile."

"Okay."

When he left I felt nothing. I paced our home, recounting the memories we made here early after we left Hogwarts. The happiness that lifted this home has long since gone, but it filled my mind daily.

I laid in our bed, letting myself weep for myself, all the moments and memories. I needed to do something, I needed to get out. He tried so hard before to keep me, and he had, for years I stayed by his side. But I couldn't help but think that he was losing me from the moment he cast the torture curse on me. The pain from that was miniscule compared to the years of heartbreak I had experienced. I am getting tired, tired of always bringing myself to my feet, tired of trying to feel okay when I feel like dying.

I needed top get out.

Parchment was in the desk of his study, along with quills. I would write to Ominis, tell him that he was right, that Sebastian had gone too deep, that he had gone to a place I could not follow anymore. I barged into his office, tears flooding my eyes as I scrawled the letter. 

Dear Ominis,

I write to you not as a way to update you on Sebastian, but to let you know that it has ended. I have given up hope for him. For years I have been trying, trying to get him to move forward, to stop indulging in the dark arts. But you were right, he has only gone deeper into madness. I don't know what to do, I am lost and broken beyond repair. 

I hope when this letter finds you that you prepared for the wickedness Sebastian may unleash. He may accuse you of manipulating me, by telling me to leave, know that you did not, and that this decision was one I made entirely on my own. I hope to forgive Sebastian one day, to have a love with him that I wished so badly for, but for now I must leave. I will surely die by my own hand if I stay.

In a few hours I will arrive at your home, where I hope you will not turn me away. I have lost everything, and will only need a moment to get my bearings together before being out on my own. You are the only other one to understand my predicament Ominis.

Your dove

I folded the parchment and walked over to the owl, tying the parchment on and opening the window, sending the owl out. It would be an hour until the note has arrived at Ominis's home, and a few hours after that before Sebastian came home. I ran back to our room preparing myself to leave.

Washing up and putting on traveling clothes was the easiest part, packing the things that meant most to me was harder. Memories of Sebastian and I's past flooded my thoughts, endless streams of tears leaving my eyes. I couldn't handle this, handle how I let it get this bad, why didn't I leave when it started to go downhill?

Why did I hold so much hope for him to change?

I couldn't answer.

My heart felt dead and cold. Every crevice of my body devoid of color, a void of nothing behind the masquerade of a person. 

I sat at our kitchen table. One last time.

He opened the door some hours later. Sebastian didn't notice my trunk, and he barely noticed me at all.

"You're up still?" He asked, a bit of shock seeping into his blank tone.

"I am."

"Why?"

I took a breath. 

This would probably be the last time I see him. 

He would hate me.

"I'm leaving." I said standing up and walking to my trunk.

"What do you mean you're leaving?" He asked, the blank tone leaving and only a panic replacing it. "Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving us Sebastian." I took a breath, trying to keep my voice calm. "I'm leaving you."

His face dropped. 

"No darling, you can't please I cant lose you-" He cried out.

"You already have Sebastian!" I yelled out, my calm composure leaving and the same tears I had tried to hide fell.

"No I haven't! You're all I have left! Please everyone else has left you can't leave too!" He pleaded. He dropped to my knees, holding the bottom of my skirt.

"I can't stay Sebastian."

"Why? Please give me a reason?"

"You couldn't even tell that I was dying as you kept meddling in the Dark Arts." I said angrily. "I feel like I have lost everyone and everything because of your choices, I am lost and angry. I have been waiting and waiting for you to just say that you want me, that you want us to move on, that you want a family. I just wanted you to want me!"

"I do! Darling I do want you, more than anything."

"It's too late Sebastian. I've made up my mind, and I can't keep wasting away what little youth I have left begging you to change." I felt hot tears stream from my face.

"Please, I need you." He begged.

"You'll be okay." I reached for the doorhandle, looking back one more time. Sebastian was on his knees, tears welled in his eyes. "Perhaps one day, we can be together again."

"I'll always find you." He said. "I'll become better for you."

"You haven't. That's the problem." I spoke, opening the door and taking in the air from outside. This would be the last time I stepped into this house, the last time I spoke to him. "I love you Sebastian."

"I love you too..."

With that I shut the door, pulling my trunk and myself to the Floo station in Feldcroft. I let the tears stream as I heard a guttural scream come from our- no, his home. I had to keep going, I had to keep moving. I pulled my floo powder out, taking a large handful.

"Gaunt Manor!" I said clearly.

I felt my heart begin to beat again, the pain beginning to ease at the new beginning I was given.

[incesthemes]

yes, exactly. i don't consider anything beyond swan song canon so the whole "cain and abel's descendants" thing is like 🤨 to me, but regarding everything else, it does indeed go much deeper than this too.

the story of cain and abel is the story of god's love, and their fatal vying for it. from the beginning of the show sam and dean are paralleled with this myth—sam is the shepherd whose violent sacrifice pleases god; dean is the farmer who struggles to gain god's approval. azazel and john are parallels, or rather they are one and the same. as sam follows his path of revenge, he is fashioning himself in the image of his father, and he is simultaneously pursuing the destiny laid out for him. he gains john's approval at the same rate he gains azazel's. and azazel, for seasons 1 and 2, is god, just as john is god—the omnipresent force that guides and strangles his children crawling upon the earth. azazel favors sam, and so the narrative conclusion is also that john also favors sam. at least, this is the belief dean holds, which is the important part. dean believes that john doesn't love him, doesn't trust him, and that sam is more important to john than dean is. dean is cain; john is god. there is animosity bred between the brothers because of john's (god's) favor.

sam's fate is bloody and murderous. dean's fate, by contrast, is to kill his brother. as the representative of cain, he has been forced into the unique situation where he is "his brother's keeper" (as cain himself says in genesis). their destinies are to clash fatally, and for sam to die. dean is cursed to live (see: swan song) and carry the burden of sam's death with him into eternity. sam fills the shepherd role again by azazel's original plan to lead the demon army come to earth. sam the shepherd abel, offering bloody sacrifice to john the god; dean the gardener cain, who kills his brother to gain god's favor. important, too, is it that john is the one who imparts this destiny upon dean, because enacting it, killing sam, is therefore the direct attempt to fill his role as john's, god's, son. to curry favor. to do his bidding. it is an act of complete submission and devotion to god. that dean could not fulfill that role is defiance of god and therefore coincides with dean's loss of faith in john as his father.

john and mary are adam and eve. they lived in the garden of eden, an ignorant bliss, until mary contracted with the serpent azazel (who is, in episode one, portrayed by none other than JDM) and poisoned them both. she dragged her husband from eden and thrust him into a world of evils. together they begat two sons, dean and sam, cain and abel. they have been genesis all along, and they would always fall. childbirth would always be painful.

the invention of the apocalypse from season 3 to 5 is just another reflection of this. in east of eden by john steinbeck, samuel calls cain and abel the "oldest story." lee says it "i the best-known story in the world" and he says this is because "it is everybody's story. [...] it is the symbol story of the human soul." cain and abel is a story about rejection: "and with rejection comes anger, and with anger some kind of crime in revenge for the rejection, and with the crime guilt—and there is the story of mankind."

in this sense, cain and abel is the only story in the world. at least, in supernatural's world. michael and lucifer are as much cain and abel as dean and sam are. dean and sam are as much michael and lucifer as they are cain and abel. there is only one story in supernatural, and it is the cycle of a father's rejection and the crimes that accompany them. john is god and god is the father. there is no difference between them. azazel, john, and the judeo-christian god are all the same entity (there are only four characters in supernatural). john is god because his children made him god. the father is the god of his sons, and his approval is the defining force in their lives. family is hell because we want to be loved. sam and dean wanted to be loved. michael and lucifer wanted to be loved. cain and abel wanted to be loved.

supernatural is the endless retelling of cain and abel, from pilot to swan song. it does not waver and it does not deviate from this cycle because this oldest story is the story of mankind itself. there is no other story to tell.

always so intrigued how sam's forgiveness and acceptance of john coincides with his loss of faith in the christian god, and dean's loss of faith in john coincides with his growing suspicion that god might be real. like it's fine guys you can just say your daddy is your religion