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writetheidea · 2 days ago

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Too Much to Be Enough - part 2

Hi, I wrote the second part of this fanfiction while juggling my thesis, so I apologize if there are any mistakes. Please feel free to point them out in my DMs or asks—I'd really appreciate it. I couldn't bring myself to just write pure fluff without adding a bit of angst. As I mentioned in the story, rebuilding trust isn't a straightforward process. I hope you enjoy it!

Part 1

Pairing: Franco Colapinto x female character

Plot: after deeply hurting his girlfriend, Franco learns how hard it is to rebuild their relationship, learning that trust, once broken, is a delicate and painstaking process to restore.

Tag: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff.

Word count: 3178

Disclaimers: english is not my first language - I feel like you could tell from my writing style - so I apologize if some of the sentences structures are off, or if I use outdated or inappropriate-for-the-context words, I used a synonym dictionary to try and stop myself from repeating the same words, I still did do that though.

Franco had always been a man of control. On the racetrack, precision wasn’t just a skill; it was survival. Every turn, every decision, required complete mastery over chaos. Off the track, he wasn’t much different, carrying that same calculated demeanor into his personal life. The way he managed his career, his relationships, even the smallest aspects of his daily routine, all reflected his need to remain unshakable. Control was his armor, his identity. But this—watching the woman he loved drift further away because of his carelessness—was a storm he couldn’t navigate.

He had made a mistake. A single moment of thoughtlessness, a few careless words, the laughter that followed, had been enough to tear open the foundation of trust they had spent years building. The memory replayed endlessly in his mind, gnawing at him like a relentless tide. He could see it all too clearly: the way her face fell, how her voice quivered when she confronted him. She hadn’t screamed or shouted; she hadn’t even cried at first. She had just gone quiet, her silence heavier than any words could have been. It spoke of wounds too deep for words, a disappointment that no apology could touch.

At first, he had thought the tension might dissipate after a day or two. He had underestimated the depth of the wound he had inflicted. What followed was a purgatory of silence. She didn’t leave outright, but her presence was a ghost of what it had been. She avoided his touch, his gaze, even his attempts at conversation. The vibrant, warm woman he loved so fiercely had become a shadow, navigating their shared spaces like a stranger. Franco’s every attempt to bridge the gap between them fell flat—flowers went untouched, her favorite pastries remained uneaten, and the small notes he left for her disappeared without acknowledgment. It was as though she was erasing him piece by piece, and he could do nothing to stop it.

The silence was unbearable. He missed her laughter, the way she would light up when she spoke about her favorite books or dreams for the future. He missed the way she would reach for him instinctively, as though he was her safe harbor. Now, he felt like a trespasser in his own life, each moment with her a painful reminder of what he had broken.

On the third night after the fight, Franco found himself sitting on their couch, his hands clasped tightly together. The room felt impossibly large, every corner of it carrying memories of better times. He could picture her curled up on the other side of the couch, her laughter filling the space as she recounted some silly anecdote or read him a passage from one of her favorite books. Now, the silence was deafening. He had spent hours going over what he might say to her, how he might begin to repair what he had broken, but words failed him.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. “Please,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “I can’t stand this. Tell me what to do—tell me how to make this right.”

She didn’t even look at him, her gaze fixed somewhere distant. “What’s the point?” she said quietly. “You’ve already shown me what you think of me. You agreed with them, Franco. You laughed at me like I was a joke.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and Franco felt the full weight of her hurt settle over him. “That’s not true,” he said desperately. “I wasn’t thinking—”

“No,” she interrupted, finally turning to face him, her eyes flashing with rare anger. “You weren’t thinking. But that doesn’t change what you said. Or what you did.” Her voice cracked, and for the first time, Franco could see just how deeply he had hurt her. “Do you even understand how small that made me feel? Like I was some kind of joke? Like I’ll never be enough for you?”

She paused, her face now showing the pain she had been harboring beneath the surface “What else do you want me to say, Franco? That I’m hurt? That I feel like I’ll never be enough for you now? You already know that”

Her words cut deeper than any insult, the quiet resignation in her voice tearing him apart. “You are enough,” he said fervently, reaching for her hand. “You’ve always been enough. I was stupid, careless—I didn’t mean what I said.”

“But you did,” she replied, pulling her hand away. “Maybe you didn’t mean for me to hear it, but you meant it. And I can’t unhear it, Franco. I can’t forget the way you agreed with them, the way you laughed about me like I was some… inconvenience.”

Her voice broke on the last word, and Franco felt his chest tighten, guilt clawing at him like a relentless tide. “I love you,” he said desperately. “I love everything about you. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I can’t lose you.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face as if trying to find some trace of the man she had once trusted so completely. “Love isn’t supposed to hurt like this,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “And right now, being with you… it hurts.”

His throat tightened as he searched for words, but there was nothing he could say that would undo the damage. “You are everything to me,” he said finally, his voice raw. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it if I have to.”

-----

But words weren’t enough, and he knew it. That night, she moved to the guest room, leaving their bed and a gaping void in his heart. He lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling and replaying every moment he had failed her, every time he had taken her love for granted. He thought of her kindness, her patience, the way she had always believed in him, even when he doubted himself. And now, when she needed him most, he had failed to be the man she deserved.

The next morning, he woke to find her gone. A note on the counter said she was staying with a friend for a few days. He stared at the words until they blurred, his chest aching with the realization that she needed space from him—that being near him caused her pain. He couldn’t blame her for that, but it didn’t make it any easier to bear.

He threw himself into trying to make amends, even if she wasn’t there to see it. He cleaned the apartment from top to bottom, cooked her favorite meals, and set the table with candles and fresh flowers every day, hoping it might offer a small measure of comfort when she returned. The evening when she finally walked through the door, she paused, her eyes scanning the room before landing on him.

“What’s all this?” she asked, her voice wary.

“I thought we could have dinner together,” he said, his voice hesitant. “I know it doesn’t fix anything, but I thought… I just wanted to do something for you.”

She hesitated for a moment before sitting down at the table. They ate in near silence, the tension between them almost unbearable. He tried to ask about her day, her friend, anything to fill the void, but her answers were curt, her gaze fixed on her plate. By the time they finished, Franco felt more defeated than ever.

As she stood to leave, he reached for her hand, his grip gentle but firm. “Please. I’ll do whatever it takes,” he said. “Just tell me how to make this better.”

She looked down at him, her eyes filled with exhaustion. “I don’t know if you can,” she said softly. “But if you want to try, then stop looking for shortcuts. This isn’t about flowers or dinners. It’s about showing me that I matter to you—not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard. It’s about showing me—every day—that you love me for who I am, not despite it.”

-----

From that moment on, Franco dedicated himself to proving his love, not through grand gestures but in the quiet, unremarkable moments of daily life. He began paying attention to the things she cared about—remembering the books she mentioned wanting to read, making sure her favorite tea was always stocked in the pantry, and taking over chores she usually handled so she wouldn’t have to. He didn’t push her to talk or try to force her forgiveness; instead, he gave her the space she needed, even when it hurt to keep his distance.

The process was slow and often discouraging. There were days when she barely acknowledged his efforts, her walls still firmly in place. But there were also small victories—like the time she laughed, a soft, unguarded sound that felt like sunlight breaking through the clouds. Or the day she found a note he had left in her book that simply said, “I see you. And I love you.” She didn’t say anything about it, but later that evening, she made them tea and sat beside him on the couch, the silence between them no longer quite so heavy.

-----

Franco thought he was making progress. Slowly but surely, she was beginning to let him in again. The walls she’d built around herself were still there, but they had started to crack. She smiled a little more often, lingered at the dinner table to talk about her day, and once, when they were watching an old movie on the couch, she leaned into him without pulling away. Each small step felt monumental, and Franco held onto the hope that one day, she might fully trust him again.

But trust, he learned, was fragile.

It happened at a party—a glamorous event hosted by one of Franco’s sponsors. He had been reluctant to go, worried about the strain it might put on their delicate truce, but she had insisted. “You shouldn’t have to give up your life because of me,” she said. He had taken her words as a sign that things were improving between them, a sign that she was ready to be part of his world again.

The evening started well enough. She looked stunning in a sleek, dark dress, her hair framing her face. Franco couldn’t take his eyes off her, and for a moment, he felt like the luckiest man in the room. They mingled with the crowd, exchanging polite pleasantries with sponsors and fellow racers. She held her own beautifully, her sharp wit and quiet confidence earning smiles and laughter from everyone she spoke to.

Then came the moment that undid everything.

Franco had stepped away to get them drinks, and when he returned, he overheard a group of men making crude jokes about her. The words were vile—reducing her to nothing more than a pretty accessory, a trophy to be paraded around. Franco’s blood boiled, but instead of stepping in to defend her, he froze. He laughed awkwardly, muttered something dismissive, and walked away.

What he didn’t realize was that she had overheard, her expression a mask of disbelief and hurt as she stood just out of view.

Later that night, as they drove home, the tension in the car was suffocating. She stared out the window, silent, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. Franco tried to fill the void with small talk, but each word felt hollow.

Finally, she turned to him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, though he already knew.

“I heard them, Franco. I heard what they said about me. And I heard you laugh. Again.”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. “It wasn’t like that,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean what? To defend me? To show them that I’m more than the joke they made me out to be?” Her voice cracked, and she turned away, shaking her head. “I thought you were different. I thought you respected me.”

“I do respect you,” he said, his voice rising. “I didn’t know what to say—I panicked.”

“Panicked?” she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. “I was standing there, Franco. Listening to them degrade me, waiting for you to have my back. And you panicked?”

The argument spilled into their apartment, growing louder and more painful with each passing moment. By the time it was over, she was packing a bag, tears streaming down her face as she threw clothes into a suitcase.

“Please don’t do this,” Franco said, his voice raw. “Don’t leave. We can fix this.”

She stopped, her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the suitcase. “You don’t get it, do you?” she said, her voice shaking. “This isn’t just about tonight. It’s about every time you’ve made me feel small, every time you’ve chosen your pride or your reputation over me. I can’t do this anymore.”

And with that, she was gone.

-----

The months that followed were the darkest of Franco’s life. She didn’t answer his calls or texts, and when he went to her friend’s house to see her, he was turned away at the door. For the first time, he had to confront the possibility that he might have lost her for good.

Franco threw himself into therapy, desperate to understand why he kept sabotaging the one thing that mattered most to him. His sessions were grueling, forcing him to confront parts of himself he had long ignored—the insecurities he buried beneath his arrogance, the fear of vulnerability that drove him to push people away.

He also began writing her letters, pouring his heart onto the page in a way he had never been able to do in person. He didn’t know if she would ever read them, but it was the only way he could process his feelings.

Months passed. Slowly, Franco began to change—not for her, but for himself. He realized that he couldn’t ask her to come back if he wasn’t willing to become the man she deserved.

Then, one day, he received an unexpected text.

“Meet me at the park tomorrow at 2.”

His heart leapt, but he forced himself to temper his expectations. When he arrived, she was sitting on a bench, her posture stiff, her expression guarded.

“I got your letters,” she said, her voice quiet.

“And?” he asked, his heart pounding.

“They were… honest,” she admitted. “But honesty doesn’t erase what happened.”

“I know,” he said. “I don’t expect you to forgive me—not yet, maybe not ever. But I want you to know that I’m trying. I’m working on myself, and not just because I want you back. I need to be better, for me. For whoever I become, with or without you.”

She studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face. “I don’t know if I can trust you again,” she said finally. “But I’m willing to try. Slowly. On my terms.”

“I’ll wait as long as it takes,” he said, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

-----

True to her word, she made Franco work for her trust. There were no shortcuts, no grand declarations that could fix what was broken. If he wanted to be in her life again, he had to earn his place every single day.

Their relationship became a fragile thread, held together by small, cautious interactions. They started meeting once a week for coffee, their conversations polite but distant. She kept him at arm’s length, her walls firmly in place. Franco didn’t push; he simply showed up, week after week, ready to prove himself.

One day, as they walked through the park after coffee, she turned to him abruptly. “Why didn’t you stand up for me?” she asked, her voice trembling.

The question caught him off guard, but he didn’t shy away from it. “Because I was afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid of looking weak, afraid of being judged. But mostly… afraid that if I stood up for you and got it wrong, you’d see me as a failure.”

Her eyes softened, but her expression remained guarded. “And now?”

“Now I realize that failing you is worse than failing in front of anyone else,” he said. “If I ever get the chance again, I promise you, I won’t let you down.”

She nodded slowly, her gaze distant. “We’ll see.”

The weeks turned into months, and their connection began to deepen again. She started sharing more of herself, though cautiously, and Franco matched her vulnerability with his own. He told her about the therapy sessions, about the childhood insecurities that had shaped his need for control and approval. It was a side of him she had never seen before, and while it didn’t erase the past, it gave her hope that he was truly changing.

-----

It wasn’t a single moment that brought them back together, but a series of small ones—acts of kindness, vulnerability, and unwavering support. Franco became a man she could rely on, not just in words but in actions. He stood up for her, prioritized her needs, and made her feel seen and valued in every aspect of their lives.

There were moments when he doubted himself, wondering if he was fighting a losing battle. And there were nights when he lay awake, haunted by the memory of her tears, the sound of her voice breaking as she told him how much he had hurt her. Through it all, he held onto the hope that one day, she would see how much he loved her—that she would believe it, not because he said it, but because he showed it in every action, every choice he made.

One rainy afternoon, he decided to try something different. He pulled out a cookbook she had always loved but rarely used and flipped to a page with a recipe for her favorite cake. He was hopeless in the kitchen, but he wanted to try—to show her that he was willing to make an effort, no matter how small. When she came home and found him fumbling with ingredients, the sight stopped her in her tracks.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice tinged with incredulity.

“Trying to make your cake,” he said, holding up a whisk like it was a weapon. “It’s probably going to be terrible, but I thought—”

She interrupted him with a soft laugh. “You’re going to burn the kitchen down.”

“Maybe,” he said, grinning sheepishly. “But I figured it was worth the risk.”

She stepped toward him, closing the distance that had felt insurmountable for so long. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, but her tone was warm, her eyes soft as she reached for the whisk. “Let me help you.”

As they cooked together, bumping elbows and laughing at his mistakes, Franco felt something shift. It wasn’t complete trust—not yet—but it was a beginning. And as he watched her smile, he realized that this was what love was: not grand gestures or perfect moments, but showing up, every day, and choosing each other even when it was hard.

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estrellogy · 6 months ago

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My First Astro Note 🤍

Natal Chart

- MC is who you want to become in relation to others’ recognition and approval. NN is who your soul wants to be independent of others. In spiritual terms, it can be outer manifestations versus inner knowing.

- MC is what you bring into the physical world. It is the bridge between heaven and earth, the material and non-material. That’s why it’s often associated with career and public image. Self-mastery and reaching your full potential.

- NN is where your soul will learn to recognize itself the most:

For example, NN in 8th house will learn about itself the most through surrendering to another. To share instead of possess. To dissolve the self into someone else and realize the oneness of everything.

NN in 2nd house may learn about itself through possessing and then letting go. To achieve and then realize that nothing is permanent. All one ever possesses is who they are at the core.

———————————————————————————

- When evaluating attractiveness, I often look to the 2nd house more than the first. The first is super important of course! But the 2nd house is like the accessories and adornments. The first house is the base outfit and the 2nd is all the extra details that make the first house stand out even more.

Maybe it’s my Virgo Venus or something, but beauty to me lies in the details. Memorable beauty is not always in your face. It’s subtle and it makes you wonder about it. That’s why the deeper layer of the 2nd house can be so indicative of charm that goes beyond the physical.

With that being said, I think Venus and Pluto in 2nd house are often found in very attractive people, even when they’re not conventionally good-looking.

Venus in 2nd house is enchanting, really. They are sensual and deeply connected to their physical body and senses. They enhance whatever experience you’re having. If you’re eating a meal, they know what to add to bring out the flavors even more. They know what fragrance to use for what purpose. They just understand how things visually work together. And their voice is sweet and coy and irresistible. They weave themselves into your senses to the point where you begin to think about them whenever you experience pleasure.

Pluto in 2nd is magnetic. It is the hidden charge in someone’s energy that you can’t physically pinpoint. It is in their voice, the slight strain that makes you wonder what they’re holding back. It’s the slight force of power wanting to dominate. It is the subtle, Taurus-infused energy of elegance and authority. Being around them make you want to submit without them needing to exert power or control. You just want to because they seem so solid and stable. But it’s Pluto so they’re also destructive and dangerous. But human nature always seems to yearn for what is dark and painful but pleasurable.

#astro observations #astrology #astro notes #astro community #pick a card #pac #venus in 2nd house #Pluto in 2nd house #north node #MC #Scorpio #Libra #Taurus

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garagepaperback · 6 months ago

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What are your favorite drarry fics?

oh. ooooooooooooh oh oh.

here are my staples:

draco, the magic dragon - libbydrew a fic i first read on livejournal (showing off the varnish of my casket here) that i thought about regularly for the almost two decades i fell out of fandom. canon to me tbh. libby invented my draco rubric: proud lil showboat even when everything around him has gone to rancid shit, sarcastic and aloof personality as a poor facade to distract from the big ol' gaping well of hurt.

Potter took a great breath, then let it out slowly – a low whistle between his teeth. "Malfoy, I had no idea. I thought—" "Why are you here?" Draco cut him off before the idiot embarrassed them both. Their shared past was water under the bridge – even if Draco had drowned in it.

nightingale - michi_the_killer

another back-in-my-day fav, even though i can only stand to read half of it. actually even thinking about it is making me stare off in a distance for upwards of three minutes. this one i would hand off wrapped in about a million miles of caution tape. + also a huge fan of michi's gory veela fic.

It was better than fighting, Harry thought, although sometimes he still wanted to rip into Malfoy, to hurt him. Other days, he thought, it was better than anything.

rookie moves - peu_a_peu

what can i say that hasn't already been said - peu is a MASTER. if you somehow know who i am but haven't read this, reassess your life choices through professional means but not until after you dive in.

“Feels kinda big,” Malfoy said, smirking. “For a guy your height.” “My height is average,” Harry said, although he was undeniably glaring upward at Malfoy’s face when they stood so close together. “And it is kinda big.”

stately homes of wiltshire - waspabi another one that crept into my heart and made a home. hard to choose between this and waspabi's other drarry fic, but there's something about the decrepit manor that just does it for me. a perfect harry and draco, perfect soft reaching towards each other.

Draco smiled and dragged Potter from the shop before he could charm any more elderly ladies with his unkept, take-care-of-me-I’m-confused-and-have-nice-shoulders aesthetic. Once outside in the drizzle, he realised he still had his hand around Potter’s forearm. He yanked his hand back immediately.

i wake up falling - warmfoothills

warmfoothills :,) just reading this moniker makes me vision go soft around the edges. their writing has made me out loud, quietly say "oh," multiple times. the prose is darling, this story is such a brief, aching glance. it was also really hard to pick just one (flashback, warm nights i also go in for).

“I love you,” he says, unable to stop himself. Draco blinks, a barely-there flinch, like Harry’s taken a swing at him. “I know,” he says, still oblivious to the reference, oblivious to the way his words scoop right into the meat of Harry’s stupid, hopeful heart. “It’s not enough, is it?” Draco shakes his head. Above, the stars watch unfeelingly on.

the pure and simple truth - lettered no one does dialogue with the mastery lettered does. my GOD. my god. i feel like this fic is drarry perfectly distilled.

“What’s he going to be?” Blaise raised a brow. “Pardon?” “You said he says Hermione should be Minister, and all those other things. What does Malfoy think he should be?” There was something much like pity in Blaise’s eyes. “He thinks he should never, ever be forgiven for the things he’s done.” Harry felt ill. “That’s not fair.” “When has Draco ever been fair?” “I meant―” Harry swallowed hard. “That’s not right.” Blaise looked more pitying still. “When has Draco ever been right?”

far from the tree - aideomai

the writer i avoid talking about the most bc once i start i cannot physically restrain myself from going on about their beauty forever. i sat for forty-five solid minutes frowning, trying to choose between this one and in the hand. and dwelling. okay anyway. i keep a doc of quotes from fics that resonate and it's 50% aideomai.

Draco wondered what Potter thought of this day, in the future the twins came from. If he had told Ginny about it. If he had forgotten it. He couldn’t forget it, could he? It felt burned into Draco’s body already, a final point that he had been moving toward for years without knowing.

i could go on but i think seven is a nice solid number tyvm for this ask!

#drarry #drarry fic #drarry fic rec #fic rec

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coquelicoq · 1 month ago

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every scene in this episode shows natsume's growth. right at the beginning, he asks shigeru to teach him how to make a flowerbed - no longer is he going to the library for books because he can't let himself trust anyone enough to ask for help. he agrees to help the youkai but asserts his boundaries consistently. he doesn't hide what's happening from tanuma. he's making peace with his memories, building a bridge between his past and his future. he trusts now that he has a future. he smiles fakely exactly zero times the entire episode. i'm so impressed with midorikawa's mastery in portraying slow character growth over time. all of this feels earned and 1000% more emotionally resonant because it follows from and builds on everything that came before. it coheres.

#i'm trying to imagine what it would be like to watch just this episode. like if this was your introduction to the story #how much of the weight comes from knowing how far he's come? it's gotta be a lot of it #natsume's book of friends #natsume yuujinchou #natsume takashi #natsuyuu meta #my posts

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urfavfrenchgrl · 29 days ago

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Private Lesson

Mattheo Riddle x F!Reader ᥫ᭡ words: 1.7k ᥫ᭡ warnings: 18+ | SMUT | MDNI | fingerfucking, penetration ᥫ᭡ summary: he gives you a private lesson but you provoke him

You were alone in the Arithmancy classroom with Mattheo, time slipping away as he guided you through a private lesson.

The intricate equations and symbols scattered across the parchment seemed trivial compared to the tension simmering between you. Seated casually against your desk, arms folded, Mattheo wore a sly smile that revealed more than words ever could. His gaze was unwavering, intense, and you felt it—felt the magnetic pull of his desire, impossible to ignore. Every brush of your fingers, each accidental touch as you examined a page together, only thickened the air between you.

You bit your lip, fighting to contain the tide of emotions rising within you. This session had drifted far from academia. It was a dance, sensual and charged, with neither of you ready to let it end.

"Mattheo?" you ventured, breaking the silence that had enveloped him.

"Hmm? Yeah?" He leaned in, his focus suddenly sharp and attentive.

“I finished it,” you announced, holding out the parchment with a confidence that felt foreign, as his eyes scrutinized your work with his usual precision.

After a brief silence, he looked up. “Not bad…”

“Not bad?” you feigned offense, a playful light in your eyes. “I got it right!”

He chuckled, tapping your forehead. “After five lessons on the same topic…”

You rolled your eyes, feigning exasperation. You’d finally cracked his challenging exercise, and you wanted some acknowledgment—some reward.

“Think I’ve earned a little something for my efforts?” you asked, a hint of mischief in your voice.

But he ignored you, his smirk only deepening.

"Let’s move on to the number three," he said, his voice now professional, as though he hadn’t caught your drift. “Do you know what it represents in Arithmancy?”

You sighed, sinking back onto the desk, folding your arms.

He didn’t miss your frustration but seemed unfazed, continuing without missing a beat. “The number three carries layers of meaning. In the magical realm, it’s revered, symbolizing power and mystique, deeply tied to the essence of magic itself. For instance, spells often need three elements to reach their full strength: the word, the wand, and the will.”

Bored with studying, you reached up, loosening your hair, letting it fall past your shoulders as you parted your legs just slightly, catching his gaze.

For a moment, he faltered, eyes flicking over you before refocusing, pretending not to notice. “Three also represents balance and harmony. It’s essential in potions, in rituals, as it brings equilibrium among elements. It’s often seen as a progression—beginning, middle, end—a journey towards self-mastery.”

His words faded to background noise as your gaze dropped to his lips, entranced by the way they moved.

“Don’t you think it’s warm in here?” you asked, voice laced with fake innocence as you slowly undid the top button of your shirt. His breath hitched, eyes widening slightly before he closed them, letting out a long sigh as he loosened his tie, clearly struggling.

"We’ll do an exercise," he said finally, a taunting smile curving his lips as he looked at you.

Then he moved closer, bridging the distance, his hands resting with dangerous ease on your bare thighs. His touch sent a shiver down your spine, but you kept your composure, a smirk gracing your own lips.

You bit your lip, meeting his gaze. "What kind of exercise… Professor?" you asked in a sultry voice, voice thick with challenge.

His fingers traced a slow, deliberate path up your thigh, slipping beneath your skirt to the edge of your underwear, his touch a delicious torment. He slid over the thin fabric of your underwear, pressing gently against your wetness, sending a shiver through both of you. The feeling made his breath hitch, excitement building as he bit down on his lip, his gaze darkening with impatience. His fingers lingered there, teasing, savoring the warmth radiating from you even through the fabric, every touch heavy with restrained desire.

“There’s much more to know about the number three,” he murmured, his voice husky.

With a deliberate slowness, Mattheo pushed your underwear aside, his finger tracing over your slickness, savoring the warmth that met his touch. He paused there for a moment, watching the way your body responded, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Then, without warning, he slipped a finger into your heat, the sudden sensation pulling a sharp gasp from you, your body instinctively arching toward him.

His movements were slow, almost teasing at first, as if he were savoring every reaction you gave him. His gaze remained steady, nearly cold, a stark contrast to the fire his touch ignited in you. “See?” he murmured, voice soft yet commanding. “One finger works—effective,” He watched as you squirmed beneath him, his words only heightening the intensity as he continued his steady rhythm, each thrust calculated and precise.

“Oh Merlin, Mattheo…” you breathed, your hands gripping his shoulders as his pace quickened, the growing friction making it impossible to keep quiet. Your breaths came faster, each one a testament to the fire spreading through you.

After a moment, his lips curved into a wicked smile. Without a word, he added a second finger, stretching you further. “Two… much better, isn’t it?” he whispered in your ear, his voice a low rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. He kept his face close, so you could feel every breath as he continued his rhythm, his fingers working you with increasing intensity.

A low moan escaped you, your head tilting back as his fingers pushed deeper, every movement fanning the heat building within you. The pleasure was mounting, a slow burn turning into something unstoppable.

“Fuck-” you gasped, barely able to form words as his fingers moved with an ease that left you breathless, every stroke pushing you closer to the edge.

A dark glint flashed in his eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting in a triumphant smirk. "But the number three," he murmured, his tone laced with a smooth, sinful pleasure, "that never fails." Without breaking rhythm, he added a third finger, stretching you carefully, perfectly, until a wave of pleasure overtook you.

You whimpered, your body tightening around him, every nerve alight as he continued his relentless pace. Your muscles clenched as you trembled under his touch, utterly at his mercy as he showed you exactly what the number three could do.

His fingers glided over the delicate fabric of your underwear, pressing down firmly, teasingly, against your wetness. The warmth radiating from you fueled his desire, his breath catching as he felt your need through the thin material. He bit down on his lip, struggling to maintain control, each slow stroke only intensifying his impatience. Without warning, he pressed his fingers deeper, harder, his rhythm syncing with the rapid beat of your heart.

You could feel yourself unraveling, the tension building as his fingers worked expertly, and your walls began to soften and weaken, giving in to him completely. Your quiet whimpers filled the silent room, until, finally, you couldn’t hold back any longer. A loud moan escaped you as you came undone, your body surrendering in waves of pleasure around his fingers.

He withdrew his hand slowly, his fingers coated in your essence, and a cocky smirk played on his lips. "Now you see?" he murmured, his voice rough with need.

Breathless, you nodded, the exhaustion heavy in your limbs as you tried to steady your breathing. But before you could fully recover, he gripped your hips and lifted you from the desk, his eyes dark with intent.

“Now that we’re done with the lesson…” he growled, turning you around and pressing your front against the desk, his hand on the back of your head, urging you down until your breasts met the cool wood with a soft slap.

In one swift motion, he slid your damp underwear down your legs, holding you firmly in place. You heard the soft clinking of his belt, followed by the unmistakable sound of him unfastening it. Your pulse quickened—you couldn’t wait any longer; you needed him now.

He teased your entrance with his hardened tip, earning a breathless moan from you as the anticipation grew unbearable.

“Here’s a new lesson Professor Riddle is going to teach you…” he growled, his hips snapping forward as he thrust into you, pulling a gasp from your lips. His pace was slow at first, but the intensity of his movements made you clutch the edge of the desk as he filled you completely, his body molding perfectly to yours.

With each thrust, he went deeper, rougher, his hand sliding down to your hip, steadying you as he quickened the rhythm. A loud slap against your skin echoed through the room, a sharp reminder of his control.

“Never tease me while I’m teaching you something important,” he warned, his voice a cool contrast to the fierce pace of his movements. His grip on your neck held you in place, and with his other hand, he found your clit, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles that sent shockwaves through your body.

"Do you hear me, Y/N?" His voice was cold, holding none of the usual warmth, a testament to the punishment he was inflicting for your earlier teasing.

“Yes-” you managed to gasp, your voice breaking into a moan as he spanked you again, the sting sending a thrill down your spine.

“Yes what?” he demanded, landing another smack on your skin, each impact sending sparks through you.

“Yes, Professor…” you whimpered, your legs trembling, barely able to support you under the weight of his relentless thrusts.

Slowing his rhythm, he pulled out just enough to give you a brief reprieve, leaving you breathless and aching before slamming back into you, making you cry out in pleasure as he filled you once again.

“Good fucking girl.” he murmured, his voice filled with smug satisfaction, reveling in the way you fell apart again beneath him.

#slytherin boys #slytherin boys smut #smut #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo riddle #slytherin #mattheo smut #mattheo x y/n #mattheoxreader #hogwarts #harry potter fandom

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beckyninja · 28 days ago

Text

Trust

Pairing: Roboute Guilliman x FemReader

Warnings: some suggestive content; implied torture

Description: This is a direct sequel to At First Sight. Guilliman and his intended break the news to their entourages and face the first test of their relationship.

His calloused hands move over your body, mapping each curve and divot. You feel the heat of them, the strength of them. They could hurt you, you know. They could tear you apart with so little effort. But they won’t. You know they won’t.

He whispers your name. You’ve never heard it spoken that way before. Like he’s drinking in each syllable and is awed by the taste. You whisper his in return.

“Roboute…”

He takes your mouth again and you melt further into his arms. He encompasses you. Overwhelms you. Drowns you in his presence.

By the Light and the Void, you sink willingly.

But then he pulls back.

You feel his massive chest heaving against you, hear his breath coming in great gasps. When he speaks, it sounds as if he is trying to hold back an avalanche with will alone.

“I… I must stop.”

***

“My Lady?”

The voice ripped you from your reverie. You jerked upright, blinking. Before you, the great view port stretched to the ceiling, what was usually a view of endless starfield now taken up by the bulk of The Macragge’s Honor. The Ultramarine flagship, at least the size of your homeworld’s capital city, flew alongside and dwarfed your own ship.

It should have been an intimidating sight. Instead, you found the brutal and beautiful lines of the behemoth comforting. Your betrothed was there.

Betrothed.

You bit your lip and tried to hold back a delighted laugh.

Are you thinking of me right now, Roboute?

An impatient sigh reminded you of your company. You composed your face into a pleasant mask and turned to face the frowning attendant. She bobbed a half-hearted curtsy.

“Captain Takahashi, her officers, and Her Grace’s diplomats are assembled, my Lady. As you requested.”

You took a deep breath and rose from the cushioned window seat. “Thank you, Nita. I will be along shortly.”

The woman barely tried to hide her scoff, bobbed another perfunctory curtsy, and scurried off without waiting to be dismissed. You sighed. You’d done all you could to endear yourself to the attendants Grandmother provided. And still they treated you like some provincial hick fresh from the high country.

Which I suppose I was not too long ago.

Oh well. You’d grown used to their slights. They didn’t sting as much as they used to.

Holding your head high, you left the Observation Deck and headed toward the Bridge. Time to deliver the news.

Void only knows how it will be received.

***

“I… I must stop.”

He forces the words through gritted teeth. Every primal instinct he thought himself above roars in protest. They rage against his better judgment, urging him to dominate, to ravish. You’re warm and willing. Your very scent cries out to him. You want this as much as he does.

When he pulls away and you whine in confused protest, his will nearly crumbles.

“Oh My Hearts,” he groans, “do not tempt me.”

“Roboute?” Your soft hand slides along his jaw. “Why…?”

He closes his eyes and fights to master these foreign desires. “I will not dishonor you like this. You deserve better.” When he finally feels he has mastery again, he looks at you. “You will be Lady of Ultramar, my wife. I will not treat you like a mere mistress.”

You are silent for a moment, then, “I understand.”

Taking your hand in his, he presses another kiss to your palm. “Forgive me my rashness.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Roboute.” Your smile lights the dim room. “You’re a good man.”

If you had reached into his chest and plucked out both his hearts, Guilliman assumes he would feel much the same as he does now. Throne! His adoration is painful in its intensity.

“Sleep well, my Love. Fear nothing, and know that I am near.”

***

Roboute Guilliman was never more grateful for his skill at multitasking. His stylus flew over the parchments and data-slates before him with unerring focus, part of his mind steadily solving the unending problems of Imperial government one by one. As usual.

He trusted his face remained set in its usual mask. No one near could possibly guess at the turmoil beneath.

You. You. Youyouyouyou….

Your scent. The floral, herbal fragrance you favored, mixed with something he could only describe as fresh. Like the mountain air of Macragge.

Your touch. Cool in comparison to his and impossibly soft.

Your taste… the sounds you made….

Throne damn it all!

The stylus in his hand snapped in two. He growled and leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand across his face. For the thousandth time that day, his eyes went to the view port, and the sleek ship that floated beyond.

He understood your need to address your crew and fellow diplomats. His rational mind did, anyway. Every other part of him chafed at the thought that you were no longer in reach. You were so fragile, and this universe so capricious.

Whatever chance granted him this bit of solace could snatch it away just as easily. His chest constricted at the thought. He needed you close. On his ship. In his arms. In his bed.

No, damn it!

There were rules, in both your culture and his. Rules that needed to be followed. He would not permit you to begin your life at his side under a cloud of scandal. Throne knew acclimating would be hard enough without that. Besides, he wanted to court you, like the lady you were.

His impromptu proposal would already raise eyebrows. He frowned. You needed a proper ring. He’d have to see to that-

“My Lord.”

Sicarius marched into his office, sabatons striking the floor with slightly more force than usual. Guilliman could read the displeasure on the Commander’s face as he stiffly saluted.

“Are they all assembled?”

“Yes, my Lord. The Victrix Guard, the Ultramarine Captains in attendance, all the most senior baseline officers and officials, and the Mechanicus ArchMagi. As you ordered.”

“The Astropaths are prepared to transmit?”

“They are, my Lord.” Sicarius hesitated a moment. “Forgive me, Lord Guilliman, but, may I speak freely?”

Here it comes. Guilliman sighed.

“Speak.”

“I do not understand your reasoning behind this decision, my Lord.”

Not for the first time, Guilliman regretted the Commander’s presence that fateful night. Hiding anything from Astartes’ ears was nigh impossible, and he remembered well the look of utter horror on the Commander’s face when he’d exited your quarters.

Guilliman stood and made his way toward the door. “I shall make my reasoning clear during the official announcement, Sicarius.”

I doubt you would understand even if I explained it to you. I doubt any of your brothers will either.

Somehow, that saddened him.

***

“In conclusion, Lord Guilliman has made me an offer of marriage, and I have accepted.”

As you expected, your announcement is met by stunned silence, followed by a flurry of hysteria from the other diplomats.

“What?!”

“This is not what was planned!”

“What would Her Grace, your grandmother, say?”

“Have you lost what little mind you ever possessed?!”

You winced at the last outburst, coming from Lord O’Rourke. The stout career politician was the senior diplomat in this delegation, though your superior rank placed you in the position of Ambassador.

A fact he’d never forgiven you for.

You watched his face turn from its usual red to a truly alarming shade of purple. He lurched toward you and you had to fight the urge to shy away.

He can’t hurt me here. Not in front of everyone.

O’Rourke halted just a few feet in front of you. You could see, and smell, the sweat dripping from his face. He jabbed a finger at you.

“Foolish, brainless, naive little girl!” Spittle flew from his lips. “Get back over there and tell that barbarian warlord you’ve come to your senses and refuse his disgusting impertinence!”

Your eyes narrowed at the insult. He’d been singing a different tune when he’d actually met the Primarch, cringing and quivering on his knees.

“I’m afraid it’s far too late for that, O’Rourke. As we speak, Lord Guilliman is delivering the message to his staff, and then on to the wider Imperium. What’s done is done.” Indignation emboldened you. “And I, for one, am glad of it.”

The stinging slap caught you by surprise. A few of those present gasped, more smirked, as you stumbled back.

“Selfish bastard bitch!” O’Rourke snarled. “Have you any idea what you’ve done? You’ve sold your people into slavery because you couldn’t keep your legs close-”

“That will be quite enough, my Lord.” Captain Takahashi’s quiet command cut through the politician’s rant.

He whirled on her. “This is my delegation! You cannot tell me-”

“This is the Lady Heir’s delegation.” The Captain approached from her position by the helm. “But you stand on the Bridge of my ship.” She stood a good two feet shorter than the politician, but commanded far greater respect. “And I will not tolerate such undisciplined behavior. Will you, my Lady?”

The Captain sent you a meaningful glance. You swallowed tears of pain and shame.

“I-I will not. L-Lord O’Rourke, please remove yourself from my presence until you have r-regained your composure.”

Void! Why can’t I stop my voice from shaking?

O’Rourke looked as if he was about to argue, when a motion from the Captain brought two men-at-arms to your side, hands on their weapons. The politician seethed and stormed off the bridge, followed by the rest of the diplomats. They did not bother waiting for your dismissal.

You let loose a long, unsteady breath. “Thank you, Captain.”

She nodded. “I know my duty, Lady Heir. Even if some have forgotten theirs.” A brief pause. “Would you do me the honor of joining me in my stateroom?”

You managed a smile and followed her off the bridge. Once inside the rather spartan stateroom, the Captain pulled a chair and motioned for you to sit. She then called a steward, who vanished into a sideroom before re-emerging with an ice pack and a flask.

“For your face.” The Captain handed you the icepack. “And for your spirit.” She handed you the flask.

“Thank you.”

You pressed the pack to your aching cheek, but did not drink from the flask.

“You’ve always been kind to me, Captain.” The stoic woman bowed her head in acknowledgement. “I would know your thoughts on this matter, if I may.”

A long silence. The Captain seemed to stare off into the distance before speaking.

“In my time in your presence, I have come to know you as a conscientious young woman. You care for our people, and would never take a course of action that would harm them.”

You warmed under the rare praise.

“In fact, I believe you would sacrifice both your dignity and your honor if you believed it necessary. You have been taught to do so.”

Your eyes widened. “This isn’t like that, Captain!”

“Is it not?”

You set the ice pack on the table. Your mind spun with a thousand different arguments and rationalizations. Finally, you settled on the simplest.

“I love him.”

Her expression didn’t change. “But do you trust him, Lady Heir?”

A bucket of ice water dashed over your head would have felt much the same. “I….”

By the Light and the Void, do I? Or am I being played for a fool yet again?

You finally chose to take a swig from the silver flask. The liquor burned its way down your throat, but failed to supply the courage you sought.

“Captain, I…I don’t-”

“Captain!”

A naval officer burst into the stateroom, eyes wild. “Someone has armed the nuclear arsenal!”

Captain Takahashi was on her feet in the blink of an eye. “Shut down the firing systems, immediately!”

“We’ve tried, Ma’am. We’ve been locked out of the computer!” He swallowed. “They’re aiming at the Imperial flagship.”

Roboute.

You felt your heart still. “Light help us.”

***

Guilliman stood in his massive audience chamber. The vaulted ceilings, great pillars, and vast murals of Ultramarine triumphs never failed to awaken mixed feelings of pride and melancholy in him. But today, today he allowed himself to feel just a sliver of joy as well.

He knew few enough in the multitude shared the sentiment.

Shock seemed to be the prevailing emotion, followed closely by confusion, especially among his sons. At least they didn’t all express the same blatant disdain as Sicarius. He hoped some of them would eventually come to appreciate your presence. Part of him wished Calgar were aboard, just to see his reaction.

The baseline officials traded glances and whispers amongst themselves. They all knew of your existence, of course. But relatively few had ever come into contact with you. This news must seem to come out of nowhere to them.

Only the Mechanicum Magi had no response at all. Guilliman could imagine them wondering why he’d interrupted their work for such a trivial announcement.

He found himself oddly disappointed.

Then he noticed the serfs.

They moved among and on the edges of the crowd, unnoticed by nearly all. But his Primarch’s eyes caught the smiles beneath their hooded robes.

It seems some did share his joy after all. The thought lifted his hearts.

He turned to Sicarius. “See that the Astropaths transmit this message not only to Holy Terra, but to the Captains of the Companies as well.”

Sicarius nodded, but did not leave immediately. “My Lord, what if this is all some sort of trap?”

A few eyes glanced their way and Guilliman growled. “Lower your voice, Commander.”

He did, but did not stop speaking. “I do not know how this… female has ensnared you, my Lord. But have you considered that she could be some sort of psyker? How do we even know her people possess any useful technology? Perhaps this is all an elaborate ploy to get you to lower your-”

“Enough!” Guilliman winced as his retort echoed throughout the chamber.

He retreated to his office. Sicarius followed, silent but obviously displeased. Once inside, Guilliman whirled on him.

“Commander, I understand your concerns, but if you ever, ever question my judgment in front of such a multitude again, I will see you demoted and dishonored. Do you understand?”

Sicarius went rigid. “Yes, my Lord.”

Guilliman closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Do you think I have not considered each and every one of the things you named? I have. And I have discarded them all.”

The Commander’s facial muscles twitched in such a way that Guilliman knew he was struggling to remain silent.

Guilliman turned away.

How can I explain this in a way you could understand, Cato? How can I say that I truly do not care if her world is of value to the Imperium or not? As long as I have her.

He remembered the look in your eyes when you accepted his proposal. The love he saw there. He knew what betrayal looked like. Few knew it better.

You would never do that to me.

Alarms blared. A mechanical voice screeched through both his and Sicarius’s personal vox-casters: “FOREIGN WEAPONS SYSTEMS’ ACTIVATION DETECTED. ALL HANDS TO STARBOARD BATTLE STATIONS.”

Sicarius leapt into action. “My Lord! We must get you to the armoring room!”

But Guilliman broke away and strode to his view port. Your ship slid into view, small and silvery and somehow more aggressive than it had been just hours before. He saw portals, like mocking mouths, opening all along the side facing The Macragge’s Honor. Missile ports.

“My Lord!” Sicarius bellowed.

The mechanical voice screeched again. “COUNTERMEASURES READY. AWAITING ORDER TO FIRE.”

Behind him, he heard Sicarius activate his vox. “This is Cato Sicarius, Commander of the Victrix Guard, I hereby give the order to-”

“Wait.”

Sicarius’s voice rose into octaves not usually attained by an Astartes. “My Lord?!”

Guilliman ignored him, eyes fixed on your ship. In a mere millisecond to the average human, his mind raced through every possible option. His flagship could atomize your’s without even putting a dent in its munitions stock. Your crew knew they had no chance. That left malfunction as a possibility.

Or suicide. Your ship had been allowed closer to The Macragge’s Honor than any non-Imperial ship in millenia. This could be some desperate, sacrificial attempt at assassination. Sicarius’ words, dismissed moments before, now gnawed at him.

Had that been your plan all along?

“Lord Guilliman!” Sicarius all but screamed.

He did not speak, eyes still fixed on the open missile ports. He should give the order. But something… something held him back.

“INCOMING MESSAGE FROM FOREIGN VESSEL.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding. “Patch it through to my personal vox.”

Behind him, he sensed Sicarius was nearing an apoplectic fit.

“Roboute?”

Your voice, thin and staticky from a barely compatible communications system. But still your voice.

He activated his vox and spoke your name.

***

You gasped in relief at the sound of your name over the transmitter. “Roboute! Don’t fire. There was a mutiny among several of my delegation. They hijacked one of the firing systems.” You knew you were babbling, but couldn’t stop yourself. “We managed to stop them just in time and things are back under control. Don’t fire!”

Tears filled your eyes. You couldn’t decide if they came from the stress of the last few minutes, or the idea that your love might think you’d betrayed him.

“Please don’t fire. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I-I would never….” Your throat nearly closed.

Beside you, one of the naval officers reported. “Their weapons’ systems are still active, Captain.”

Captain Takahashi’s face, blackened from weapons’ fire, was grim. She motioned to another officer.

“How quickly can we cloak?”

The officer just shook his head.

You swallowed. It was all up to you.

Do I trust him? Does he trust me?

“Roboute, please.”

You felt a strange sense of calm as the realization you’d done all you could came over you. Now it was up to him.

The officer next to you suddenly laughed. “They’re powering down!”

The transmitter cracked to life. “Are you well?”

Tears fell. You replayed the last few minutes over in your mind. Chasing after the Captain and her men-at-arms as they rushed to the Fire Control Center. You hadn’t known what else to do, and waiting seemed unbearable.

There you’d found the door held by Lord O’Rourke’s personal guard. Shouts. Screams. Smoke in the air. Someone had shoved you to the floor. You remember wishing you had a rifle.

In seconds that seemed like hours, your group had forced their way past the door, and found O’Rourke poised to fire the missiles.

He’d looked so proud. “I do this for our people, and by the command of the rightful heir-”

Light and Void, had you really thrown yourself at him? At that moment, you hadn’t thought of the alliance, shattered before it had a chance to begin. You hadn’t thought of the hundreds of innocents who would die. You hadn’t even thought of your own life.

You’d thought of impossibly blue eyes, looking at you like no one had ever looked at you before.

When you awoke moments later, ribs aching from where you’d been thrown against the computer bank, all you could think about was getting to the nearest transmitter.

“Yes, Roboute, I am well.”

The next hours passed in a blur. Roboute insisted you return to his flagship, and Captain Takahashi had agreed. She couldn’t know who else among her crew might be plotting mutiny. But she did have one thing to say when she met the Primarch in the docking bay.

“Nothing will stop me from launching every bit of ordinance I have at your ship, if the Lady Heir comes to harm under your care.”

The Ultramarines had stiffened, but Roboute only nodded. “If I allow harm to befall her, I will lower our shields myself.”

Then he’d swept you into his arms. You snuggled against him as he carried you through the halls of his ship, ignoring the glances from those you passed.

“Where are you taking me?

“I have had new quarters prepared for you, adjacent to my own.” He smiled wryly down at you. “I am not letting you out of my sight again. Not, at least, until we reach your homeworld.”

You stiffened. “You’re taking me home?”

“Of course. How else will I officially ask for your hand?”

You pressed your face into his chest, not wanting him to see the dismay that flitted across it. Home held fewer happy memories than he thought. Still….

You trusted Roboute Guilliman to keep you safe.

***

Guilliman made sure you were tucked safely in bed, a medica on hand and one of his Victrix Guard stationed by the door, before he made his way back to the docking bay. Commander Sicarius and a rather plain-looking baseline man fell into step behind him.

The warmth and comfort of your presence faded with each thunderous step, changing into cold rage.

A tiny woman met him outside of a shuttle similar to the one in which you’d first arrived. He nodded to her.

“Captain Takahashi.”

He saw her shiver slightly at the expression on his face, though she quickly regained her composure. “Lord Guilliman.”

He glanced toward the shuttle. “My thanks for bringing me what I asked for. I sincerely hope you will not be reprimanded by your superiors.”

“I would endure any level of reprimand necessary for this. Besides,” her dark eyes glittered coldly, “prisoners are often ‘shot while trying to escape’.”

She snapped an order into her comm-link and the ramp of the shuttle opened. There was a muffled shriek as a bound and gagged figure tumbled down and into the docking bay. He’d been stripped to his underclothes, and his skin already bore numerous mottled bruises.

The Captain eyed him. “The Lady Heir managed to land a few good hits before he threw her off.”

Guilliman felt a surge of pride. “She is stronger than she looks.”

“In more ways than one.” The Captain saluted. “My Lord, I leave you with your baggage. I trust you’ll share whatever information he divulges. I am most interested in whoever gave him his orders.”

“As am I.”

The Captain strode up the ramp without a second glance at the bound man, even when he whimpered something that sounded like her name. A second later the ramp closed, and the shuttle departed.

Guilliman walked slowly toward the man, stretching to his full, armored height and never breaking eye contact. The pathetic figure immediately soiled himself.

“Interrogator,” Guilliman motioned to the unassuming baseline, “how long before you extract every secret this insect has to give?”

The man cocked his head, the implants where his eyes used to be whirring, “Oh, an hour at most, my Lord. Faster, if you don’t mind more… extensive damage.”

“Proceed.”

“And when I am finished, my Lord? What shall I do with what remains?”

Guilliman stared down, unblinking, at the screaming form of Lord O’Rourke, the man who’d come so close to extinguishing one of the only lights in his life.

“The lower decks are always in need of more servitors.”

@remembrancer-of-heresy @solspina @sleepyfan-blog @moodymisty @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan

@bispecsual @kit-williams @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @adhd-fandom-hyperfocus @lemon-russ

@justeverythingnothingelse @scriberye @bleedingichorhearts @c-u-c-koo-4-40k @mooniequeen

@passionofthesith @noncon-photobomb @sinistermojo @b-rabbitboss

#warhammer 40k #primarch x reader #roboute gulliman #roboute gulliman x reader #the first hiccup in the relationship #trust issues #shadowy forces at play?#but these two come out strong

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targaryenrealnessdarling · 6 months ago

Text

A Duet of Fire and Fate

Part Two | Series Masterlist

Summary: the monotonous days of practice are starting to grate, but made more complicated by the pianist's lingering words | Word Count: 4.3k~ | Warnings: sexual tension 😘

“Aemond, darling, please…” Alicent pleaded behind the closed door of his bedroom, her worried, motherly voice muffled through the thick frame, “it's not the end of the world, love, okay?”

He'd been in the exact same spot for several hours, his knee bouncing irritably and impatiently. He closed his eyes, as if trying to put on the image of being completely calm. But his hands were clasped painfully, fingertips sore from practice, and he could barely hear his mother through the door anyway, with the large headphones pressed to his ears, with the uncomfortable sting of the cello raking into his brain.

His heart was racing with stress, playing the same bit of ‘Cello Concerto' over and over again, trying to find the part where Otto had incessantly pressured him to perfect it. Wrong timing. Wrong tune. Incorrect finger placement.

Each time he stumbled over the same tricky passage, his frustration mounted. The melody was supposed to soar, but all he could feel was the grinding pressure to not mess up, to not let Otto down, to not disappoint his mother who believed so fervently in his talent.

Where in others, he witnessed nurture in the form of pride, loving gestures and unconditional support. He could see no merit in it. Love to Aemond was tight and oppressive, and weighty on his shoulders.

The door to his room creaked open slightly, and his mother’s voice, muffled and distant through the noise-canceling headphones, attempted to break through the barrier of sound. "Aemond, dinner," she called, her tone gentle yet persistent.

He barely glanced up, giving a slight shake of his head. The outside world, even the simple call to dinner, felt like an unwelcome intrusion.

"Aemond, please," she tried again, her voice firmer now. A choice of tone usually reserved solely for Aegon. "You need to eat. You’ve been at this for hours.”

Aemond cradled his cello gently between his knees, the hum of the ensemble drifted in the air, each musician fine-tuned to perfection with scales and snippets of melodies to practice. But despite this, Aemond found his thoughts elsewhere, his memories blurring into his current reality, where a new challenge in the form of the pianist had emerged.

With every draw of his bow across the strings as if he were an artist gliding a paint-slick brush over canvas, Aemond found his concentration fragmenting. His thoughts were pulled back to the pianist’s effortless expression, her ability to blend technical mastery with palpable emotion. A stark contrast to his own methodical, disciplined approach.

She irked him. She intrigued him. Two feelings which should not hold hands in Aemond's black and white reality. Every single thing his musical education had deemed secondary, she challenged. In the brief moments where he could witness her artistry himself, her performances always lingered, whereas his own, for all its precision, rarely achieved.

“Focus, Aemond.”

Otto's chide was soft and yet audible to everyone. It echoed a long and tired reminder of years past. And he found himself unable to pull back the glare that his own grandfather shot first down the bridge of his nose.

Practice ended how it often had, disappointed and dejected. He could no longer think of her or the words she'd said in their last encounter without feeling the frustration thud in his heart. After all, could the skills she so easily spoke about even be learned?

He longed to see what she saw, how she felt when she played.

The route back to Aemond's apartment was mentally tiring, and the frustration that usually ebbed away with every step, somehow lingered, and permeated throughout his body. For some time, playing the cello had not been met with accomplishment, now more often than not, met with a long and exhausting sense that he could be better.

That is what Alys had said as well, a few weeks ago, when she'd packed up the rest of her things, still pink in the face from Aemond's lips and tongue having pleasured her between her thighs to completion. The difference between her attitude and her parting words almost gave him emotional whiplash.

“I can't be the one to distract you. Not when you need to focus. Not when you have the opportunity to be great.”

Her voice was firm. And there was no room for argument or rebuttal. When Alys said something had to be how it was, that was it. Aemond had watched silently, scrubbing a hand over his face at the closed door of his apartment. He wanted to argue that if Alys had in fact cared that she'd be distracting him, her lack of presence would be just that.

How often now had he been sinking between her thighs, just to think of something else?

He never thought himself a sex addict, and yet the idea of going so long without it, with the show yet months away, made him angry to think how affected he was by it. This was hypocrisy the likes of his brother, Aegon, would love to shove in his face, he just knew it.

The stone square that choked the Grand Sept was speckled with light through the trees, rustling in a manner some would have found comforting. Couples kissed near the fountain, artists drew for money, set up with a view of the Sept while onlookers watched with joy, and children tripped and squabbled through the various nooks that had once marked the spot of a great dynasty.

This was where he waited, taking in the view and the gentle, somewhat melancholic lull of people's lives go past him without a blink. It was an hour before he'd have to traverse back the way he came for his personal booking, to practice the pieces he so desperately wanted to perfect.

During the day, his phone was off. Nothing was more important than what he deemed his life's work.

With a soft sigh, he sat on the wall, watching the square empty as afternoons drew in, his seeing eye following longingly at a brother and sister, who must have had the same age gap he and Aegon had, chasing one another on the cobbled path. Their squeals of glee and bright, happy faces stirred something heavy in his chest.

Had he ever felt as carefree as that. Had he ever felt like a child. Or had he been a grown man for so long.

His thoughts drifted to his own childhood. He would stand stiff and rigid at recitals, looking out to the expectant gaze of his mother, her burning pride gazing into him. There, there was no room for carefree joy akin to the brother sister chasing each other through the square. His childhood, if it could be called that, was dominated by routine and scales, not play and abandon.

He glances at the golden ticking hands of his watch and with a heaved sigh, lifts his cello case to trudge back along the cobblestones to the music school, feeling the familiar pull of responsibilities. Yet, something about the moment nagged at him, a sense of loss for experiences never had, for a childhood spent in service to a future that demanded everything.

With a heaved sigh and another trudge through the now darkened halls of his music college, Aemond pushed open the door, expecting a deep, sullen and wooden silence. Only to be greeted, or rather, whatever the negative version to being ‘greeted’ is, by the sound of the delicate, light twinkle of piano keys.

He watched at first with a sense of both unease and interest as she played, her face partly hidden by the locks of hair that had fallen between her concentrated brows. He couldn’t even really see her playing, but could feel the sensitivity of her fingers on the black and white keys, the piece melancholic.

Aemond willed the crease between his brows, attempting to feign disappointment between his awe.

“You’re in the room I booked.”

Her eyes pierced the darkness between the opening of the grand piano, searing a memory into his mind through her vibrant gaze. At first, she seemed surprised at not being alone, and then her features settled, and he saw the wrinkles at the corner of one of them that made it clear that she smirked at seeing his annoyance.

She stood and closed the lid with a soft thud, pulling her bag over her shoulder, “yeah well unless you want to try moving a grand piano?” she smirks, raising one eyebrow as if daring him to reply.

Aemond exhaled sharply through his nose, setting his cello case against a nearby chair, conceding the point without words.

“Didn’t think so,” she replied in a jokey manner, smiling down as she organised her sheet music into a neat satchel bag at her side.

While she wasn't looking, he found himself watching her, for no particular reason. There was something about the way she moved, the confidence she exuded even in the simplest of actions, that intrigued him. It wasn’t just curiosity about her attire or a superficial interest, he found himself wondering about the depth of her character, about the source of her fearless demeanour. If his stolen looks were not to see what she was wearing today, then perhaps to see if he could glimpse into her soul for just a moment, to see where she got her fucking audacity from.

He sat to prepare his cello, running his middle finger over the bow strings, the density of them feeling somewhat satisfying against his calloused tips.

“You’re not going to lecture me about how I need to… ‘make love to my music’, or some shit like that?”

She chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to resonate a little too deeply within him. “What you do with your cello in your alone time is none of my business,” she quipped without looking up, her voice light yet laden with a hint of mischief.

“Hmm.”

The air between them was charged with an unspoken tension, a dance of mutual curiosity and veiled interest. As she packed up her things, Aemond found himself unwilling to break the moment, his usual reserve shaken by her presence. There was something about her, a boldness, an unapologetic embrace of her own talent and identity, that challenged him, that made him question his own guarded nature.

As she slung her bag over her shoulder, ready to leave, she paused, glancing back at Aemond who was methodically preparing his cello. A thought seemed to strike her, and her eyes lingered on him, curious and considering.

"Actually, do you mind if I stay a bit longer to listen?" she asked, her tone casual but with an underlying sincerity that caught Aemond off guard.

Aemond felt a mixture of apprehension and pride swell within him. He was used to accolades and audiences, but her request felt different, more personal, more significant. His initial instinct was to guard his practice, a time he usually kept private, a sacred space where he perfected his art away from prying eyes. Yet, something about her frank interest, devoid of any apparent ulterior motive, piqued his own curiosity about how she might perceive his music.

He was so taken off guard, as he was so often by her, that he forgot to say anything and simply nodded. He positioned his cello, settling it between his knees, his back straightening as he prepared to play. The invitation was extended on his terms, yet internally, he acknowledged a desire to impress her, to validate his approach and perhaps, to challenge her own musical opinions.

Her posture was relaxed, but attentive, as if she at least wanted to offer him the respect of knowing she was listening wholeheartedly. As Aemond drew the bow across the strings, the first notes resonated through the room, rich and precise. He chose a piece that showcased his technical prowess, a complex Bach suite that required meticulous control and deep concentration.

As he played, he found himself increasingly aware of her presence in the room. Each note was not just played for the sake of practice but as a demonstration of his skill and dedication to his craft. He watched her reaction out of the corner of his eye, her expressions subtle yet revealing. She seemed genuinely absorbed in the music, her earlier playful demeanour replaced by a focused seriousness that matched his own when he played.

The last draw of his bow brought those guarded walls back up again, the same ones that usually came tumbling down when he felt that in the throes of playing, feeling as if he was alone, were so easily crumbled. When the last note vibrated into silence, Aemond allowed himself a moment to gauge her reaction fully. She had leaned forward in her chair, as if she wanted to see his technique closer.

“You play with such precision,” she almost whispered, so quietly he strained to hear them. As if the words hadn’t been for him at all.

He wasn’t certain how to place her review, negative or positive. And it aggravated him that even in her criticism, she was aggressively neutral.

"Precision is crucial," he responded, his voice steady but his mind racing. He ached to say more, but alongside fearing he would appear defensive, he was unsure whether he wanted to invite criticism from her.

She paused, considering his question, her eyes locking with his. "Precision is your strength, no doubt," she began, her voice gaining confidence as she spoke. "But music, at least to me, also needs to breathe, to have a life of its own beyond the notes on the page. Your playing is impeccable, but it feels tightly controlled, almost constrained."

He quashed the rising irritation, or at least as much as he could, forcing himself to consider her words from a place of growth rather than confrontation. "So, you're suggesting I let go a little?" he asked, watching as she smiled at his confusion.

“Maybe,” she said lightly, “allow it the freedom to surprise you. Control you. You might find you like it.”

He couldn’t help but dissect the slight flirtatiousness in her voice. And yet it was almost gentle, a stark contrast to the sharpness he was accustomed to in such discussions.

She broke the silence that seemed to bulge between them, “do you like it?”

His mother watched him eat, her gaze laden with a mix of pride and concern. The clink of cutlery filled the brief silences as she finally found the words.

"Do you enjoy it, Aemond?" she asked, her voice soft yet carrying weight. "The cello, I mean. Do you actually enjoy playing?"

Aemond paused, his fork suspended in mid-air. It was a question that had lingered at the edge of his consciousness, unvoiced and unanswered. Did he enjoy it, truly? Or had it become merely a vehicle for his ambition, a pathway that he had been set upon rather than one he had chosen?

"It sometimes feels like the only thing I know how to do," he admitted, and for someone so often so sure, his voice wavered.

His mother’s hand reached across the table, her touch warm against his. "Music should be a source of joy, not just a pursuit of perfection," she reminded him gently. "It’s a gift, Aemond, meant to be cherished as much as honed."

Aemond paused, the question catching him off-guard. "Do I like what?" he asked, unsure if she was referring to her suggestion or something more implicit.

She bit back a small smile, and yet it still wormed its way onto her face, “losing control.”

Her question, laced with a hint of playfulness, hung in the air, and Aemond found himself momentarily lost for words. He was unaccustomed to such directness wrapped in…flirtation?

“Losing control?” he repeated, his mouth feeling a little dry.

“Mmhm,” she hummed, “you hold the reins so tightly. Might be liberating to loosen…or even let go, once in a while?”

The atmosphere between them seemed to thicken, the words ‘losing control’ echoing not just through the room but through Aemond’s thoughts, disrupting his usual composure.

Aemond shifted slightly, the concept of loosening his grip, both metaphorically on his music and literally in his life, seemed to resonate deeper than he anticipated. "And you think that's something I need?" he asked, his voice lower, the hint of a challenge lacing his words.

She didn’t move an inch, but her presence seemed more pronounced. The subtle scent of her perfume mixed with the mustiness of the old practice room created a contrast that was oddly intoxicating. "Isn't it?" she countered softly, her gaze steady on his.

The air between them was palpable now, her every word pulling at something he usually kept well guarded. His heart beat a rhythm almost too pronounced, mirroring the tension that seemed to pulse through the space.

Clasping her bag closed, she stood, "Music is about feeling, about passion. It’s not just the notes, but the spaces between them, the breaths, the moments of surrender.”

Aemond’s response was caught in his throat as he absorbed her words, her proximity, the undeniable tension that seemed to dance around them like the very music she spoke of. How the hell did she do that?

She allowed herself a cheeky smile, one that reached her eyes so quickly that with those alone he would know she was amused, “maybe you should surrender to it sometimes.”

A part of him wanted to dismiss her words, to reinforce the walls he had built around his methods and beliefs. After all, she was the face of his competition, a symbol of the school he had been conditioned to outperform. Yet, the way she spoke about music, with such a raw, inviting passion, made it impossible to ignore the pull he felt towards her ideas, towards her. The rivalry was supposed to be clear-cut, a battle of schools and skills. But with her, it blurred into something messier, charged with an undercurrent of something he couldn’t quite name but felt all too powerfully.

It was a dangerous mix.

To admit she affected him would mean opening a door he was adamant to firmly keep shut tight. One that could lead to complications. Not even in terms of the competition. But for his prized discipline. She watched his expression to her words closely, her eyes reflecting a glint of knowing. He desperately wanted to hate her for it. To remind her that she was no better than him simply because she wasn’t plagued with the need for perfection like he was. That she, beyond the walls of the music school she seemed to haunt, could leave her instrument within them. Whereas Aemond was forced to carry his cello on his shoulders, to support its heavy toll on him, and that every step he took, it took more.

It seemed like she was going to say more, as her lips parted. But as quickly as they did, they closed softly again, and that enigmatic smile returned.

Fuck her.

When Aegon had been in his early twenties, he’d moaned and groaned on the sofa, his phone slobbed to one side, complaining that the girl he was currently texting was verbally edging him. Aemond had merely grimaced, finding his brother's frustration more amusing than relatable.

But now he felt that aggravation of it. The fact that she knew he was hanging on every word, and still chose not to say anything, to leave thoughts dangling in the charged air between them.

She gave him a final nod, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken words and tensions that lingered, then turned and walked away. It was only when she was halfway down the hallway that the perfect response sprang to his mind, but by then it was too late. All he could do was watch her retreating form disappear into the dim, wooden corridor.

In that moment, Aemond felt like a modern-day Eurydice, fading into the shadows, but with a twist, this time, Eurydice longed for Orpheus to look back. Aemond knew that if she turned, if she offered him one last look, it would mean stepping back into a narrative filled with complexities and perhaps inevitable loss. Yet, he craved that backward glance, a sign that their fleeting connection meant as much to her as it did to him, even if it meant returning to the shadows.

Aemond tried to refocus on his practice as he returned to the solitude of the music room. He played mechanically, his usual precision present but the soul of the music notably absent. The strings didn't sing; they just spoke in monotonous tones. With more than half of his allotted practice time remaining, he packed up his cello, and resisted the urge to hurl it across the room.

Driven by a need for something more tangible, more human than the cold wood and strings of his cello, Aemond left the practice room abruptly.

No more than 15 minutes later, he stood at the smirking figure of Alys Rivers, leaning against her door frame, arms crossed and wearing delicate lacy sleepwear, as if she could supernaturally anticipate that he would come to her.

Her eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and satisfaction, seeing him slightly dishevelled, a rare break in his usually composed demeanour.

“I don't want to fucking hear it.”

Alys, unfazed by his sharpness, raised an eyebrow and smiled wryly, stepping aside to let him in. Her reaction was more teasing than concerned, her amusement clear in her casual posture.

"Where?" Aemond's voice was blunt, his usual grace undercut by a barely contained frustration.

"The bed," Alys responded with a flick of her head toward the bedroom, her smirk deepening as she watched him stride ahead.

As he passed her, she couldn't resist adding, "Need some instructions, or do you remember the way?"

Aemond didn't respond, his back to her as he moved into the bedroom. Alys followed at a leisurely pace, her demeanour confident, almost cocky. She leaned against the doorframe, watching as he shed his jacket with quick, jerky movements.

Alys pushed off from the doorframe and walked over to him, her steps deliberate. "Something's happened-," she said, reaching out to smooth the crease between his brows with her thumb, her touch light but insistent.

He caught her wrist, his grip firm. "I said I don't want to fucking hear it," he retorted, his voice low and strained.

Alys met his gaze, her expression partly unreadable. "Okay," she conceded, pulling her hand back gently. She gestured towards the bed. "Show me what you need.”

As Alys led him toward the bed, Aemond followed mechanically. His movements were automatic, driven by habit more than desire. Pulling her hips towards him and slinging her legs over his shoulders was like second nature at this point. Alys was warm beneath him, her body responding in all the familiar ways, her breaths, her touches, her sighs all scripted from past encounters. Yet, as Aemond moved with her, his mind was elsewhere, disengaged from the act.

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of sheets and the muted sounds of their closeness, but inside Aemond, a storm was brewing. The physical motions were all correct, but the emotional undercurrents were misaligned, leaving him feeling even more isolated as they moved together. Alys seemed not to notice, or if she did, she chose not to address it, caught up perhaps in her own interpretation of their actions.

Afterward, as Alys settled beside him, her breathing even and content, Aemond lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She was close, yet he felt miles away, trapped in a cycle that provided physical release but no real solace.

Sensing his detachment, Alys’ voice broke through the silence, “you okay?”

Aemond didn't answer. Instead, he gently disentangled himself from her and slid off the bed. His movements were smooth but distant, as if he was pulling away from more than just the physical proximity, leaving the bedroom without so much of a backward glance at Alys, barely wounded from his dismissal, naked in bed. Alys watched him go, her expression resigned. She remained silent, making no move to follow him or press him further.

In the living room, Aemond walked straight to the mini-bar and poured himself a drink, his hands mechanically tilting the bottle, the familiar clink of ice soothing his frayed nerves. He took a deep sip, letting the liquid burn down his throat, hoping it would wash away the disquiet clinging to him.

As he turned, his gaze fell on the grand piano sitting under the low light in the corner of the room. It was an elegant piece, one that Alys had long forgotten, now sitting idly and out of tune. The dust gathered in its crevices spoke volumes of its neglect, a stark contrast to the careful maintenance of instruments at his own school.

The piano, much like himself tonight, felt abandoned, left to stand as a mere piece of furniture rather than the vibrant instrument it was intended to be. Compelled by a sudden urge, he approached it, his fingers running along the cool, smooth surface of its keys, each one silent and stiff from disuse. Aemond pressed a key tentatively, listening to the dull thud that echoed back, as if to taunt him.

For a brief moment, he considered the task of tuning it, of bringing it back to life. It seemed a fitting metaphor for what he needed himself, a realignment, a correction of the discord that had crept into his own life and art.

As Aemond's fingers wandered across the piano keys, his thoughts meandered back to the pianist from the opposing school. She had described music as a living entity, one that breathed and moved, pulsating with the emotions of its player. This concept lingered in his mind as he contemplated the neglected piano before him. He wondered how she would react to such a forlorn instrument. Would she feel compelled to restore it, to draw breath back into its worn frame and let it sing once more?

Just as he secretly hoped she might rekindle something within him, a spark long subdued under the weight of discipline and expectation.

General Taglist: @aemondsfavouritebastard @bellstwd @blackswxnn @blairfox04 @buckybarnesb-tch

@castellomargot @emmaisafictionwhore @hb8301 @jamespotterismydaddy @justbelljust

@minholy223 @mochi-rose @natty2017 @nenelysian @primonizzutto

@qyburnsghost @randomdragonfires @risefallrise @thelittleswanao3 @theoneeyedprince

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discommunicator · 6 months ago

Note

got fun Kivi facts?

Kivi's commonly known title is 'Drifter' and that's what she calls herself, but her real title registered on the Coven roll is 'Rock Witch', as befits her mastery in conjuring stone structures out of nowhere.

Being a peace-loving traveling merchant and sightseer she uses her power primarily for building slopes and bridges to traverse otherwise unreachable areas. And yet, if provoked enough she won't hesitate to pour down a barrage of stone fists upon the nuisance.

#wrongworld qna #oc:kivi #wrongworld lore bits

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chiqelatasblog · 8 months ago

Text

In the Middle Of the Night🌙

-> Ao3 link is here.

-> Part One is here.

Pairings : Bi-Han/ Sub-Zero x You, Kuai Liang/ Scorpion x You, Tomas Vrbada/ Smoke x You

Author’s Note: Hey there everyone! First of all, I’m beyond excited by the interest you’ve shown in my fic. Thank you so much! I poured all my love into this chapter, and I’m incredibly proud of the result. This bad boy clocks in at over 10k words, so buckle up and enjoy the ride! Happy reading!

I summoned you, please come to me,

Don’t bury thoughts that you really want.

I fill you up, drink from my cup,

Within me lies what you really want.

CHAPTER TWO : TOMAS

Tomas had always harbored a discomfort with darkness.

One vivid childhood memory was the time he and his twin sister sneaked out of the house to fish by the creek. They had visited this place with their mother many times before, surrounded by tall grasses and dense trees lining the riverbanks. In addition to fishing, they splashed in the stream as the spring weather warmed the water, engaging in playful water fights and skipping stones. However, they had not anticipated the difficulty of finding their way home after nightfall. Time seemed to slip away unnoticed until the sun vanished, leaving behind only faint orange rays. Amidst the sounds of creatures in the dark and the dim moonlight, Tomas found himself more frightened than ever. Seeking refuge beneath the shelter of a towering oak tree, he and his twin waited anxiously for the morning light without daring to blink.

Another poignant memory was his first night after being adopted by the Lin Kuei following the tragic loss of his parents. Given a room of his own within the clan’s compound, it marked a stark contrast to the cramped quarter he shared with his sister at home—a small room with a cold-leaking window and a wooden floor that creaked with every step. Despite the spaciousness of his new accommodations, the room only served to accentuate his overwhelming sense of loneliness. Confusion, fear, and sorrow weighed heavily upon him, compounded by the haunting memories of his family’s demise. The image of his mother’s final gaze, the sound of her voice uttering his name as she drew her last breath, remained painfully fresh in Tomas’s mind. Standing alone in the darkness, he hesitated to emerge from the refuge of his hidden position, fearing the harsh reality that awaited him—a reality that felt more like a terrible nightmare than the truth.

Later that same night, Kuai Liang, the son of the grandmaster, whom Tomas had only glimpsed out of the corner of his eye and estimated to be a few years older than himself, sought him out. Tomas never expected anyone to visit his room, especially someone whose language, lifestyle, and appearance were so foreign to him. Despite being a complete stranger, Kuai Liang persisted in his efforts to communicate with him.

Over the years, Tomas had learned to leave the past behind and devote himself to the Lin Kuei with unwavering respect and loyalty. He seized every opportunity for growth, not limiting himself to combat training alone. In addition to mastering multiple languages, he immersed himself in various fields of knowledge, receiving specialized education ranging from geography to mathematics. Inspired by his brothers, Tomas aspired to become a formidable assassin, striving to emulate their strength and steadfastness. His determination to bridge the gap and prove himself led him to seek training in magic from clan elders. Before long, he mastered the art of smoke magic, earning his code name in the process.

As time passed, Tomas emerged as one of Lin Kuei’s most skilled assassins, earning the respect and admiration of his peers. Though differences still lingered between him and his brothers, they no longer served as barriers; instead, they became markers of individual experiences and growth. Tomas gained renown for his stealth and speed during missions, aided by his mastery of the smoke magic for concealment. Yet, he also understood the value of leveraging shadows for support. Through discipline and practice, he learned to embrace the darkness, transforming his fear into a potent weapon.

Until Quan Chi sealed him and his brothers inside the book…

Tomas couldn’t recall the last time he had been free. It must have been ages ago. While he had anticipated the relief of escaping, the reality proved disorienting. After spending so long confined within the book’s pages, reentering the world was akin to landing on an alien planet. Colors seemed brighter, sensations felt unfamiliar, and even the taste of things seemed strange.

It had only been a day or two since they emerged from the book’s depths. During that time, Tomas had been reluctant to close his eyes, fearing a return to the vast darkness that had engulfed him for so long. In the book, there was only emptiness—a void that left him disoriented and disconnected from time and reality. The experience had shattered his ability to cope with darkness; although it was bad to have a new master, he would prefer this situation to eternal darkness.

Inside the book, the only connection to the outside world was through sounds, which provided a vague sense of the passage of time. Now, sitting in the living room, an overwhelming surge of pent-up energy coursed through him. He longed to move, to run, to stretch his limbs freely. Yet, his heightened senses left him feeling overwhelmed by the outside world. It was as if everything had become too much to bear at once, triggering a cascade of emotions.

Such experiences were not uncommon when they remained dormant for extended periods. It took several days for them to readjust. Kuai Liang, in particular, struggled with the transition. His pyromancer abilities meant his metabolism was faster than both him and Bi-Han’s, making the initial days a nightmare as he grappled with an accumulation of pent-up energy. Bi-Han fared better in comparison, his cryomancer abilities allowing him to maintain control despite the prolonged dormancy.

“Are you all right?” Tomas inquired, glancing at his brother who sat a little distance away. Drops of sweat glistened on Kuai Liang’s forehead, his face flushed. His usually dark hair, kept in a bun, was now disheveled, with tufts of hair glued to his skin due to sweat. Despite his typically bronze skin, it appeared pale under the strain of his condition, a deep frown creased his brow, accentuating the thick veins that bulged on his neck from the tension of his clenched jaw. He spoke in a muffled voice, his fists tightly gripping the cushion beneath him.

“It’s more intense compared to the previous ones. It’s becoming increasingly difficult for me to cope.” Kuai Liang muttered, his voice strained.

“You should lie down on the sofa,” Tomas suggested, rising from his seat and closing the distance between them in an instant. “Standing like this isn’t good for you. Let me help.”

“I’m fine,” Kuai Liang insisted stubbornly, his words almost a hiss through clenched teeth. “It’ll pass soon.”

“We both know it’ll take a few days,” Tomas reasoned gently. “Come on, lie down and stop being so stubborn. You need to rest.”

“I’ve been inactive enough already from being trapped in that damn book.”

“And now you need to rest so your body can recover.”

“Is everything all right?” Your soft voice floated from the entrance of the room, drawing Tomas’s attention. You stood there in an old plush robe, your legs and feet bare beneath your long nightgown. The bandages he wrapped around your legs from the first night they emerged from the book still in place. Like him, your face was colorless, and the purple rings under your eyes betrayed the sleeplessness you shared with them.

“Kuai Liang?” Bi-Han’s sudden appearance next to you, like a dark, silent shadow, caused you to jump in place with a start. Tomas observed your startled reaction, your eyes reflecting fear at Bi-Han’s sudden presence. Since they emerged from the book, they had noticed your agitated demeanor and your constant efforts to maintain a clear distance from them. It was evident in every gesture that you had yet to adapt to the situation and were still struggling to accept what was happening.

As Bi-Han approached them with purposeful strides, he rested his hand on his brother’s forehead, from which a thin, cold smoke wafted. Upon contact, a sizzling sound filled the room as cold and heat met. Kuai Liang’s eyes closed with a slight sense of relief, his tense posture relaxing slightly. Bi-Han’s expression remained stern.

“You’re burning,” Bi-Han remarked, his dark gaze fixed on his brother. “How long has he been like this?”

“For about half an hour, he suddenly relapsed. When he insists on not resting—”

“Nonsense. We both know you’re not going to get through this without lying down somewhere, Kuai Liang. Don’t be stubborn and do as you’re told.”

“What’s going on?” You hesitantly approached them, your anxious eyes shifting between Kuai Liang, who was breathing rapidly and starting to sweat profusely, and the two brothers. “Is he ill?”

As Bi-Han gave you a piercing, stern look, you stumbled back a step. Tomas felt a surge of anger at his brother’s harsh demeanor. Bi-Han had always been somewhat rude and obstinate; as the grandmaster before being trapped in the book, he was accustomed to looking down on others, being condescending, and considering everyone except the Lin Kuei as worthless. This attitude had persisted over the years, even when they served various masters of the book.

Many masters had attempted to break his demeanor and relished in the opportunity, but when they realized Bi-Han could not be tamed, both he and Kuai Liang were held accountable for his actions. That was when Bi-Han had to learn to control his sharp tongue and condescending gaze. But when it comes to you, you seem different from the masters who came and went. You were an ordinary person, with neither unusual strength nor fighting skills to suggest you knew how to protect yourself.

Tomas had scrutinized you closely the first day he emerged from the book and quickly formed a profile. Your physique seemed too delicate to be that of a warrior, and your gaze exuded kindness and compassion. The fact that you didn’t assert any authority over them indicated you might be harmless. While he hesitated to fully embrace this belief, it often proved true when reality differed from their initial assumptions. This made Bi-Han’s treatment of you seem inappropriate and cruel.

“Kuai Liang is a pyromancer, master,” Tomas interjected, breaking the uncomfortable silence that had settled between them. “When he’s unable to release his power for an extended period, it accumulates inside him, causing sensory overload and physical strain.”

As Tomas explained in simpler terms, given your unfamiliarity with their world, another layer of concern clouded your expression.

“Oh, I see. That sounds truly awful. Does the same situation apply to you?”

Bi-Han had been on the verge of making a rude remark once again, but Tomas acted swiftly to prevent him from further upsetting you. “No, our powers and metabolic rates vary among us.”

“Then is there anything I can do for Kuai Liang? I have antipyretics and painkillers; perhaps they might help.”

“Are you daft, woman? We’re dealing with a man whose metabolism is four times faster than normal. Do you think mere drugs will affect him?”

“I-I just wanted to help.”

“You’d be of greater help by not interfering,”

The moment Bi-Han hurled the words at you with a tongue as sharp as a knife, Tomas watched you swallow silently and your eyes glistened with tears for a moment. His chest ached with a slight pain for you, whom he had never known; you stood so vulnerable and small in front of them. But you collected your composure quickly, surprising him, squaring your shoulders and lifting your head.

“He can sleep in my bed until he’s better. It’ll be more comfortable than the couch. Can you move him there?”

***

After they carried Kuai Liang to your room and Bi-Han pulled a chair next to him, settling in, Tomas returned to the living room with you.

“He hates me.” you muttered in a hoarse voice.

“He hates everyone.” Tomas replied, realizing you were referring to Bi-Han. With a pillow tucked under one arm and a not-too-thick, pink-purple patterned blanket in the other, you prepared the makeshift bed on the couch.

With a sigh, you settled onto the end of the couch, which Kuai Liang had been using as a bed for the past few days. While he and Kuai Liang shared the living room, Bi-Han had taken refuge in your study. Your house was quite small, and Tomas had initially doubted whether they could all fit in here.

“If I hadn’t been protected by the book, he would have torn me in half already, wouldn’t he?”

“It can’t be said that he gets along well with strangers,” Tomas replied politely. “He needs time, master.” As the last word slipped from his lips in the usual manner, he observed your gentle expression falter, your lips pressing together into a straight line. He knew you disliked being addressed that way, but after years of habit, it was difficult for him to remove it from his vocabulary. His body ached with a twinge of pain for disobeying your request once again—a never-ending side effect of the curse. They had to obey their masters unconditionally, and if they did not, and this situation persisted, their suffering increased exponentially.

“Tomas, please don’t call me that. I am not your master, and it makes me very uncomfortable every time you address me as such.”

“I’m sorry,” Tomas murmured in a low voice, avoiding your gaze as he stared out at the nighttime landscape of tall buildings and colorful lights beyond the window. “It’s just a habit.”

“There’s no need to apologize. I just want you to know that there are no distinct classes between us. We are equals.” You leaned back against the armrest, pulling your knees toward your stomach and wrapping your arms around yourself. “It’s very strange. I haven’t slept a wink since yesterday, and yet I still don’t feel like I can sleep.”

When Tomas turned his gaze back to you, he noticed your tired eyes staring into emptiness. He could imagine how surreal and overwhelming the unfolding events must have sounded from your perspective. Moreover, sharing your home with three unfamiliar, burly men, and constantly feeling on edge because of Bi-Han, must have added to your nerves.

“So do I.” Tomas replied after a moment, joining you. “I’ve been inside the book for so long that it’s hard to believe I’m out now.”

“If you don’t mind, may I ask how long you’ve been there?”

“What year is it?” He asked.

“Two thousand twenty-four.”

“Then it has been nearly two years since we last emerged.”

Your eyes widened in horror at his response.

“Two years? That’s terrible! What have you been doing all this time in the book? Is there any way you can pass the time?”

The question sounded so innocent to Tomas’s ears that he almost wanted to laugh. It was the first time he had encountered a master like you—a master who, despite having the power to use them as mere tools, condoned Bi-Han’s rude behavior and tried to create a small comfort zone to help Kuai Liang through the process. Even though you knew the power you held over them, you chose not to exploit it fully. If you had wanted to, you could have expelled Bi-Han, and even him and Kuai Liang, from your home. After all, they had no choice but to obey your orders if they wished to avoid excruciating pain.

They hadn’t revealed this detail to you yet, as it was too valuable and represented one of their greatest vulnerabilities. However, whether you were aware of this information or not didn’t change the truth. By opening your home to them and engaging in conversation with Tomas, you were trying to understand the situation despite the risks involved. He doubted every now and then, as you seemed so sincere. You cannot act all the time, can you? As he was a professional in reading people, he couldn’t be entirely sure about you.

“No, we can only wait until our new master reads the words in the book,” Tomas explained.

“How so?” Your eyes widened slightly. “Can’t you do anything?”

“No, except for waiting in the dark, we can only sometimes hear voices coming from outside the book. This helps us understand where we are, and sometimes even the year.”

“God, this is—this is so cruel… How have you been able to maintain your sanity until today? This is officially torture.”

He also pondered the answer to this question himself. If he had been sealed inside that book alone, Tomas doubted he would be capable of forming coherent sentences right now. It would be a miracle if he could even speak.

“My brothers… Without them, it would have been inevitable that I would have lost my mind,” he admitted through clenched teeth. “But sometimes even that is not enough. That’s why we pressured you to read the book when you found it.”

“I thought I was going to die of fear at that moment,” you confessed in a low voice, cheeks slightly flushed, as you turned away from him and focused on your clasped hands. “But I’m glad I made you get out of there after hearing what you’ve told me. I hope I can help you break this curse as well.”

Tomas remained silent, grappling with uncertainty about the sincerity of your words. They had encountered similar displays of kindness before. In the past, there was a master they believed to be compassionate and well-intentioned, who had convinced them to lower their guards and give their trust a chance. They had fallen for gentle touches, pleas instead of commands, sweet compliments, and precious gifts. Even Bi-Han, typically skeptical, had thought that previous master was different.

But they were mistaken. They soon discovered that everything she did was merely a facade to gain their trust and manipulate them, raising their hopes only to shatter them. They had sworn never to trust again after that betrayal. As long as they were trapped in the book, they would always have a master, and their relationships would remain purely transactional.

Tomas had learned the hard way not to put faith in anyone. So your words held little weight for him. Each of them represented a month, and when they returned to the book three months later, you would be out of their lives. It seemed foolish to invest in a bond for something that would soon disappear.

‘’Tomas? Are you okay? You’ve become quiet,” you asked, noticing his distant expression.

Hearing your voice, Tomas snapped out of his thoughts and looked at you. “I have a lot on my mind. My thoughts are too loud,” he confessed with a tight smile.

“I have a solution that might help. Since neither of us has had any sleep,” you suggested, rising from your seat and making your way to the kitchen, which was adjacent to the living room. Tomas felt a twinge of curiosity as he watched you move. ‘’I hope you like chocolate.’’

“What are you going to do?”

“Hot chocolate. Sweet things are always good for stress. I think we both need some relaxation and serotonin,” you explained, retrieving two mugs from the kitchen cabinet and placing them on the counter. As you continued to prepare the hot chocolate, you asked, “Do you want to watch a movie?”

Tomas repeated the question as if to confirm that he had heard you correctly. “A movie?”

“Yes,” you affirmed cheerfully, without glancing at him, as you arranged the ingredients on the counter. “I like to watch something on Netflix when I can’t sleep. It helps distract my mind.”

“Netflix?” Tomas queried, unfamiliar with the term. As you briefly explained what Netflix was, Tomas observed you moving around the kitchen with a sweet smile, pouring steaming hot chocolate into the mugs and adorning them with white toppings resembling candy. He was familiar with the concept of movies, but his upbringing with the Lin Kuei left little room for leisure activities, such as watching television or electronic devices. Thus, while he understood the concept of movies, he had never encountered anything related to them until now.

“We can watch something that won’t require too much thought,” you suggested as you placed the mugs on the coffee table in front of them. Retrieving your laptop from a nearby spot, you positioned it on your lap and adjusted the screen so that Tomas could see. “Here, you can browse the movies from here.”

Tomas curiously scanned through the films from various categories displayed on the screen. There were so many options that he found it difficult to decide which one to choose, unsure of what would be the right choice.

“How about action?” you proposed, attempting to assist him. Your understanding expression conveyed that you recognized his struggle to make a choice. “We could watch Johnny Cage’s movies. The Ninja Mime movie series is legendary! What do you think? If you don’t like it, we can explore other options, of course.”

When Tomas agreed, your smile grew, and you placed the laptop in the center of the coffee table for both of you to see. As you leaned down to switch off the nearby lamp, he impulsively reached out and grabbed your wrist, causing a small, sweet electric sensation to pass between them. You both shared a momentary pause, as if sensing something peculiar, and Tomas noticed the sound of your interrupted breathing. What the hell was that? Tomas had never felt anything like this before.

“Tomas? Is something wrong?” you asked, your concern evident in your voice.

Tomas tried to ignore the tender feeling as he quickly released your wrist, as if it had burned him. Despite facing numerous sorcerers and warriors without fear, you, with your delicate demeanor, seemed more fragile to him, easily susceptible to harm even without the protection of the book.

“Could the light stay on?” he requested hoarsely, instantly noticing the understanding in your eyes, realizing the underlying reason for his question.

“Of course. Is it alright if we share the seat until the movie ends? There’s no other way for me to see the screen.”

Tomas found it strange that you asked, considering it was your home. You didn’t need his permission to use your own belongings.

“This is already your couch.” Tomas replied, showing his confusion.

“You’re also my guest. I want you to feel comfortable, not like you’re on edge,” you explained. Surprised by your response, Tomas nodded in agreement instead of verbally responding. “Great! Then I’ll start the movie. Come on, start drinking the hot chocolate before it gets cold. Your marshmallows are about to melt.”

Following your instructions, Tomas picked up a yellowish-white ceramic mug with daisy and bee patterns and took a sip of the steaming, incredibly fragrant drink. The sweet liquid danced on his taste buds, flooding his mouth with an unparalleled delight. It had been an eternity since he had savored something so delicious and sweet, a rare treat that he hadn’t experienced in years. Closing his eyes in bliss, he relished every moment of it.

“Do you like it?”

“I love it,” Tomas replied honestly.

“Really?” Your face lit up with a huge, almost radiant smile, and Tomas once again felt that sweet ache in his chest, far from painful. “I’m glad to hear that! If you want more, don’t hesitate to tell me. I still have plenty of chocolates in the cupboard.”

After your words, when the movie started, Tomas watched you eagerly settle on the end of the seat and sip your hot chocolate out of the corner of his eye. Despite the seat not being too large, there was a noticeable distance between you; someone thinner could have squeezed in between with a little effort. Although Tomas still couldn’t quite decipher your intentions, he turned his attention to the film after stealing a few glances at you, and slowly felt his troubled thoughts quiet down, his overly active senses beginning to relax.

Settling more comfortably on the couch, he took another sip of the hot chocolate you had made. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had done something like this for him. Usually, the situation would be the opposite—he would serve someone, fulfilling their wishes and desires. Now, it felt strange and unfamiliar to him to drink the beverage you had offered without expecting anything in return, as if you would later chastise him for such naivety. However, that never happened. Instead, you were completely engrossed in the film, occasionally giggling at the jokes inaudibly. Your smile, perhaps even sweeter than the hot chocolate he was drinking, had a warmth that made one want to hear your voice again.

Despite being occasionally distracted by your voice, Tomas found himself unexpectedly enjoying the movie. The action scenes were realistic, the jokes humorous, and the flow of the film simple yet intriguing. During one of the fight scenes, Tomas mumbled, “He fights well.”

“Isn’t he? He’s also a master of martial arts. All of these scenes were shot without the use of stunts. That’s why I have a lot of respect for the work he does. He’s one of the few actors I’d like to meet.” you remarked as you popped a half-melted marshmallow into your mouth, causing Tomas to watch your soft lips open and close on your fingers. He felt a warmth again, but this time it was burning and dangerous rather than sweet. He shifted in his seat as if trying to shake off the feeling.

“Do you want to watch the second one too?” you asked after finishing chewing. Tomas responded in a muffled voice. “I can’t deny that I’m interested.”

“Wonderful! I’ll refresh our drinks then. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

Tomas rose once more, feeling uneasy about being served by you again, as you asked nothing of him. As he approached, you were just about to open the milk lid when you looked up, meeting his gaze with inquisitive eyes.

“Did you want something?”

“Tell me what I should do, please,” Tomas said through clenched teeth. How long would you leave him in this state of uncertainty, without giving him any orders? This unfamiliarity, persisting for days, was making him nervous. It was vastly different from the structured system he was accustomed to.

“I am not your master, Tomas,” you responded calmly, looking into his eyes, your voice gentle yet firm. “You are your own person. I will not give you orders, neither now nor later.”

“This is wrong,” Tomas said akin to a snarl, his voice sounding foreign even to himself. Even before an assassin, he was a hunter, and now, he felt more trapped than ever as he still couldn’t grapple with your rules. Do you even have rules? “Something is always expected.”

“This situation doesn’t apply here. I can see that you don’t trust and believe in me, and I don’t blame you for that,” you said, your face filled with a sadness Tomas couldn’t comprehend, your gaze softening even further. “Tomas, please try to believe that I’m sincere in what I’m saying. I do not demand anything from you, and I will not. You are free to act as you want, make your own decisions and choices.”

“Why?” Tomas questioned.

Why were you being so kind?

“Because it’s the right and humane thing to do,” you said simply, without hesitation. Then, you turned your attention to the task at hand. “Now, how many marshmallows do you want? I think I can put at least six on top.”

Did you realize the power you held in your hands? A word from you could compel action. But it seemed like you didn’t even care about this power; instead, you focused on trivial details about the second movie you were going to watch.

Once you had assembled a small mountain of marshmallows on the mug and handed it to him, Tomas accepted it in silence and settled back into the seat with you to resume the movie. He felt oddly content in a way. Though part of him still awaited the unveiling of the mask he thought you wore, he found some solace in the simplicity and normalcy of the current situation. Even though he had forgotten what it felt like, experiencing it again now stirred a mix of emotions within him, difficult to define.

While watching the movie, it was your harmless chats that occasionally provided small pieces of information about the actor or the movie, though it usually remained one-sided. Tomas lost track of how many movies you watched that night, ceasing to count after the second film. As soft yellow lights appeared and the sky began to brighten, he realized that an entire night had passed watching movies. Stretching his muscles, which had stiffened from remaining in the same position for so long, he turned his neck from right to left. When he glanced back at you, he saw that you were quietly curled up in your corner, fast asleep.

You had your arms crossed over the armrest of the chair, using them as a makeshift pillow for your head. Your mouth was slightly ajar, and the gentle rise and fall of your chest indicated deep sleep. Bathed in the morning sunlight, a peaceful expression graced your face.Tomas felt relieved watching you, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, akin to lying on a calm sea.

On one hand, he was surprised that you felt comfortable enough to sleep next to him. You likely couldn’t resist the fatigue any longer and succumbed to it. Tomas couldn’t help but notice how vulnerable you looked, despite not wanting to admit it. You appeared delicate enough to be easily hurt.

Careful not to disturb you, Tomas pulled a blanket up to your shoulders, ensuring you were completely covered. As he did so, Bi-Han appeared at the entrance of the living room, his expression as cold and discontented as ever.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bi-Han demanded.

“You’ll wake her up,” Said Tomas, in a voice that sounded like a whisper, slightly scolding. Carefully getting up from where he was sitting, he made his way to his brother’s side, his shoulders tense and his posture upright. He changed the subject directly, not allowing Bi-Han to scold him further. “How is Kuai Liang?”

“It’s bad, but he’ll pull through. He’s unconscious right now; I don’t think he’ll wake up for a while.”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen him this bad.”

“We stayed in the book for too long this time,” Bi-Han growled hoarsely, his voice tinged with wildness. Clenching his fists at his sides, his eyebrows furrowed deeply, and his gaze darkened. Tomas could feel the cold emanating from him, chilling his skin like a winter wind. “This cramped place is suffocating me. I’m going out to explore. Take care of Kuai Liang.”

As Bi-Han stormed out of the house without waiting for a reply, Tomas sighed and headed for the room where Kuai Liang was staying, ignoring his weary eyes due to insomnia. Opening the door slightly, he peered inside and saw his brother lying motionless on the bed. Stepping into the room and closing the door quitely behind him, Tomas prepared to tend to his brother.

Although he felt a twinge of guilt for intruding into your private space by entering your bedroom, Tomas didn’t dwell on it much, knowing that you had opened this place up for their use like any other part of the house. After opening the window to let in some fresh air, Tomas couldn’t resist looking around curiously. Your room, like the rest of the house, was small, with a closet and a standing mirror in one corner, and a bookcase filled to the brim with books and pictures scattered haphazardly on the shelves in another corner.

Approaching the bookcase, Tomas found some books filled with confusing information about computers and programming, which he couldn’t quite comprehend. Was this your interest? After glancing at a few of them, his attention was drawn to the photos. Some were framed, while others were hung around the shelves with wicker ropes. The photos depicted people with wide, friendly smiles, along with various landscapes. In the photos, you appeared pleasant, happy, and cheerful, almost laughing in the eyes.

Tomas frowned slightly as he picked up a frame that caught his attention. He hadn’t seen such an expression on your face since they came out of the book; instead, you seemed agitated, with traces of fear in your eyes. He wished he could see you with that same expression from the photos; laughing seemed to suit you, exuding a pure aura that inspired trust. Maybe you truly were like the person in the photos… maybe—

Shaking his head, Tomas tried to dispel the thoughts and returned the frame to its place. He then sat on the chair pulled to the right side of the bed and looked at Kuai Liang. His brother looked worse than he had ever seen him before—his bronze face even paler than the day before, sweat glistening on his skin, chest heaving with rapid breaths, and a contracted expression indicating distress.

Tomas changed the cloth on Kuai Liang’s forehead and listened to his audible breathing, occasionally wheezing softly. Though he wished he could offer his brother some relief, there was little they could do in such circumstances. Kuai Liang had to fight this battle alone and regain control. Tomas watched him for a long time, his hand resting on his chin as he became lost in thought.

It was the sounds emanating from the kitchen that snapped him out of his reverie. Thinking that Bi-Han might have returned, he left the room and found you sipping coffee while cooking something on the stove. When you noticed his presence, you turned around, raising the mug in your hand with a sincere smile as you greeted him.

“Good morning. Did you get any sleep?”

“Not really,” Tomas admitted.

The smile on your face faltered slightly. “Hmm, so the movies didn’t do the trick. Fortunately, I have more remedies up my sleeve. I bought some herbal teas and aromatherapy candles a while ago. We can give them a try tonight,” you suggested with a cheerful tone, taking another sip of your coffee. Before returning to your cooking, you asked curiously. “How is your brother?”

“He’s sleeping. He’s not well, but he’s a strong and stubborn man. I’m sure he’ll recover soon,” Tomas replied.

“I’m glad to hear that. Bi-Han didn’t want me to help, but I made some porridge for Kuai Liang. I hope he won’t be upset with me. Of course, if you think he will be, we can keep it between us. Eating can be difficult when you’re sick, so I thought some comfort food might help him,” you explained, gesturing to the pot on the stove. “I’ve also prepared something for you. Have a seat. You drink coffee, right?”

Once again surprised by your thoughtfulness, Tomas couldn’t tear his gaze away from you as you served him pancakes smothered with a generous amount of maple syrup, a plate of perfectly crisped bacon and eggs cooked to perfection, and a steaming mug of coffee, its aroma wafting through the air and tantalizing his senses.

“Is Bi-Han awake too? I saved some for him.”

“He went out to explore. I don’t think he’ll be back before noon,” Tomas replied, still eyeing the food before him, unsure of where to start. Despite knowing he could eat without waiting for your command, it was difficult to break the years-long habit of awaiting orders. You must have noticed this detail, as you called out to him in a soft voice.

“You should eat before it gets cold, Tomas. You may not enjoy it as much later,” you said gently.

Tomas, relieved, filled his fork with food and began to eat his breakfast with great pleasure, savoring each piece slowly as it settled warmly in his stomach. As he ate, he noticed you quietly watching him while sipping your coffee from the bench you leaned against.

“I hope I didn’t burn the egg,” you remarked after a while. Tomas shook his head, indicating ‘No’ since his mouth was full. After a sip of coffee, he managed to give a straight answer.

“Everything is quite delicious, maste—thank you.” he said, correcting himself at the last moment. A warm smile settled on your face, exposing your teeth, reminiscent of the photos he had seen. Despite your simple appearance in a loosely tied robe and a nightgown, you radiated natural beauty and warmth, filling Tomas with a sense of comfort he hadn’t dared to believe.

“I’m glad to hear that,” you chirped like a bird. “Because I almost burned it while I was taking care of the porridge. I kept breakfast simple since I wasn’t sure what you liked.’’ While taking another sip of coffee, you sat down a little further away, collapsing into one of the chairs placed around the kitchen island. “There is a local library very close to here. I have to stop by there for half an hour. There are some books I want to look at. Do you want to come with me? I think coming out after being in the book will make you feel better.”

Tomas’ body immediately contracted with tension, almost instinctively. He was curious about how much the outside world had changed, but on the one hand, he was not ready to encounter innovations, re-enter among people, noise, and much more. His senses were still at a hyper level, and that fidgety feeling swirling inside him had not calmed down yet.

“Perhaps some other time. Besides, I don’t want to leave Kuai Liang alone like this,” Tomas replied.

“Oh, you’re right. It was a rude question on my part,” you admitted, taking another sip of your coffee before looking at Tomas with curious yet deceptive eyes. Tomas met your gaze and asked after swallowing the food in his mouth, “You want to ask something, am I right?”

“There’s just one thing I’m curious about. But I don’t think it’s right to ask.”

One edge of Tomas’s lip curled upwards; he was starting to like the way you were approaching more and more. You were treating him like a human being rather than an object, and he’d forgotten how that made him feel.

‘’You can ask, it’s okay,’’ he encouraged.

‘’Your hair… Is this your original color?’’

An unexpected chuckle spilled from Tomas’ lips. It seemed funny and innocent enough to make his heart ache that you chose this when there were tons of questions you could ask.

‘‘No, it’s that color because of the smoke magic. Its previous color was brown.’’

‘’Smoke magic? Do you have the power like the others?’’

“Yes.’’

You took a breath with excitement; Tomas could have sworn your eyes were shining.

‘‘Will you show it to me?’’

Tomas let go of the mug he was holding with another smirk that he couldn’t stop, and thanks to the thin, gray cloud of smoke rising from his fingers, he made the mug float in the air. While your eyes opened wide, you took a sharp breath and stared at the floating mug in amazement, and Tomas took great pleasure in watching your reaction.

‘’This is incredible! What else can you do?’’

��’I can be invisible.’’

‘’No way!’’ You said it in an incredulous voice. Tomas raised an eyebrow, gave you a sarcastic look, and then made his body invisible, watching you keep your mouth open with amazement. Your reaction was so sweet that Tomas laughed out loud this time, and when he made his body visible again, you looked at him with big eyes for a few seconds as if he had grown out a second head.

‘‘That was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. You’re incredible!’’ Against your obvious compliment, Tomas’s heart misfired once again, and he felt his cheeks getting hot. Not knowing what to say, as you kept talking excitedly, he squeezed a big mouthful morsel in his mouth before saying something ridiculous. ‘‘It must be great to have such a talent. You can even go to North Korea without anyone hearing a sound.’’

Tomas barely swallowed the morsel in his mouth and looked at you with a manner that showed he didn’t understand why you could want such a thing.

‘‘Why would you want to go there?’’

‘‘Out of curiosity, of course.’’ After giving him a little look with your flushed cheeks, you cleared your throat with an artificial cough. ‘’There’s something else I’m curious about.’’

‘’Are you going to ask why I don’t resemble my brothers in appearance?’’

‘’No, actually, I was going to ask why Kuai Liang said ‘Earthrealm’ that night. The other one is a personal question; it wouldn’t be right for me to ask you to explain.’’

Even so, when you were talking to him like that, Tomas felt the need to explain to you. He decided to sit back in his chair and calmly tell you everything from the beginning, so that he could make you understand the world you’ve fallen into a little better and make sense of it, maybe so that you could also start feeling safer around them. After all, you were going to be together for three months, and no one knew better than him how exhausting it was to be constantly on edge, both physically and mentally.

‘‘I am not their brother by blood; I am adopted,’’ Tomas said simply. ‘’Before I became a part of Lin Kuei, I had my mother and twin sister; we were hunters. We made our living by selling the meat and fur of the animals we hunted, until one day we hunted in the wrong territory. There was an accident.’’ As Tomas slowly began to tell you about his life, he was surprised at how easily the words fell from his lips. Normally, he was a closed box to someone he didn’t know; he wouldn’t open his past easily, but something in you was preventing him from doing so.

‘‘I am so sorry for your loss.’’ It was impossible not to hear the sadness and sincerity in your voice; your gaze had an expression that showed that you were really sorry for his loss. One hand was hesitantly raised, then Tomas did not pull or push his hand away when you placed your hand on his hand, quite delicately, indicating that he could easily get out of your grip if he wanted to. Your touch defined you; it was warm and reassuring, and it also made him realize how much he really needed it.

‘‘Thank you,’’ said Tomas, involuntarily. With his thumb, he gently stroked the top of your hand as a token of his gratitude. When he started to retell where he left off, you were listening to him with great attention. You didn’t interrupt for once; your facial expression was lit up with a warm expression, sometimes sad, sometimes showing that you were proud of his achievements. After briefly mentioning his past, when he came to the question you asked, he actually mentioned that there is more than one world, the details of Lin Kuei’s purpose, creature from other worlds, and gods. While listening to what you were saying with great interest, Tomas was starting to enjoy watching your expression more and more.

"It turns out that I've been sleeping under a rock all this time.’’ You said, gasping in amazement. ‘’So you're superheroes, are you?’’

Tomas chuckled at your comparison.

‘’It was an overly generous comparison. It would be more accurate to say protector than superhero; we served under the orders of Lord Liu Kang to protect Earthrealm from external dangers.’’

“Lord Liu Kang… He was the one who was the Fire God, wasn’t he?’’

‘‘Yes, that’s him.’’

‘’I can’t believe it, God, huh?” You were like a little girl sitting on the edge of a chair, warmed up with excitement, cheeks flushed as if you held a huge candy in your hand. ‘‘No wonder Bi-Han got mad at me when I accidentally branded you as blood lust murderers. After what you said, my own life suddenly seemed very… simple.’’

Tomas reached for his now cold coffee, hiding his laughter. ‘’I’d like to hear it.’’ He said, trusting in the small, fragile bond established between you through the conversation.

‘’Well, what I’m going to tell you may not sound as cool as yours. I graduated from the software engineering department last year, I was working as a programmer at a game company until a few days ago, but I lost the job.’’

‘‘I’m sorry to hear that.’’ Tomas said in a genuine voice. You shrugged your shoulders as if it were all right, but your face had fallen a little, revealing what was going through your mind.

‘‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t happy working there anyway, it was more about making money. Actually, my dream is to one day secure a partnership with one of the big companies by releasing my own game, but when you face the real world, you realize it’s not that simple. No one wants to partner with a novice; someone without a background. Plus, I haven’t found any inspiration for my so-called game yet anyway.’’

Leaning one hand on your chin, your face fell with a mix of unhappiness and a hint of pessimism. Tomas felt a strong need to console you and put a smile back on your face.

‘‘It doesn’t sound impossible.’’ He said with a smile. ‘’Besides, it’s their loss that they’ve lost a talented woman like you.’’

Watching your cheeks flush with his compliment filled Tomas with pride and an irresistible desire for more. As you shyly murmured a small ‘’Thank you’’, Tomas heard the front door open. While his body reflexively tensed, his muscles were ready and alert until he saw who was coming.

When Bi-Han’s imposing body appeared at the entrance, you stood up, moving before him.

‘’Bi-Han! Welcome, we were having breakfast. Are you hungry? I’ve saved something for you too.’’

‘’I’m none of your concern.’’ Bi-Han’s words cut yours short, and within seconds, the smile vanished from your face, shattering the warmth Tomas had worked to foster, and you retreated into your former guarded and distant demeanor. ‘’I remember I told you to take care of Kuai Liang.’’

‘‘His condition hasn’t changed since you left, brother.’’ Tomas responded in kind, his words adding to the escalating tension between them. Sensing the growing unease, you delicately cleared your throat, subtly redirecting both their attention.

‘’I’d better go to the library, as always you can use the things in the house as you like. Tomas, if you want to watch something on Netflix, please don’t hesitate to use it.’’ With your head bowed, you left the room after finishing your words quietly, leaving Tomas and Bi-Han alone.

Tomas ended up near Bi-Han, taking a hard breath. ‘’Why are you acting like this? She’s done nothing but help us so far.’’

‘’And did you believe it?’’ Bi-Han’s voice was thick and authoritative, sounding incredibly deep. “You’re still very naive, Tomas.’’

‘’If you can’t choose your words carefully, can’t you at least pay a little more attention to your intonation? You’re scaring her.’’

‘’And why should I care? As long as the book exists, there will always be a master, and that woman is no different from the others. You have to understand, Tomas, it would just be foolish to trust anyone but each other, especially when you have such tremendous power in your hands. Don’t get your hopes up.’’

Tomas wanted to oppose him, but unfortunately, although Bi-Han spoke with his usual brutality, he was right on one point; as long as the master-slave relationship existed, it carried a power that could easily deconstruct the delicate trust established despite everything. An order that would come out of one’s lips was enough to take away their consent.

After Tomas stayed silent, Bi-Han approached him, his intense gaze lingering for a moment before shifting to the food simmering on the stove.

‘’What is this?’’ Opening the lid curiously, he looked at what was inside. ‘’Did you do it?’’

‘’No, she prepared the porridge so that Kuai Liang could eat comfortably.’’

With his answer, one of the muscles in Bi-Han’s jaw twitched.

‘’I told her to not interfere.’’

‘’She may not be the person we thought, Bi-Han.’’ Said Tomas, there was an opposition in his voice that he didn’t understand where it was coming from. ‘’Tell me, which master has prepared breakfast or something similar for us before?’’

‘’Stop calling them masters!’’ Although Bi-Han turned to him angrily with furious eyes and stood in front of him as if he were a mountain of intimidation, Tomas did not allow him to intimidate him. He wanted him to hear what he was thinking.

‘’I’m not saying we should trust her, but you know as well as I do that she hasn’t done anything to deserve your cruel approach so far. She wants us to be comfortable in his house, she even gave Kuai Liang her bedroom, just to help him in the healing process. She tried to set us free the very first moment we came out of the book-‘’

‘’This is not the first time we have encountered this situation.’’ Bi-Han interjected once again. “At some point, she’ll be compelled to give us orders. I wonder if you’ll still defend her then.”

***

It’s been a few hours since you returned from the library. Throughout your time there, you remained engrossed in the books you brought back, occasionally scribbling something in your notebook and muttering to yourself. Finally, Tomas approached, more curious about your activities than the movie he was watching. When you lifted your head from among the books at his approach, you asked, ‘’The movie didn’t catch your attention?’’

‘’Frankly, I was more interested in what you were doing. You’ve been sitting there for hours, doesn’t your neck hurt?’’

As you tested his words by moving your neck, a hint of pain crossed your face, accompanied by a soft whimper. ‘’Ouch, you were right. My neck is terribly stiff.’’

Offering to help, Tomas raised his hands in the air, gesturing to massage your neck. ‘’If you want?’’

‘’If it’s all right with you, please,’’ you responded, your voice a blend of shyness and gratitude. As Tomas took his place behind you and began massaging your shoulders and neck, he felt a strange electric current once again. Your skin felt soft and tender between his calloused fingers, and he couldn’t help but notice the clean and beautiful scent emanating from you, enveloping him in a sweet warmth. Slowly, your stiffened body began to unravel and relax under his touch. Curious about your reading material, Tomas inquired, ‘‘May I ask what you are reading?’

‘‘I’m doing research. These books contain a ton of information about witchcraft, spells, and curses. I thought maybe there might be some useful information in it for your situation.’’

‘’Have you been looking at these for hours?’’ Tomas asked incredulously.

With a simple ‘’Yes,’’ you innocently confirmed. As Tomas watched you turn another page, he felt a familiar ache in his heart. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was for understanding and kindness. Every movement, every word, every soft look and smile you shared seemed to weave into Tomas’ soul, confirming his growing certainty that you were unlike anyone he had ever met before.

‘’You must be tired, thank you, Tomas, that’s enough,’’ When you spoke from the book without raising your head, Tomas reluctantly withdrew his hands, even though he didn’t want to. Touching you like this felt nice; it was a rare sensation to interact with another body of his own accord, free from orders. Moreover, it was confined to a simple touch without fulfilling desires, a sensation he had almost forgotten. It also made him feel powerful, as it was an action he took by his own decision, highlighting the profound impact of a simple gesture on him.

“May I accompany you?” Tomas asked.

“Of course, you don’t even need to ask. You can look at whatever you want, and if you want to have a drink, you know where they are,” you replied, smiling at him. Tomas opted to brew herbal tea for the both of them. He carefully poured the freshly boiled water into two mugs before selecting green tea bags to steep in each one. As he settled next to you, he glanced at what you had written.

“Have you found anything yet?”

“To be honest, not really,” you admitted, reaching for the mug he offered. With a sigh, you glanced wearily over the open books. “Salt baths, incense, and natural stones have been mentioned, but these seem more for balancing energy. I haven’t come across anything about how to deal with black magic yet.”

“Don’t push yourself for our sake.”

“What? What do you mean?” You looked at him with furrowed eyebrows, a slight hint of frustration in your expression, urging him to explain.

“The demon who cursed us, Quan Chi, is a master of black magic and is cruel as well. You’re not the first person to promise to help us; I’ve seen this scenario before. I don’t think the solution is found in these books, so you shouldn’t burden yourself too much searching for answers you may not find. Our past attempts to break the curse only led to more suffering, it only led to disappointment and despair.”

Your eyebrows furrowed further in response, and though your expression darkened, your eyes betrayed a hurt that softened your features.

“I can understand why you’re hesitant to trust given your past experiences, and it infuriates me to think that others have exploited you in this way.’’ you asserted, your tone tinged with emotion. ‘’While the solution may not be found in these books, we won’t know unless we try, Tomas. I refuse to simply stand by and watch as time slips away and you’re forced back into that book. Our paths have crossed for some reason, and I will help you as much as my means allow. I understand that trusting again is daunting, even frightening, but I’m asking you to give it a chance.”

‘Only a fool would hope,’ Bi-Han’s words from years ago echoed in Tomas’s mind. It was easier to believe that you were playing some kind of game than to trust. But, on the other hand, it was undeniable that there was a hint of truth in your words. If you had a different purpose, you wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble or greeted Bi-Han’s rude words with silence. Even though you knew the power you had over them, you were always careful about the words you used, afraid to abuse it and put them in a difficult situation. Tomas didn’t want to make the same mistake again. He had been in that book for ten years and had seen and experienced a lot. He could navigate the familiar order, knowing the rules and what to expect. But this situation was different.

Maybe after a few days, you would change your mind and want to take advantage of this opportunity that fell into your lap. You might be overwhelmed while searching for a solution, realizing it wasn’t a problem you had to solve, or you might grow tired of them invading your home. The possibilities were endless. Despite this, Tomas still didn’t know what would be left of himself if he chose to trust again, only for it to end badly.

“Tomas?” Your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he met your worried gaze. “Are you all right? If what I said made you feel uncomfortable, I’m sorry.”

Your words, whispered gently, stirred the dilemma Tomas found himself in. It was too early for him to make a decision, as he didn’t even know you properly. Yet, there was a part of him that wanted to believe in you. Despite all the challenges he had faced, you were the first master he wanted to give a chance to after all these years. But he avoided saying it, not wanting to give you the power to manipulate him. As much as he wanted to give you a chance, the part of him that longed to escape from this situation and the complex emotions you evoked in him was more dominant.

“I’m fine, it’s okay,” Tomas replied, brushing off your concern. “I want to take a look at this book.”

As Tomas changed the subject and reached for one of the books in front of him, you eyed him one more time then resumed your reading quietly, allowing him the space to process his thoughts.

A serene silence enveloped the room, punctuated only by the rain outside tapping against the window, the gentle rustling of paper, and the occasional exchange of words between you. Tomas found himself once again enveloped in the same sense of peace he had felt while watching the movie with you last night. It was a rare feeling, one that he hadn’t experienced since being sealed within the book—time spent according to his own will, without orders or prohibitions.

As you sat back after having a snack and took a deep breath, Tomas’s attention was drawn to you like a magnet. Although he had been pretending to focus on the books in front of him, he found himself increasingly intrigued by observing you. Your facial expressions were as transparent as the pages of the books, and Tomas couldn’t help but watch you intently, captivated by your every movement and expression.

“It’s getting late,” you remarked with a tired smile, stifling a yawn with the back of your hand. “Are you feeling sleepy yet?”

“Not really,” Tomas replied honestly, though the idea of closing his eyes lingered in the corner of his mind. Despite having spent close to two years inside the book and therefore doing nothing, he couldn’t shake off the effects of insomnia. Trained to be a perfect assassin, he was accustomed to enduring extreme challenges beyond those faced by ordinary human. However, beneath the facade of strength and resilience, he was still human and had basic needs like everyone else. This included the need for sleep, a fundamental requirement that even his demanding training couldn’t negate.

“We could try lighting these candles, what do you think?” you suggested gently. “I also have another idea that might help, but we need to move to the couch for it.”

“I’m fine here, thank you,” Tomas replied, his voice betraying a hint of tension. You glanced at him, as if trying to discern what was bothering him, and placed a hand over his, giving it a gentle squeeze. Tomas felt his resistance waver at the contact, the part of him that craved connection stirring to life once again.

“Let’s give it a try, and if it doesn’t work, I promise not to insist.” you said softly.

Tomas wanted to refuse your offer, but he couldn’t resist your comforting smile and reassuring words any longer. “Alright,” With a sigh, he rose from his chair and settled into a corner of the couch, while you searched for candles in the room. As you lit a candle and placed it on the coffee table, dimming the other lights, Tomas’s body tensed instinctively.

“The smell will spread soon—Tomas?” Though he felt your weight settle into the seat beside him, Tomas couldn’t bring himself to turn and look at you. His eyes scanned every dimly lit corner of the room, searching for the perfect escape route. His muscles were tense, rendering him immobile like a statue, and his breath seemed to freeze in his lungs, causing his chest to barely rise and fall. His hunter instincts stirred to life, hazy with the need to survive, to prevent shadows from drawing near him as if they harbored fatal threats. Memories of his days as a hunter flickered in his mind, images of tracking prey through dense forests and navigating treacherous terrain. It was a life defined by instinct and survival, skills honed through years of relentless pursuit. Even now, those instincts remained sharp, guiding his every move in this unfamiliar setting.

“Tomas, what’s wrong?” you asked, concern evident in your voice.

“It’s dark,” Tomas managed to utter, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t like the darkness. It reminds me of the time I spent in the book.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I completely forgot! Just wait here, I’ll take care of it right away.” you responded, moving to get up. But Tomas stopped you abruptly, his fingers closing around your wrist with an iron grip. Though his hold may have been too tight, he felt powerless to loosen it, trapped in the conflict between fight or flight. His muscles tensed like coiled springs, his focus hazy with panic, aggravated and feeling more vulnerable than ever his instincts screaming at him to do something.

“Don’t go,” Tomas said, surprised at how foreign and commanding his own voice sounded. Though he intended it as a request, it came out more like an order. His voice was hoarse and strained, and he wasn’t even sure if you could hear him clearly.

“Okay, okay, I’m not going anywhere,” you assured him calmly, radiating a confidence that suggested you knew exactly what to do. “Tomas, it’s okay. Look at me.”

Your words cut through his panicked mind like a knife, and though his body remained tense, he obeyed, attempting to slow his breathing and regain his focus.

“Tomas,” you said softly, placing a hand on his cheek. He flinched at first, his body tensed more than before, ready to strike. If the circumstances had been different and he had seen you as a threat, he would have already broken your wrist because of this move. But you were no threat; your touch brought an unexpected sense of relief, like a balm to his frayed nerves. “Come on, turn your face to me. It’s okay.”

Though your hand rested gently on his cheek, you exerted no pressure, leaving the choice entirely up to Tomas. Slowly, hesitantly, he turned his head to face you, meeting your warm smile.

“That’s it, you’re safe. They’re just shadows. There’s no one here who can hurt you,” you reassured him, stroking his cheek gently. As he gazed into your soft, comforting eyes, Tomas felt the urge to fight slowly ebb away under your touch and gaze.

Along with your soothing words, Tomas allowed himself to be guided, feeling as though he were a stuffed rag doll after the sudden surge of adrenaline. His head came to rest on your legs, though he couldn’t quite decipher how he had ended up in this position. His muscles felt heavy, as if he were underwater, and his senses dulled, making it difficult to perceive movements and even more so to choose your words. All he could do was inhale the subtle scent of chamomile emanating from the candle and focus on the sensation your fingers created on his skin.

“It’s okay… Tomas… You won’t get hurt again… I’m here, I’ll keep you safe…” you murmured softly. Tomas wanted to laugh at your words, which he could only catch in pieces. How could you shield them? You had no power or ability, yet, your expression of wanting to safeguard these men, twice your size and skilled in taking lives, stirred something within Tomas. Despite the lingering adrenaline, he felt a wave of calmness wash over him, like a gentle ray of light caressing him. He found himself leaning into your touch, seeking comfort in the gentle caress of your fingers against his hair. Truly, you were unlike anyone he had ever met before, and it would be unfair to pretend otherwise.

As you gently stroked his hair, Tomas felt his body grow heavier, his eyelids drooping halfway. Despite a wave of panic at feeling so powerless and vulnerable, your words reassured him.

“I’m here, and I’ll be here when you wake up. Don’t worry, Tomas. You’re safe. You’re not in the book. You’re here in my house, next to me. Can you feel my touch?”

As your fingers continued to run through his short hair, Tomas succumbed to the weight pressing down on him, feeling as though he were being completely submerged underwater. His body went lax, not even having the power to lift a finger. Every muscle seemed to surrender to the fatigue, and he found himself unable to muster the slightest resistance. With a gasp, his eyes closed, enveloping him in the darkness of his own exhaustion.

***

When the light hit Tomas’s face, he initially frowned and attempted to shield his eyes by turning his head to the side. However, as the light persisted, his eyebrows furrowed even more, and a displeased expression formed on his lips. In response, a sweet giggle reached his ears, prompting him to open his eyes quickly. There, he was met with your image, and for a moment, he simply stared at you like a fool. Your greeting, delivered in a calm and soft voice reminiscent of the morning sun, warmed him from within.

“Good morning,” you said with a kind smile. “Did you sleep well?”

Confusion clouded Tomas’s mind. Sleep? Did he really sleep last night? He remembered his body aching but couldn’t recall falling asleep, his mind retracing the events of the previous night. The last thing he remembered was the delicate sensation of your fingers in his hair. Still resting his head on your lap, Tomas’s cheeks warmed as he managed a small “Yes,” filled with disbelief. Your smile widened at his response.

“I’m glad to hear that,” you replied. With your hand still resting gently among his short silver hair, Tomas marveled at how natural the moment felt. Your presence brought him peace, as if you had always been there just waiting for him to find it, and there was something undeniably addictive about it. It was as though the chaos and uncertainty of his past had been momentarily suspended, replaced by a soothing tranquility he had longed for without even realizing it. In your company, the weight of his past seemed to lift, leaving behind a sense of clarity and hope that he hadn’t felt in years. For the first time in a long while, Tomas allowed himself to simply be, basking in the warmth of your touch and the serenity of the moment.

“You didn’t sleep?” he asked.

“No, I stayed awake because I was worried about you having another attack,” you confessed.

As Tomas’s cheeks flushed with shame, your unwavering concern only deepened the impact you had on him. Your words ignited within him a desire to shield and safeguard you. No one had ever approached him with such genuine kindness before. You were truly a kind-hearted and innocent person, evoking so many forgotten emotions within him. It was a feeling so unfamiliar and rare for him, he found himself instinctively wanting to protect you from any harm in that moment, unable to bear the thought of you suffering in any way. In his life, he had never felt this protective over someone in such a short amount of time. It was a fierce and raw instinct, almost primal in nature. Even he himself couldn’t fully grasp or comprehend this feeling.

“Thank you,” he said, lifting his head from your lap and reaching to touch your cheek. You smiled, leaning into his touch, and replied, “No big deal.” As Tomas gently stroked your soft, dreamy skin, he felt an alien sensation he hadn’t experienced in years. Could it be… happiness? The last time he had felt such pure joy was when he and his sister found a piece of glass they thought was a precious stone, believing it would improve their income. Looking at you now, he was transported back to that moment, reliving the feeling exactly.

His body rested and fit, and in the morning light illuminating the room, you looked more beautiful than ever in his eyes. Your presence felt like a remedy to his damaged body and mind, something he never expected but needed.

As he gently pulled you towards him, his touch so light that you could have easily slipped away, you didn’t resist. Your lips were soft, your breath warm, and as your lips met his with a sweet sigh, Tomas felt the walls he had built to resist crumbling. The sensation of your lips against his sent an electrifying jolt through him, every touch igniting a warmth in his chest that seemed to spread to every corner of his being. Each moment of it felt like an eternity, every brush of your lips against his sending waves of longing coursing through him. The kiss was delicate and soft, each movement cautious yet filled with desire. Tomas feared disrupting the moment, afraid to harm you as he savored the intoxicating sweetness of your scent mingled with the warmth of the morning light against his back.

Perhaps it was a foolish move, one that would invite reproachful glances from his brothers, especially Bi-Han, but it was worth experiencing this feeling. He wanted to trust—this moment, your words, you. It was a basic and burning need. Tomas had never fully believed in the promise that light comes after darkness, but in your presence, you made it seem believable, like there could be more. Your body nestled between his arms felt right, as if you were meant to be there, and he had finally found his way home. In that moment of kissing you, Tomas felt a sense of completeness wash over him.

He had never liked the dark, but with you by his side, it didn’t seem so daunting to face it anymore.

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mcyt-builds-contest · 4 months ago

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Pandora"s Vault:

Contained : Dream, Tommyinnit, Ranboo, Technoblade, Connoreatpants

Series : DSMP

Propaganda : its so big. Its so so big. Look at a map of the dsmp. Its just a black void bigger than l'manburg was. You look at it and you just know it's something terrible. the obsidian walls, lava, the iron. It's just there. In the middle of the ocean. It does not fit in and its scary. the AMOUNT of redstone and functions it go is AMAZING. the only way to enter is through a portal that then leads u to the nether and has to be manually activated again by the warden. So to enter you literally NEED the wardens permission. All the bridges and all the door. It's so fucking cool man what can I say. The amount of security. the lore that happened inside pandora as well. Pandoras arc was the best arc of the whole of dream smp and I stand by that. There is so so much to unpack. Sam and Dream could have just built some shitty obsidian box and called it a prison, but no they made PANDORAS VAULT

The Prison of the Iron Crocodiles:

Contained : ForgeLabs, unsortedguy, okrobert

Series : Scenario SMP

Propaganda : A work of tactical mastery and raw function. Sean's team only had three people including himself, whereas every other kingdom had around 10 players. In order to even the playing field, Sean's plan essentially involved using the rules of the Scenario to their full potential -- players were not allowed to break blocks while in enemy territory, so anyone dropped into the pit trap contained in the castle's gates would be stuck and forced to drop their weapons and armor or risk being murdered by a very angry crocodile. Was a working prison for quite some time, including being used to hold one of the rival leaders and more than one of his people hostage for a good amount of time. It's probably not much to look at compared to some of the other builds here, but it made up one of the central tactical plot points of the entire GoT scenario. The ripple effect of this prison being built can't be understated -- its usage completely reshaped the political and tactical landscape of the server. ...I mean, Forge didn't win, but it still reshaped the way he lost. Also it was just a very cool tactic.

#best prison brackets #mcyt base contest #polls #dsmp #scenario smp

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inthehouseoffinwe · 1 month ago

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I went into this a little in this post, but here’s how I categorise our resident Curufinwës + what their strengths in war are.

Fëanor: The Scientist. Aggressive.

Curufin: The Architect. Defensive.

Celebrimbor: The Inventor. Protective.

Fëanor: The Scientist. The Silmarils were all about the science. How to hold light. What materials are needed. How to make it stronger etc etc. Feanarian lamps honesty give me lightbulbs on steroids vibes, very sciency. He created the alphabet and no doubt numerous other things. In general Fëanor is said to want mastery over things and minds. He wants to understand then use that knowledge. He’s experimenting with known variables and pushing them to their limits.

(If he lived) his strength would be aggressive weaponry and tactics, creative mind pushing for stronger, faster, more accurate but more destructive weapons. He brings people into a passionate rage to give them the strength to go on.

Curufin: The Architect/Pragmatist. in my head is all about building on things. He also has that spark but he makes unbreakabke battlements. Bridges. Weapons. Armour. Fortresses with so many nooks and secret passages and extra defences only his brothers can keep track. He’s crafty, he’s smart. He knows how to trick people into seeing one thing and it being something else. To create false chinks in armour and defence that will be targeted and hold up, and give his people a chance to fight back while the attacker thinks he’s won.

All this means he’s great at providing defensive structures. Give him a basic fortress and he’ll create all kinds of pathways to escape and areas great for attacks and ambushes. Fool enemies and give them the element of surprise. He holds the line.

Celebrimbor: The Inventor. The rings are so unlike anything we’ve ever seen, and unlike Fëanor’s Silmarils they have true power to them. They protect and shield and raise rivers and give longevity and hold life still for the elves unused to change and so much more. He creates his city as a place for students, has a whole sect in the Gwaith-i-mirdain who learned and experimented and would create new and wondrous things. Were canonically the best artisans since Fëanor himself, led by Celebrimbor. He created so much that there was no way to even think of replicating it after he and his people were killed, and the knowledge lost. This wasn’t science. This was something entirely new. And they never saw it again.

All this means he can create invisible barriers as protection so people can live well on the daily. Keeping people safe and well is his top priority.

But yeah this is why I hc that Maedhros’ prosthetic was the combined effort of Celebrimbor and Curufin. Tyelpë was still fairly young, but he had that creativity to know how to make a working hand buried with enchantments and the like. Curufin worked out the mechanics of it and made sure it would be functional for daily life and as a weapon.

Fëanor ofc is dead by now so he doesn’t get to do much, but you best believe he’d add all kinds of sleek weaponry so his eldest could protect himself.

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juststoriesintheend · 5 months ago

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I. Faith

Chapter Pairing(s): Master Sol x f!Reader

Chapter Content: unrequited feelings, the force, swearing

Word Count: 3,534

《 [series masterlist] 》《 II 》《 III 》《 IV 》

Osha is lost. You know she is strong, capable, that she can take care of herself without issue, but that knowledge doesn’t stop your heart from worrying. She’s suffered so much since the return of her sister, since her past was dredged from the very depths of her heart and brought to light for all to see, that you fear it will lead her to ruin if she isn’t found. You don’t want that for her. You don’t want to see her light fade from the Force. But her disappearance only further solidifies your concerns, sends you pacing the halls of the Polan.

That is how Sol finds you. You sense his presence in the moments before he turns the corner ahead of you, but you actively avoid looking him in the eyes. You know what he’ll say, you know the patient wisdom you will see in his eyes, and you find yourself hoping to avoid it at all costs.

“You are worried.” He doesn’t need to say it, but you find that the sound of his voice is soothing, even when stating the obvious. It soothes the frantic peaks of your anxiety a hair.

“I know.” It is easy to forget yourself, to forget how your emotions extend beyond yourself. He must have been fighting against the onslaught of your thoughts for the past hour, if not the entire flight here. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

The raising of his hand, palm out, halts your apology, but the gentle curve of his smile softens the blow. “You are not the only one. I fear for her safety, as well.” Sol finally bridges the remaining space between you and settles his hand upon your shoulder. Warmth emanates from the point of contact, spiraling down your arm and across your shoulder blade, the familiar, comforting sort of warmth Sol always carries with him. “We will find her,” he says.

I hope so, you think, but you do not voice it. You know what he would say if you did. Hoping to beat him to it, to project the confidence and certainty you wish you had, you echo the sentiment back to him. “I have faith in the Force.”

Sol smiles again, something tender and sweet that crinkles by his eyes. “That is all we need.”

Savareen is a remarkable place, vibrant and wild in ways unlike anything you’ve ever known before. The ocean is blindingly blue, the sand of its beaches dazzlingly bright, and the flowers that dot the inland sand dunes are the most colorful, most delicate purple blossoms this side of the galaxy. It’s a pity, then, that you’re not here to sightsee.

The wind tears at your robes like it tears at your voice, ripping it from your throat the moment you speak it. “There are too many life forms around, I can’t sense her!”

Sol nods. He stows his own scanner at a loop on his belt and reaches out through the Force with you, his arm extended and eyes shut. You follow suit, but not before you take a moment, a fleeting thing, to admire his profile against the shimmer of the sand. When you finally join him, his signature is glowing brightly in the haze of the Force. Tendrils of his essence spread out before you, drifting past and through every dune and rock and streak of grass, Osha’s name the only question he brings with him. Wherever she is, she is beyond either your reach or his. Which is concerning in its own right. Sol’s mastery of the Force is much greater than yours and if he cannot sense her, then she is far away indeed.

“Should we split up?” You struggle up the slope of a particularly steep dune, tripping all over your feet and the sand and the dangling edge of your robes as you go. “Cover more ground?”

“No.” And suddenly, he’s there, his hand at your arm, pulling you up when your feet fail you. “This planet is uncharted, easy to get lost in. We will find her together.”

The peak of this particular dune offers a rather bleak view of the landscape - sand and gravel for as far as you can see, with small mountain peaks in the distance. Some of the valleys nestled between dunes sport streaks of purple where flowers have cropped up, perhaps feeding on water run off when it rains or a water source beneath the surface. But there is no sign of Osha. Defeat burns hot and heavy in your chest, and you wish it didn’t. Savareen is massive, an entire planet’s worth of desert and ocean, and if Osha does not wish to be found, then there is only so much you can do. It worries you that this mission may be one that remains incomplete - forever.

Sol starts for the bottom of this dune, where the flowers crop up among the stones, but he takes his time. The sands shift so easily under his feet that he can only go so fast. You are hesitant to follow.

It takes him a moment, but he stops and turns when he notices you haven’t been following. His eyes squint against the sun. “Your concern for her burns brightly.”

There was never any point in trying to hide it, but you are still frustrated that he read you so easily. “Yes,” you answer, slowly. You try to recenter yourself in the Force before continuing. “But I’m sure if I weren’t so anxious, I would sense the same from you.”

The awkward, tilted smile he offers you in response is confirmation enough. “She needs us. She needs you, and I cannot do this alone.”

No, you don’t suppose he can, not when he embarked on this mission without first clearing it with the Council. Neither of you should be here and you both know it.

The sand shifts quickly and quietly when you take your first step down. You find yourself thanking the Council, the ancestral Jedi, anyone who cares, for the choice to clothe Jedi in tall boots. At least that way your feet aren’t drowning in sand.

“Sol, if you think I’d ever let you do this alone, you’re an idiot.” You slide past him, letting the sand take you where it pleases, but the stunned expression on his face doesn’t go unnoticed. You can feel it, even without the Force. “Osha needs us both. And I, for- ah!”

Your boot lands on a rock, and the sand beneath it gives way to empty air, and in a single moment you’re lurched forward and sent tumbling down the remainder of the dune. Somewhere in the distance, you hear Sol shout your name, but it’s lost to the wind and the rushing of your blood in your ears. This dune is big, but not so big that you have all the free time in the world before you smash your head upon the rocks at its base. You need to act now.

The Force is vast. Even after a lifetime of learning to fold yourself within its weight, it still manages to steal your breath each time you reach for it. This time is no exception. You try to imagine yourself as something very small drifting through something great and soft, something gentle and slow - a drop of water in a tiny brook, a petal skipping over a field of grass - hoping to slow your descent. For a long moment, you’re not sure that it works. You are still falling, the sand still surrounds you, but…

Something in the Force moves. It is a mighty thing that blasts its way past you, though you still can’t tell which way is up or down. Everything is fast and hard, and you’ve decided to come to terms with the fact that you’re probably going to have a very nasty gash somewhere on your body when you finally finish tumbling, until suddenly everything is solid. Your mind still spins, but your body has stopped.

You take a breath. In. Out. You open one eye. There’s a wall of sand before you. You open the other. It’s littered with the broken branches and battered flowers from the blooming bushes you had noticed earlier, but no rocks. No great stones for you to dash your head upon, nothing that might endanger you. Just the violet petals of the Savareen flowers and the faint yellow trail of pollen they leave behind. Your mind reels as you drag yourself into some vaguely comfortable sitting position. Did you do this? You suppose you could have, but summoning a wall of sand to protect yourself hadn’t been your intention.

It’s then that you hear your name on the wind. Sol. Though you’re still dizzy and half dazed, you swing your head in the direction of his voice just in time to see him staggering the last few paces separating you, the sleeves of his robes swinging this way and that as his body dips with each step. He drops to his knees before you, and you find yourself breathless at the gesture.

“Are you alright?” he asks. Already, he’s brought his hands to cup your face, seeking out any injuries with a sort of crackling and frantic energy you have never seen from him. “Are you hurt?”

You nod. “‘m fine. I-I think.”

He wears gloves. You’ve always known this, but it’s a fact that hits you particularly hard now that he is touching you. In the back of your mind, you’ve absently mused on the feel, the scent, the everything about them, though it had never been intentional. Not fully. They are soft, you find. Worn with age and the hilt of a well-loved saber, sanded down until they grow thin at the seams and his warmth seeps through to whatever he happens to be touching.

Sol frowns as he brushes his thumb over the ridge of your cheekbone. Electricity shoots down your spine. “You have…”

“What?”

A quick glance down, though, shows streaks of yellow over the white and brown parts of your robes: the pollen. The flowers must have dropped their powder when you fell, or perhaps when Sol summoned enough sand to stop a runaway fathier. Curious, you swipe your finger over your shoulder and sniff it.

“It smells like petrichor,” you muse, and that, for some reason, is enough to make him laugh. You wish he would laugh more often.

“A remarkable observation.” He stands and offers you his hands, watching patiently while you brush the remaining pollen from your clothes. “Come on.”

The wall of sand catches your eye as you move. Before your question can manifest itself, you find yourself drawn to Sol, your gaze, your body, your very essence leaning and leaning until you finally fall into him. It’s possible you’re still a bit dizzy. “Was that you?”

He braces himself against the influx of your weight as his arms come around you, and it strikes you just how soft he manages to be while also staying strong. He smiles that crinkle-eyed smile you have always loved and nods. “I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, suddenly enraptured by the gentle slope of his jaw and the rich, earthy hue of his eyes as they flicker down, down to the cleave in your robes and the sudden thrumming of your pulse as it leaps from your throat. It strikes you hard, then, that you feel more exposed under the blazing of the sun and your layers of clothing than you ever have before. Startled by this discomforting realization, you scramble out of his arms on wobbly legs. “We should, uh, get going. I don’t want to lose her.”

It’s hot. Far too hot. Savareen is a desert, of course, so the heat is to be expected, but it feels strange this time. You feel strange. Already, you’ve shrugged off the outer layer of your clothes, but your body seems only to grow warmer with each passing moment. It’s awful.

“D’you think we’re any closer?”

Sol’s head tilts in your direction, his expression unreadable. “I have a read on her ship,” he says with a nod to his scanner, “but I still cannot sense her.”

Oh, thank the Force. The sooner you find her, the sooner you can get off this dust bowl and strip out of your clothes to enjoy something cool and refreshing. A real shower, or an endless glass of some chilled, fruity drink that freezes your brain. Even an ice bath sounds appealing. Or a visit to Hoth. Anything, so long as it quenches the fire that’s blazing beneath your skin.

The dunes have evened out into something more walkable - a blessing in its own right. Pebbles and larger rocks pepper the land while the mountains loom ever closer. The sun drifts down toward the softly sloped peaks, and the flowers sway in the wind, and everything feels itchy and tight and utterly unbearable. You cast your attention to Sol and feel completely, irrationally angry watching him exist without being as miserable as you are.

“Aren’t you melting, Sol?” Hands pry at the neck of your robes to loosen them even more, but they come back damp with your own sweat.

He halts, rather than answer. Soft brown eyes - warm, always warm, like a fire in the dead of winter, like the earth heated by the light of the sun - study you without words, without judgment, without a shred of the misery you feel now, and you hate it. You hate it so much that it makes your stomach churn and your thighs ache.

Your mouth parts to fill the empty space he leaves behind. “I swear, this planet’s a fucking sauna. How can you stand it?” You don’t care that you’ve never truly sworn in front of him before. It’s too difficult to keep up appearances right now. You are not the perfect Jedi you’ve always wished him to think of you as, you are hot and you are tired and you want this to be over as soon as possible. “What the hell is she doing out here, anyway? Running? From what? She couldn’t have picked a nicer spot? We’d have a harder time finding her on Coruscant and at least it wouldn’t be so fucking miserable-”

“Are you well?”

It’s his tone that gives you pause. Not once in the past sixteen years has he ever spoken to you like this, like… like there’s something wrong with you, like your very presence offends him. It’s unlike him. And it hurts.

Scowling, you start to lumber past him. “Are you?”

His eyes close and hardly a moment later, you feel a force pressing lightly against your sternum. A Force. His Force.

“Are you studying me?”

Sol’s brow furrows in your direction. “Your mind is clouded, confused,” he says, and he does it with such calm. How is he so damn calm? “What’s wrong?”

He has the audacity to ask you this?

“Look around you! We’re in the middle of a kriffing desert, Sol, and you wanna know ‘what’s wrong’?”

The heat of the sun seems to beam itself directly into your brain. (Something logical in the far reaches of your mind curls in on itself.) You shouldn’t even be here. None of you should. (You’re so angry, screaming inside your skin as this planet boils you alive, and you don’t understand why.) This whole mission is a waste - a waste of time, a waste of your resources, of the bond between you and Osha, between her and Sol. What the hell was she thinking? (Something isn’t right. This isn’t right.)

Sol’s compassion eats through your heart when he looks you in the eye. “I’m worried about her, too, but-”

“She’s an idiot,” you snap, and your vehemence startles even you, though you fight not to show it. (Why are you so angry?)

The irritation that lances through his sigh, through his voice, is a victory, small though it is. “I understand your anger, but it will not help us find Osha.”

He’s right, of course. Some Jedi instinct deep within you knows this to be true.

“Anger is chaos,” he continues. “It burns bright, but it only serves to confuse and to tear apart that which is unified.”

There is no chaos, there is harmony. You learned those words from your own Master, and you have heard them from Sol’s own mouth countless times by virtue of being Osha’s friend all these years.

A memory sparks.

“Center yourself.”

A younger Osha, about twelve and practically vibrating with emotion, sits cross-legged under her Master’s watchful eye. She fidgets, restless and uncertain; you can feel it from the alcove where you linger.

“I can’t,” she says, and you can hear all the things she wishes she could say tied tightly together with a thread of restraint.

Sol almost smiles. “You can.”

He moves to sit across from her, his cloak spread out around him like the tresses of a waterfall. He does it with such grace, so effortlessly. It’s why you can’t help lingering where you don’t belong, watching something that isn’t yours to see.

“You do not need to fear your emotions, Osha. They are not an enemy for you to fight, but an ally that gives you strength.”

Being five years your junior, Osha’s skills with the Force are still young and struggling to flourish in the overgrowth of her past that still haunts her. You remember being her age, how the world around you felt too big to make sense of, how you tried your very best to be a good padawan but always felt lacking. Meditation does not come easy to you either, not even now. Yet you find yourself intrigued by Sol’s approach to the issue. He comes to Osha’s level and meets her where she struggles, he brings warmth and understanding, a patience that runs so deep you wonder if it’s a piece of the Force that threads directly through him.

“It is through our emotions that we can find peace, but only by using the Force as our guide.” Osha nods quietly, her eyelids twitching as she attempts to reconnect herself, but Sol smiles. He always smiles. “Breathe deep. Find me in the Force, Padawan.”

On Savareen, you feel the echo of that memory breeze through you, body and soul. With it comes a peace that is quiet and unassuming, shrouded in Sol’s very essence. He’s reaching out to you, you realize, offering you his hand. Offering you peace.

Find me in the Force.

You are a Knight now. You are not the young child you once were, nor the teen who snuck through the Temple halls in search of mischief. You are better than this, you are above such petty and aggressive means of expression, and Sol knows it as well as you do.

Find me.

There is something that looms large over your heart and mind, something that clouds your judgment in a way unknown to you. Through the Force, you sense it curled up like a predator lying in wait as it courses through your veins. Through Sol’s peace and the calming guidance of his presence, you find that this thing brings fire and passion, that it simmers low in your belly and boils your brain while lashing out at anything that does not bring it satisfaction.

“There’s something in my head,” you say.

“I see it.”

“It hurts.” You hadn’t fully realized it until this moment. “Sol…”

His hand curls around your bicep. It is meant to be a comfort, but all it does is make your body scream. You cry out, half agonized and half electrified, and very nearly fall over, as if his very presence were the source of it all.

The planet seems to swim around you, the sand bleeding into the sky into the mountains into everything and nothing. Desperate for relief, you claw at the hem of your robes until they start falling apart at your chest. Your cloak is long forgotten, the tabard and overtunic ripped off your body and thrown aside, everything is discarded until you find yourself in only your undertunic and trousers. The boots are on very thin ice.

Everything hurts and everything is hot. Wherever your clothing touches you, it burns like a brand, but even in the midst of your desperation you can’t bring yourself to completely strip, not in front of Sol. Not like this. Some final shred of dignity still clings to your consciousness and you won’t allow yourself to bare your body to him. Not when… After all these years, he’s never known. It would kill you if he discovered it now.

You fall to your hands and knees in the sand, panting. “Sol, what’s wrong with me? What’s happening?”

Sol will know. He always knows.

But as you slip onto your stomach, your mind still screaming and your body on the verge of implosion, you catch a glimpse of the Master you’ve loved for the past eight years and all you see on his face is fear. Confusion. Uncertainty.

And then you see nothing at all.

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#master sol x reader #master sol #the acolyte #star wars #x reader

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