#Review: In ‘Difficult Grace

[hatake]

.

[enhaflixer]

hogwarts time travel au! traveling to the future and waking up MARRIED PART 2

slytherin!riki x gryffindor!reader PART ONE HERE

warnings: time travel, sex, kissing, lots of kissing, kinda angsty, they have two kids, there are pranks and rivalry and its just real cute im ngl

-

The night before the department dinner, after the children were asleep, Riki found you in the study reviewing your class notes—a habit you'd developed to avoid embarrassing yourself in front of your students.

"We should probably practice," he said from the doorway, startling you.

"Practice what?"

"Dancing." He shifted his weight, looking uncharacteristically nervous. "If this is a formal department thing, there will probably be dancing."

You set aside your notes reluctantly. "Is that really necessary?"

"These people know us—know our future selves," he pointed out. "If we're awkward or stepping on each other's toes, they'll notice."

You sighed. "Fine. But just a quick run-through."

He nodded, then flicked his wand at the wireless in the corner. Soft, melodic music filled the room. With another wave, he pushed the furniture against the walls, creating a small dance floor in the center of the study.

"Shall we?" He extended his hand formally, a hint of his usual confidence returning.

You rolled your eyes but placed your hand in his, allowing him to draw you to the center of the room. His right hand settled at your waist while his left held yours aloft. You placed your free hand on his shoulder, careful to maintain a respectable distance between your bodies.

"I'm not going to hex you," he said with a slight smile. "You can stand a bit closer."

"This is fine," you insisted, though you knew real couples wouldn't dance with a foot of space between them.

He shrugged and began to lead, moving with surprising grace. After a few moments of stiff movement, you found your rhythm, matching his steps as you circled the makeshift dance floor.

"You're not terrible at this," you admitted grudgingly.

"Pure-blood family," he reminded you. "Dance lessons from age six. Mother's orders."

"That explains why you didn't completely embarrass yourself at the Yule Ball," you said, remembering how he'd danced with Olivia Greengrass for most of the evening.

Something flickered in his eyes. "You noticed me at the Yule Ball?"

"Hard not to notice when someone transfigures the punch bowl into a singing toad halfway through the evening," you countered, deflecting the implied question.

He laughed. "McGonagall's face was priceless."

The music shifted to something slower, more intimate. Riki's hand at your waist exerted the slightest pressure, drawing you incrementally closer.

"People will expect us to dance like we've done it a hundred times before," he said softly. "Like we know each other's movements by heart."

"And how do we do that?" Your voice came out quieter than intended.

"For starters, not like we're afraid of each other." Before you could protest, he eliminated the space between you, bringing your bodies together from chest to knee.

Your breath caught as he adjusted his hold, his arm now encircling your waist completely. Your joined hands moved to rest against his chest, while your other hand slid from his shoulder to the nape of his neck. The new position was undeniably intimate—you could feel his heartbeat against your fingers, the warmth of his skin beneath your palm.

"This is how married people dance," he murmured, his breath stirring your hair.

You couldn't formulate a response as he began moving again, the steps simpler now—less formal waltz and more just swaying together to the music. Your bodies moved in sync, with none of the awkwardness you'd expected.

"See?" he said after a few moments. "Not so difficult."

You made a noncommittal sound, not trusting your voice. Because it wasn't difficult—that was the problem. It felt easy. Natural. As if your body remembered dancing with him like this before, even if your mind didn't.

The music swelled, and Riki spontaneously spun you out and back into his arms. You returned smoothly, your back now pressed against his chest, his arms crossed over your waist, holding you securely. The move had been unexpected but you'd followed his lead instinctively.

"Perfect," he said, his voice dropping to a lower register that sent a shiver down your spine. "You see? Muscle memory."

You turned in his arms to face him again, intending to create some distance, but found yourself caught in his gaze. There was something new there—a heat that hadn't been present in your previous interactions.

"Riki..." you began, not sure what you intended to say.

His eyes dropped to your lips, lingering just long enough to send your pulse racing, before he stepped back, releasing you as the music ended.

"That should be sufficient practice," he said, his voice slightly rougher than usual. "For tomorrow."

"Right," you agreed, wrapping your arms around yourself to ward off the sudden chill of his absence. "For tomorrow."

-

The next evening found you in the bedroom, putting the finishing touches on your appearance while Riki took the girls to The Burrow. You'd opted for the green gown after all—silk that flowed like water, with a modest neckline but a back that dipped daringly low. Your hair was arranged in an elegant updo, and you'd applied makeup with more care than you'd ever bothered with at seventeen.

The effect, you had to admit, was striking. You hardly recognized yourself in the mirror—this poised, elegant woman seemed worlds away from the student who'd spent most of her time in the library with ink-stained fingers.

The sound of the Floo activating announced Riki's return. You took a steadying breath and descended the stairs, feeling oddly nervous.

Riki stood in the living room, adjusting the silver cuffs of his midnight-blue dress robes. The tailoring was impeccable, emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean frame—clearly, these robes had been made specifically for him. He looked up as you entered, and the expression that crossed his face made your stomach flutter unexpectedly.

"Wow," was all he managed at first, his eyes traveling slowly from your face to your feet and back again. His gaze lingered on the way the deep emerald and black silk draped across your body, the Grecian-inspired cut accentuating your figure while the open back added an unexpected touch of allure.

"Just 'wow'?" you supplied when he didn't continue, turning slightly to show the full effect of the gown.

"Devastating," he finally said, his voice rough. "You look absolutely devastating."

He swallowed visibly, and you noticed with satisfaction that his usual quick wit seemed to have abandoned him entirely. The thought flashed through his mind, surprising even himself—did he have a previously undiscovered kink for seeing you in Slytherin green? The rich emerald color that had once represented rivalry now stirred something entirely different in him.

"You clean up decently yourself," you offered, aiming for casual despite the charged atmosphere.

"The robes that make my ass look fantastic," he confirmed with a flash of his usual humor, though his eyes never left yours. "Ready to convince a room full of Aurors we're madly in love?"

"As I'll ever be," you replied, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in your stomach.

-

Theodesia's turned out to be an elegant restaurant with crystal chandeliers and goblin-wrought silver place settings. You were greeted effusively by the maître d' who clearly recognized you both and led you upstairs to a private dining room already buzzing with conversation.

"Riki! Professor!" A man detached himself from a group near the bar—Jake, from the Floo call yesterday. He approached with a broad smile, a striking woman with dark skin and elaborate braids at his side. "About time you two showed up. Cutting it close as usual."

"Some things never change," Riki replied with surprising ease, clasping Jake's hand. "Traffic in the Floo network was awful."

"You look gorgeous," the woman—presumably Seera—said, embracing you warmly. "That color is perfect on you. I've been telling you to wear more green for ages."

"I decided to take your advice," you improvised, returning her hug.

"Where are the little menaces tonight?" Jake asked. "With Molly?"

"Yes, we dropped them off earlier," Riki confirmed. "Sara was already eyeing the cookie jar when we left."

His effortless lying impressed you—he sounded completely natural discussing children he'd only known for two weeks.

"Smart move using your anniversary as an excuse for a night off," Seera said with a knowing smile. "Though I still can't believe it's been five years since your wedding. I remember it like yesterday—you two dancing under those enchanted cherry blossoms, looking disgustingly in love."

"Time flies," you managed, leaning into Riki's side as his arm slipped around your waist.

"Speaking of which," Jake said, checking his watch, "we should find our seats. Kingsley will be starting the presentations soon."

The next hour passed in a blur of introductions, small talk, and desperately trying not to reveal your ignorance of people who clearly knew you well. Riki proved surprisingly adept at navigating conversations, deflecting personal questions with humor and redirecting topics when things veered into dangerous territory.

His hand remained a constant presence at the small of your back, his thumb occasionally brushing bare skin through the open back of your gown, sending little jolts of electricity up your spine each time.

Dinner was served—an elegant multi-course affair with wine pairings—as various department heads delivered speeches and presented awards. You were relieved to discover that Riki wasn't receiving any special recognition, though he was mentioned several times for his team's recent successful operations.

"Your husband's quite the rising star," whispered the witch seated on your other side—a senior Auror named Claudia. "Youngest division head in thirty years. Though I suspect he'd give it all up if you decided to have another baby."

You nearly choked on your wine. "Another—"

"Oh, I know, I know," she said hurriedly. "You've said two is your limit. But the way he dotes on those girls... Well, just saying. Never seen a man more besotted with fatherhood."

You glanced at Riki, deep in conversation with an older wizard across the table. The idea of him as a doting father had seemed absurd two weeks ago, but now... You'd seen how he was with Suki and Sara. How natural he seemed with them, how his entire demeanor softened around the children.

Your contemplation was interrupted as Jake stood, tapping his glass for attention.

"If I could have everyone's attention for a moment," he called over the chatter. "As is tradition at our annual dinner, we take a moment to celebrate not just professional achievements, but personal ones as well. And tonight, we have a very special milestone to recognize."

He turned toward your table, raising his glass. "Riki and Y/N Nishimura are celebrating their fifth wedding anniversary this month. Five years of proving that even when you start as sworn enemies, love finds a way."

A ripple of laughter and applause moved through the room.

"For those who don't know their story," Jake continued, "these two spent seven years at Hogwarts hexing each other at every opportunity. Their legendary prank war culminated in what we now affectionately call 'The Great Time-Turner Incident' where they accidentally sent themselves ten years into the future."

Your blood ran cold. Riki's hand found yours under the table, squeezing tightly.

"When they finally managed to return to their time," Jake went on, oblivious to your shock, "something had fundamentally changed. As Riki tells it, 'Seeing a future where we were happy together made me realize I'd been fighting my feelings all along.' Three years later, they were exchanging vows with half the faculty of Hogwarts in attendance."

The room awwwed appreciatively.

"So please raise your glasses," Jake concluded, "to Riki and [Your Name]—proof that sometimes the person who drives you absolutely crazy is exactly the person you're meant to be with."

"To Riki and Y/N !" the room echoed, glasses raised.

You managed a smile, lifting your glass automatically as your mind raced. The Great Time-Turner Incident? Your future selves had experienced something similar—had, in fact, ended up together because of it.

Riki's hand was still clutching yours beneath the table, his knuckles white. He'd clearly reached the same conclusion.

"And now," Seera announced, standing beside her husband, "as is tradition, a few words from our anniversary couple!"

The room erupted in applause and expectant looks.

Riki recovered first, rising to his feet and pulling you gently up beside him. His arm went around your waist, steadying you.

"Thank you all," he began, his voice remarkably steady given the bombshell that had just been dropped. "Five years doesn't seem possible, does it, love?" He looked down at you with such convincing affection that your breath caught.

"Sometimes it feels like yesterday," you managed, finding your voice. "Other times, like we've always been together."

The room sighed appreciatively at your response.

"I won't subject you all to the story of how this brilliant, beautiful woman finally agreed to go out with me after years of turning my hair various colors," Riki continued, drawing laughs from the audience. "But I will say this—Jake's right. Sometimes the person who challenges you most is exactly who you need."

He turned to face you fully, his eyes holding yours with an intensity that made the rest of the room fade away. "Every day with you is an adventure, even when it's just making pancakes with the girls or grading papers by the fire. I wouldn't trade our life for anything."

The raw sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten. This wasn't just a performance for the crowd—there was something real beneath his words.

"Neither would I," you said softly, surprising yourself with the truth of it. "Even when you drive me crazy."

The room laughed again, but Riki's smile was just for you—small, private, and achingly genuine.

"Thank you all," he said, turning back to the audience. "For celebrating with us tonight."

As you both sat down, the room burst into a chant: "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Riki looked at you, a question in his eyes. A public kiss hadn't been part of your planning, but refusing would seem odd for a celebrating couple.

"We should," you whispered. "Just a quick one."

He nodded, then leaned in slowly, giving you time to prepare. You expected a brief peck—the bare minimum to satisfy the crowd.

What you got instead was a revelation.

His lips touched yours gently at first, a whisper of contact that sent a shock wave through your system. Then, as if unable to help himself, he deepened the kiss, one hand coming up to cradle your jaw. Your eyes fluttered closed as you responded instinctively, your lips parting slightly beneath his.

The kiss lasted only seconds, but it felt like an eternity—an eternity where nothing existed but the warmth of his mouth on yours and the dizzying sense that something fundamental had shifted between you.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, pupils dilated. You could read the same stunned recognition in his face that you felt coursing through your veins.

The room erupted in cheers and whistles, breaking the spell. Riki's thumb brushed your cheekbone once before he withdrew his hand, turning to acknowledge the crowd with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Under the table, your fingers touched your lips, still tingling from the contact. That hadn't been a performance. That had been... something else entirely.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. People stopped by your table to share anecdotes about your relationship, each one a piece of a puzzle you were desperately trying to assemble. You learned that you'd started dating in your final year at Hogwarts, after returning from your accidental time travel. That you'd worked as a curse-breaker before taking the teaching position at Hogwarts. That your wedding had featured cherry blossoms and fairy lights, with Hagrid sobbing so loudly during the vows that no one could hear them.

When the orchestra began playing a slow, haunting melody, Riki stood and offered his hand. "Dance with me?" he asked softly, all pretense stripped away in that moment.

You took his hand without hesitation, letting him lead you to the dance floor. His arm slid around your waist with practiced ease, drawing you close as you began to move together. All your awkward practice from the night before had vanished—your bodies knew this dance, knew each other, moving in perfect synchrony as if you'd done this a thousand times before.

"Everyone's watching us," you murmured, noticing the fond glances directed your way.

"Let them," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "They're seeing what they expect to see—the department's most disgustingly perfect couple."

"Is that what we are?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop it.

Something shifted in his gaze, a vulnerability you'd glimpsed only in rare moments. "Maybe not yet. But..."

He didn't finish the thought, didn't need to. As the music swelled around you, he guided you into a graceful turn that made your dress billow around your ankles. When you returned to his arms, you were both smiling, caught in a bubble of shared connection that felt startlingly genuine.

"Happy anniversary," you whispered, so quietly that only he could hear, surprising yourself with the sincerity behind the words.

His eyes widened slightly, genuine shock flashing across his features before his expression softened into something warm and unguarded. For a moment—one perfect, suspended moment—you both forgot that this wasn't really your life, that you hadn't actually been married for five years, that the memories everyone was celebrating weren't truly yours.

"Happy anniversary," he whispered back, his eyes never leaving yours, meaning it in ways neither of you could fully understand.

As you continued to dance, you noticed a small group of witches watching you from the edge of the dance floor, smiling affectionately at what they clearly considered a romantic moment between longtime lovers. Without overthinking it, you leaned up and pressed a gentle kiss to Riki's jaw—ostensibly for your audience, though the flutter in your stomach suggested other motives.

You felt his sharp intake of breath, his arm tightening almost imperceptibly around your waist. When you pulled back slightly to gauge his reaction, the heat in his eyes made your pulse skip.

The song ended too soon, breaking the spell as applause rippled through the room. But as Riki led you back to your table, his hand resting lightly on the bare skin of your back, something had changed between you—something that couldn't be dismissed as merely playing a part.

Through the rest of the evening, Riki remained close—his arm around your chair, his fingers occasionally brushing yours, his body angled toward you in the unconscious way of couples accustomed to each other's presence. You found yourself responding in kind, leaning into his touch, laughing at his jokes, exchanging glances that somehow conveyed entire conversations.

It was frighteningly easy to play the role of his wife, you realized. Too easy.

And that kiss... that hadn't been playing at all.

By the time you said your goodbyes and stepped into the cool night air outside Theodesia's, you were both quieter than usual, lost in your own thoughts.

"Well," Riki finally broke the silence as you walked toward the apparition point. "That was... informative."

"The Time-Turner Incident," you said, focusing on the practical rather than the confusing emotional aftermath of the evening. "Our future selves experienced something similar."

"And it changed everything for them," he added. "Or us. Time travel pronouns are confusing."

You laughed despite yourself. "That's your takeaway?"

"No," he admitted, stopping beneath a street lamp. The warm glow illuminated his features as he turned to you. "My takeaway is that we need to talk about what happened in there."

"The toast? The revelations about our apparent history?"

"The kiss," he said simply.

Your heartbeat quickened. "It was just for show."

"Was it?" His voice was soft, his eyes searching yours. "Because it didn't feel like just for show."

"Riki..."

"I know we're supposed to be finding a way back," he continued. "I know this isn't our real life. But—" He paused, seeming to struggle with his words. "What if Jake was right? What if the person who's been driving me crazy for seven years is actually..."

"Don't," you whispered, not ready to hear the end of that sentence. Not ready to confront the growing realization that your feelings for Riki had become far more complicated than simple animosity.

He studied your face for a long moment, then nodded once. "We should get back. Check on the girls."

"Yes," you agreed, relieved by the return to practicality. "Molly's probably wondering where we are."

He offered his arm for side-along apparition. As your fingers curled around the rich fabric of his sleeve, you couldn't help remembering how it had felt when those same fingers had tangled in your hair as he kissed you—how perfect it had felt, how right.

And how terrifying the implications of that rightness might be.

-

The days following the department dinner passed in an increasingly elaborate dance of avoidance.

You began waking up earlier than necessary, slipping out of bed before Riki stirred and volunteering for morning duties with the girls. He, in turn, started staying up later, buried in case files at the kitchen table long after you'd retired to bed. The bedroom became a transition space—a place you occupied in shifts rather than together, despite the fact that you still technically shared it.

At breakfast, you'd focus intensely on helping Suki with her cereal or wiping Sara's sticky hands, using the children as buffers. Riki would read the Daily Prophet with unusual thoroughness, suddenly fascinated by Ministry policy updates and Quidditch standings he'd normally disregard. If your fingers accidentally brushed while passing the tea, you'd both flinch away as if burned, murmuring awkward apologies before finding new reasons to be elsewhere.

The kiss—that unexpectedly genuine, heart-stopping moment at the department dinner—hovered between you like an unacknowledged presence, impossible to address yet impossible to forget.

Neither of you mentioned the way you'd whispered "happy anniversary" and meant it, or how his hand had lingered on your bare back during the dance, or how natural it had felt to lean into his touch throughout the evening. Those moments contradicted the narrative you'd both silently agreed upon: that this was all temporary, that your real lives waited elsewhere, that the growing comfort and connection between you was simply muscle memory from bodies accustomed to each other.

In the evenings, you'd grade papers in the study while Riki handled bedtime stories with elaborate sound effects that made the girls squeal with delight. You found yourself lingering outside the nursery door sometimes, listening to his patient voice as he answered Suki's endless questions or soothed Sara with a gentle lullaby. These glimpses of tenderness made avoiding him both more necessary and more difficult.

When you did occupy the same space, conversation remained strictly practical, delivered with exaggerated casualness.

"Suki's daycare is closed on Friday," you'd mention, focused intently on stirring your tea. "Teacher training day."

"I can work from home," he'd offer, eyes fixed on a spot just over your shoulder. "No problem."

"Great. Thanks," you'd reply, already moving toward the door. "I should prepare for tomorrow's lessons."

You weren't hostile—quite the opposite. There was a new carefulness between you, a politeness almost painful in its restraint. You both said "please" and "thank you" with formal precision. You complimented his cooking; he praised your patience with the children. But beneath the courtesy lay a current of tension neither of you was willing to acknowledge.

Sometimes you'd catch him watching you when he thought you wouldn't notice—a speculative look in his eyes that made your stomach flutter. Other times, you'd find yourself staring at his hands as he helped Suki with a puzzle, remembering how those same hands had felt on your waist during the dance, and you'd have to excuse yourself to another room until your heartbeat steadied.

The weekend arrived with blessed relief. Riki announced he had paperwork to complete for an ongoing smuggling investigation—a transparent excuse, but one you gratefully accepted. You responded with equal transparency about needing to revise lesson plans. The mutual agreement to separation was welcome, even as the strained atmosphere grew increasingly unbearable.

By Saturday afternoon, the house felt too small despite its magical extensions. You found yourself wandering into the study, ostensibly searching for reference materials but really just seeking a space Riki wasn't occupying. That's when you discovered a cabinet tucked in the corner that you hadn't fully explored.

Inside were rows of small crystal orbs—magical recordings, similar to Pensieve memories but viewable without immersion. You'd seen similar devices in the Hogwarts archives, used to preserve important lectures and ceremonies.

Curious, and perhaps a bit desperate for distraction, you selected one labeled "Suki's First Steps." Perhaps watching family memories would help you better understand the life you were temporarily inhabiting—or at least provide a reprieve from the uncomfortable tension that had settled over the household.

You placed the orb in the viewing stand on the desk and tapped it with your wand. Light bloomed from the crystal, expanding into a three-dimensional projection. There was your future self, sitting on the living room floor, arms outstretched toward a wobbly Suki who couldn't have been more than a year old.

"Come on, sweet girl," your voice encouraged. "Come to Mama!"

Behind the camera, Riki's voice: "She's going to do it this time, I can feel it."

Sure enough, Suki took one hesitant step, then another, her little face a mask of concentration before breaking into a delighted giggle as she tumbled into your waiting arms.

"She did it!" the recorded you exclaimed, scooping her up and spinning her around. "Riki, did you get that?"

"Every second," came his proud reply. The camera moved closer, capturing your radiant smile and Suki's chubby hands patting your cheeks. "Our little prodigy, walking at ten months."

The projection faded, leaving the study quiet again. You sat back, a strange melancholy washing over you. These were your memories—would be your memories—yet they felt like glimpses into a stranger's life.

"What are you doing?"

You startled, turning to find Riki in the doorway, a mug of tea in his hand.

"I found these recordings," you explained, gesturing to the cabinet. "I was just... curious."

He hesitated, then entered the study, setting his tea down. "Anything interesting?"

"Suki's first steps." You smiled faintly. "She was early, apparently."

"Not surprising," he said, the first hint of normal conversation between you in days. "She's rather determined about everything."

You nodded, relieved by the break in tension. "Want to see another?"

It was an olive branch of sorts. He recognized it for what it was, settling into the chair beside yours. "Sure. You choose."

You returned to the cabinet, scanning labels. "Baby's First Quidditch Match," "Sara's Naming Ceremony," "Holiday in Greece." One caught your eye, labeled simply "The Surprise." Intrigued, you selected it.

The projection revealed your future self in the kitchen, setting up what appeared to be a camera. You wore casual clothes, hair pulled back, a mischievous glint in your eyes as you adjusted the angle.

"Is this recording?" On-screen you leaned close to the lens, then stepped back, satisfied. "Perfect. Operation 'Prank the Prankster' is a go."

You quickly arranged several items on the counter—a potion vial with a mysterious pink liquid, a book titled "So You're Expecting: A Magical Guide," and what looked like a sonogram image, though you carefully hid these under a dish towel. Your recorded self was practically vibrating with suppressed excitement.

The kitchen door opened, and Riki entered, setting down a grocery bag. "Got everything, including those weird pickled radishes you suddenly can't live without."

"My hero," recorded-you smiled, reaching up to kiss him with easy affection. "Hey, can you help me with something? I brewed a potion and I need a second opinion."

"Is it for those bizarre cravings? Because the clerk at the apothecary already thinks I'm running some kind of illegal lab with all the ingredients you've been sending me for." He began unpacking groceries, oblivious to your barely contained grin.

"No, it's for a special project." You casually removed the dish towel, revealing the blue potion. "It's supposed to change color based on certain... conditions."

Riki looked up, intrigued but suspicious. "What kind of conditions? This isn't like the time you made me test that 'harmless' potion that turned my eyebrows purple for a week, is it?"

"Would I do that to you?" you asked with exaggerated innocence. "I just need you to verify the color. What shade of pink would you call this?"

He approached reluctantly, peering at the vial. "I don't know... fuchsia? Why does it matter?"

"Because," you said, sliding the book into view, "according to page 94 of this particular guide, cerulean fuchsia means it's a girl."

For a moment, Riki just stared at the book, his brain not quite making the connection. Then his eyes darted to the sonogram image you'd nudged forward, back to the potion, then finally to your face.

"Wait..." he said slowly, realization dawning. "Are you... is this... are you pranking me right now?"

You bit your lip, torn between laughter and tears. "Well, yes, I'm pranking you. But also no, because..." You reached into a drawer and withdrew a pair of tiny Slytherin green booties. "I'm actually twelve weeks pregnant."

The sequence of expressions that crossed his face was extraordinary—confusion, shock, disbelief, and then pure, unadulterated joy. He let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

"You—" he started, shaking his head in amazement. "You used a prank to tell me we're having a baby? That's—"

"Fitting?" you suggested, eyes dancing with mirth. "Given our history?"

He didn't answer with words. Instead, he closed the distance between you in two strides, lifting you off your feet in a spinning embrace that made you laugh and protest simultaneously.

"Careful! Morning sickness is still a thing!"

He set you down immediately, but his hands remained on your waist, his eyes searching yours with wonder. "We're actually having a baby? You're not just pranking the prankster?"

You took his hand and placed it gently on your still-flat stomach. "We're having a baby," you confirmed, tears spilling down your cheeks now. "Suki's going to be a big sister."

The look of pure joy that transformed his face made your throat tighten just watching. He dropped to his knees, pressing his forehead against your stomach.

"A baby," he whispered, voice choked with emotion. "Our baby."

Then he looked up at you, eyes shining with tears and laughter. "I can't believe you out-pranked me for something this important."

"Had to make it memorable," you replied with a watery smile. "Got you good, didn't I?"

He rose to his feet, cradling your face in his hands with such tenderness it was almost painful to witness. "You got me good," he agreed softly. "Best prank ever."

The kiss he bestowed upon you was reverent, his hand drifting down to rest protectively over your still-flat stomach.

"I love you," he murmured against your lips. "I love you so much."

The recording faded, leaving you and present-day Riki sitting in stunned silence. The intimacy of the moment you'd witnessed felt almost invasive, like you'd eavesdropped on something sacred.

"That was..." Riki began, then cleared his throat. "That must have been when you—they—found out about Sara."

"Yes." Your voice sounded strange to your own ears.

Neither of you seemed to know what to say next. After a moment, Riki reached for the cabinet. "Mind if I choose one?"

You nodded, grateful for the distraction.

He selected an orb labeled "Wedding Night Promises." Before you could suggest something less potentially intimate, he'd placed it on the stand and activated it.

The scene that materialized made you both inhale sharply. A hotel room, clearly luxurious, with rose petals scattered across a massive bed. Riki lay on his back, dress shirt unbuttoned, hair disheveled, and his face adorned with lipstick marks in the same shade you'd been wearing in earlier wedding photos you'd seen. The camera appeared to be held by him at arm's length, capturing both his face and you as you leaned over him, adding another kiss to his jawline.

"You missed a spot," recorded-Riki said, pointing to his left cheekbone. "Can't have an incomplete masterpiece."

Your future self laughed but obliged, pressing your lips to the indicated spot and leaving a perfect imprint. "Better?"

"Much," he said with a satisfied grin. "But this area is still tragically unmarked." He tapped the corner of his mouth.

"You're ridiculous," you told him, but leaned in to place another kiss where he'd pointed.

"And here," he continued, touching his other cheek. "Symmetry is important in art."

You were laughing now as you worked your way across his face. "Are you planning to have me cover every inch?"

"That's the general idea, yes," he confirmed without a trace of shame. "I want everyone at breakfast tomorrow to know exactly what my wife thinks of me."

"Your wife thinks you're insufferable," you teased, but contradicted your words by pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead.

"You know," he said, his free hand playing with a strand of your hair, "you were so beautiful today. When you walked down the aisle, I forgot to breathe."

You paused in your kisses, visibly touched by his sincerity.

"Who told you to stop?" he protested immediately.

"I thought you were being serious for a moment," you said, shaking your head with fond exasperation.

"I am being serious," he insisted. "Deadly serious about how stunning you looked. That dress..." He gave an exaggerated sigh. "And your hair with those little flowers woven through it. I've never seen anything more perfect."

You rewarded him with another kiss, this time at the corner of his eye.

"And when you started crying during your vows," he continued, his voice softening, "it took everything I had not to just drop to my knees right there."

"Stop," you murmured, clearly embarrassed. "I was a mess."

"A beautiful mess," he corrected. "My beautiful mess. Forever, as of today."

You leaned in to kiss him properly on the lips this time, but he turned his head slightly. "Not yet. I still have unmarked territory here." He pointed to his chin.

You rolled your eyes but complied, adding another lipstick mark.

"What are you doing with the camera, anyway?" you finally asked, looking up with mock exasperation as you pulled back.

"Documenting," he replied, voice warm with affection and something deeper. "So you can never deny how utterly irresistible you find me."

"As if your ego needs more inflation," you teased, but your expression was impossibly tender.

"Actually," Riki's voice grew serious, "I wanted to record a promise."

Your future self settled beside him, head propped on one hand. "A promise?"

"I know we did vows today," he said, camera steady on both your faces. "But there are things I wanted to say just to you. Not for an audience."

The raw emotion in his voice must have affected your future self as it did you now, because her playful expression softened into something solemn and attentive.

"I promise," he began, "that no matter how busy we get, how many cases I take, how many students you teach, I will never go a day without making sure you know how much I love you."

He shifted slightly, making sure the camera still captured both of you. "I promise that every morning when I wake up next to you, I'll remember how lucky I am that you saw past the idiot who turned your hair pink and found whatever was worth loving beneath."

Your future self's eyes had filled with tears, but she remained silent, letting him continue.

"I promise that when we fight—and we will fight, because we're both stubborn and opinionated and that's part of why I love you—I will always fight fair. I will never go to bed angry. I will never use your vulnerabilities against you."

His voice had grown husky. "I promise that when we have children, I will be the father I wish I'd had, and I will cherish every moment of creating a family with you."

Your recorded self was crying openly now, tears sliding silently down your cheeks.

"And I promise," he finished, his own eyes suspiciously bright, "that fifty years from now, I'll still look at you the way I'm looking at you right now—like you're the greatest adventure of my life, and I'd fight a hundred time-turner accidents to end up right here with you."

The recording ended as your future self leaned down to kiss him, the camera tumbling forgotten to the side.

In the study, you became aware of wetness on your cheeks. You were crying, you realized with distant surprise. Beside you, Riki's breathing had gone shallow, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the desk.

Neither of you spoke, the weight of what you'd witnessed pressing the air from the room.

Without discussion, you reached for one more orb—this one labeled "Baby Talks with Papa, Night 213."

The projection revealed a darkened bedroom—your bedroom in this house. Your future self lay on your side in bed, clearly pregnant, with Suki fast asleep beside you. Riki knelt on the floor, his face level with your rounded belly, his mouth close enough that his lips occasionally brushed the thin fabric of your nightgown.

"—and that's why Mama's wrong about the Holyhead Harpies' chances this season," he was saying softly. "But don't tell her I said that. She's very sensitive about quidditch, especially now that she can't play."

Your sleeping form shifted slightly, and Riki froze, waiting until you settled before continuing his one-sided conversation.

"Anyway, little one," he murmured, one hand spread reverently across your stomach, "your big sister finally learned to say 'dada' properly today, which is excellent timing since I was starting to worry she'd call me 'baba' forever."

He paused, smiling as something—presumably the baby—moved beneath his palm.

"That's right, kick for your dada." His voice dropped even lower. "You know, when your mama told me she was pregnant with you, I cried like a baby myself. Don't tell anyone that part. Aurors have a reputation to maintain."

The tenderness in his expression was almost painful to witness.

"I hope you have her eyes," he whispered. "And her courage. And her laugh that makes everything better even on the worst days." His thumb traced small circles on your belly. "I hope you don't have my impatience or my tendency to act before thinking. But maybe a little of my charm wouldn't hurt."

A barely audible chuckle escaped you. "Are you corrupting our unborn child again?" your drowsy voice asked, one hand reaching down to touch his hair.

"Never," he protested with mock innocence. "Just telling her about quidditch."

"Him," you corrected sleepily. "It's definitely a boy."

"We'll see," he replied, pressing a kiss to your stomach before rising to slide into bed beside you. The camera, apparently charmed to follow him, captured how he gathered both you and sleeping Suki into his arms, creating a protective circle. "Either way, they're going to be as perfect as their mother."

"And as humble as their father," you murmured, already drifting back to sleep.

The recording faded to darkness, leaving the study in crushing silence.

You realized you were still crying, tears flowing unchecked down your face. You couldn't look at Riki—couldn't bear to see if he was affected as deeply as you were by these glimpses into a life that felt both impossible and inescapably real.

When his hand found yours, you nearly jumped. His fingers twined with yours, grip almost painfully tight, as if he needed an anchor in the emotional storm these recordings had unleashed.

"I wouldn't have thought..." he began, his voice hoarse. "I never imagined I could be that person."

Summoning your courage, you turned to face him. The raw vulnerability in his expression broke something loose inside you—some final defense against the truth that had been building since you first woke in this timeline.

"I never imagined you could be either," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "But you are. With the girls. Every day, I see glimpses of him—that man in the recordings."

His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "And I see her in you. The way you know exactly what Suki needs before she asks. How you sing Sara back to sleep after nightmares."

"This isn't real," you said, but the protest sounded hollow even to your own ears. "We're just... playing parts."

"Are we?" His dark eyes searched yours, more serious than you'd ever seen him. "Because it doesn't feel like playing anymore."

You couldn't answer—couldn't find words for the confusion swirling inside you. This was Nishimura Riki, your nemesis, the bane of your Hogwarts existence. Except... he wasn't. Not entirely. Not anymore.

"I don't know what's happening to us," you finally managed. "I don't know who we're becoming."

"I think," he said slowly, "we might be becoming the people in those recordings. The people we're apparently meant to be."

The thought should have terrified you. A week ago, it would have. Now, it filled you with a complicated mix of fear and something dangerously close to hope.

"What if we get sent back?" you asked, giving voice to the question that had been haunting you. "What happens to... this? To them?" You gestured toward the orbs, the tangible evidence of a future built on love rather than animosity.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm starting to think McGonagall might have been right."

"About what?"

"About this being an educational opportunity." His smile was rueful. "I'm definitely learning things about myself I never knew."

You found yourself returning his smile, fragile though it was. "Like the fact that you apparently cry at pregnancy announcements?"

"Like the fact that I can make pancakes with faces and that I apparently give excellent pep talks to unborn children," he corrected, a hint of his usual humor returning. "The crying is clearly fake news."

The tension broke, a small laugh escaping you. Riki's expression softened, his hand still holding yours.

"I don't know what happens next," he said quietly. "McGonagall said we only have fourteen more days before we get sent back. Two weeks to reconcile the person I was with the person I apparently become." His eyes met yours, something vulnerable and urgent in his gaze. "But I do know one thing."

"What's that?"

His eyes met yours, steady and certain. "I don't hate this life. I don't hate it at all."

The simple admission hung between you, weighted with implications neither of you was quite ready to explore fully.

"Neither do I," you confessed, the words both frightening and freeing. "And that scares me more than anything."

From upstairs came the sound of Suki's voice, calling for her father to come see the tower she'd built. The moment broke, reality reasserting itself.

Riki released your hand reluctantly. "Duty calls," he said, rising from his chair. At the doorway, he paused, looking back at you. "For what it's worth... I think we could do worse than becoming those people."

He left you sitting among the scattered orbs, each one a window into a future that felt less impossible with every passing day. The wedding night promise echoed in your mind: I'd fight a hundred time-turner accidents to end up right here with you.

Maybe, you thought as you carefully returned the recordings to their cabinet, that wasn't such an outlandish sentiment after all.

-

That night, after the emotional revelation of the memory orbs, neither of you mentioned the pillow barrier that had separated your sides of the bed for the past three weeks. When you emerged from the bathroom in your pajamas, Riki was already in bed, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling.

"Are the girls asleep?" you asked, hovering uncertainly at the edge of the mattress.

He nodded. "Suki made me read 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune' twice. Said Grandma Molly does all the proper voices."

You smiled despite yourself. "And do you?"

"I try," he admitted with a self-deprecating shrug. "My Amata is apparently 'too growly.'"

The shared moment of normalcy eased some of the tension between you. You slipped under the covers, careful to maintain a respectful distance, and turned off the bedside lamp with a wave of your wand.

For several minutes, you both lay in silence, the events of the day—the memories you'd witnessed, the glimpses of a shared future—swirling through your mind. You were acutely aware of Riki's presence beside you, his breathing, the faint scent of his soap.

"Do you think they're happy?" you asked suddenly, your voice sounding loud in the darkness. "Our future selves, I mean."

Riki was quiet for a moment. "They look happy," he finally said. "In those memories... they seem genuinely happy."

"It's strange," you murmured. "A month ago, I would have said there was no possible future where you and I could..."

"Be anything but enemies?" he finished when you trailed off.

"Yes."

"And now?"

You turned onto your side, facing him though you could barely make out his profile in the dim light filtering through the curtains. "Now I'm not so sure."

He turned to face you, and you could feel his gaze even if you couldn't clearly see his expression. "Me neither."

Neither of you spoke again, but the silence had changed quality—no longer awkward, but contemplative, almost comfortable. You weren't sure who moved first, or if perhaps you both did, but somehow the space between you shrank until your head was resting against his shoulder, his arm curled around you.

"Is this okay?" he whispered, his breath warm against your hair.

"Yes," you replied, relaxing into his embrace. It should have felt strange, being held by Riki, but instead it felt... safe. Right. As if your body remembered this comfort even if your mind didn't.

You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other's warmth, the barriers between past and present, enmity and affection, blurring with each shared breath.

The sound of crying woke you sometime in the deepest part of the night. Sara's distressed wails coming through the baby monitor. Before you could fully register what was happening, Riki was already sitting up.

"I've got her," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep. "Go back to sleep."

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he padded from the room, the gentle concern in his movements so different from the arrogant boy you'd known at Hogwarts. Your body felt cold where his warmth had been, and you found yourself missing his presence with unexpected intensity.

Unable to fall back asleep immediately, you listened to the monitor as Riki entered the nursery.

"Hey, little star," his voice came softly through the speaker. "Bad dream?"

Sara's cries subsided to hiccupping sobs.

"Shh, it's okay. Daddy's here." The creaking of the rocking chair told you he'd settled in with her. "Let's not wake up the whole house, hmm? Your mama needs her sleep. She works so hard, you know."

The tenderness in his voice made your throat tighten. This wasn't for show—he didn't know you were listening. This was just Riki, caring for his daughter, speaking about you with genuine affection.

"Should we sing our special song?" he continued. "The one that always makes you sleepy?"

And then, to your astonishment, Riki began to sing—a gentle lullaby in Japanese, his voice low and surprisingly melodic. You'd never heard him sing before, never imagined he could sound so... vulnerable.

When the song ended, Sara had quieted completely.

"That's my girl," Riki murmured. "You know, you have your mother's smile. All sunshine, even at midnight."

He fell silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice had changed—softer, more introspective, as if he were confessing something even to himself.

"I never thought I could feel this way about anyone," he said quietly. "Your mama... she was always special, even when we were kids. I used to drive her crazy just to see the fire in her eyes when she'd yell at me. Stupid, right? But I didn't know how else to get her attention."

Sara made a small cooing sound, as if encouraging him to continue.

"And now... now I see how amazing she is. How strong and brilliant and kind. The way she takes care of you and Suki, the way she teaches her students..." He sighed. "I'm not sure I deserve any of this, little star. But I think... I think I want to try to be worthy of it."

Your heart raced as you absorbed his words. This wasn't the Riki who'd turned your hair pink during exams or charmed your quills to write love poems about himself. This was a man—one who'd grown from that boy, who'd learned to love and care and put others before himself.

"Time to sleep now," he whispered to Sara. "Dreams of chocolate frogs and flying carpets for you."

You quickly sat up as you heard his footsteps approaching the bedroom. Some tide had turned inside you, some barrier broken by his unguarded words. You'd spent years pushing him away, and now all you wanted was to draw him closer.

When he entered the room, his silhouette outlined in the dim hallway light, you didn't hesitate. You crossed the bed in two movements and met him at the doorway, your hands finding his face in the darkness.

"You're awake—" he began, but you silenced him by pressing your lips to his.

For a heartbeat, he froze in surprise. Then his arms encircled you, pulling you against him as he responded with a fervor that stole your breath. This wasn't like the careful, public kiss at the dinner—this was something raw and honest, years of tension dissolving into something entirely new.

When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, his forehead rested against yours.

"What was that for?" he whispered, his voice unsteady.

"I heard you," you admitted. "With Sara. What you said."

His body tensed slightly. "Ah."

"Did you mean it?" you asked, your hands still framing his face, thumbs tracing the line of his jaw. "About wanting to be worthy of this? Of us?"

In the darkness, you felt rather than saw him nod. "Every word."

"I think..." you began, then gathered your courage. "I think maybe you already are."

For a split second, Riki went utterly still—like the admission physically struck him. Then, his exhale came out ragged. That was the only warning before he closed the distance, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss, all pent-up longing, confusion, and overwhelming hope released at once.

You melted into him, letting go of everything you’d clung to since you woke in this impossible timeline: your rivalry, your assumptions, your fear. Because beneath your fingertips, you felt Riki tremble. He was as affected by this as you were.

His mouth slid over yours, hot and searching, stealing your breath. His hands dropped from your waist to your hips, fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you flush against him. The moment your body pressed to his, he made a low, desperate sound at the back of his throat—like he’d been starving for this touch.

“God, you drive me insane,” he muttered between kisses, voice muffled by your lips. There was no space left between you—no air, no doubt, just heat and him.

When you whispered his name—Riki—he groaned, deep and guttural, a hand sliding under your shirt, up the curve of your spine. His palm was hot and possessive on your skin. It felt scandalous and necessary all at once.

Your kiss turned filthy, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, a push and pull of half-formed moans. Riki lifted you without warning, guiding your legs around his waist. You could feel how hard he was, the pressure against your core dizzying.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, sucking on your bottom lip until a bolt of sensation sparked through your entire body. Your fingers twisted into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, tugging, and he growled—a low, feral noise that spurred you both into something deeper.

He backed you against the wall, one arm braced beside your head for support while the other stayed locked around your hips. You rolled your hips to meet his, eliciting another ragged groan from him.

“Careful,” he murmured, breaking the kiss for a desperate breath. His forehead rested against yours, eyes heavy-lidded, blown wide with desire. “I don’t have much self-control left.”

You swallowed hard. “Then don’t.”

It was all he needed to hear. Riki claimed your lips again, this time slower, deeper. The slide of his mouth was hot and wet, an intimate dance that sent tingles down your spine. You curled your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, never close enough.

When he finally carried you to the bed, it felt like the world had narrowed to just heartbeats and frantic breathing. He lowered you onto the mattress, crawling over you with that same mixture of filth and reverence, as if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to worship you or ruin you. Possibly both.

You watched, chest heaving, as he peeled off his shirt, exposing the lean lines of his torso. A slight flush stained his cheeks, but his gaze never left yours. You fumbled with your own top, but your fingers trembled too much. Riki’s hands caught yours, guiding them aside, then took over—slowly, carefully lifting the fabric away. His eyes traveled down your newly exposed skin, and he exhaled shakily.

“You’re--” he started, then stopped, swallowing back words he couldn’t say. Instead, he leaned in to kiss a path down your throat, teeth scraping lightly, tongue soothing the small bites he left.

Goosebumps flared over your entire body at the quiet, open-mouthed kisses he pressed to your shoulder, your collarbone, the swell of your chest. The friction was maddening, each press of your bodies a reminder of the tension building below your stomach.

He slid his hand under the waistband of your pants, and your breath hitched. The filthy edge returned, overshadowing any last trace of caution. A ragged moan escaped your throat when his fingers brushed lower, teasing. Even fully clothed, the sensation threatened to snap whatever fragile composure remained.

“Riki,” you whispered, voice choking on raw need. The sound of his name seemed to unravel him.

His eyes lifted to yours, dark with want, but also swirling with something dangerously close to tenderness. You pushed a shaky hand through his hair, pulling him in for another deep, sloppy kiss. Tongue, teeth, shared breath—you both devoured it all.

Suddenly, he groaned, half-cursing. “We shouldn’t—”

“We should,” you interrupted, barely able to think straight. Because if you stopped now, if you allowed sense to creep back in, you might never let yourself have this again.

He pressed his forehead to yours, each pant of air mingling. “You’re… you’re all I can think about.”

A desperate laugh bubbled from your lips. “Same.”

His mouth captured yours once more, thoroughly, like he needed to memorize every corner of you. With a growl, he moved against you, and you felt everything—every ridge, every hard line straining through his pants, pressing right into your hips. An electric jolt shot through you, drawing a high-pitched gasp from the back of your throat.

You felt him smile against your lips, a grin that was half cocky, half wrecked, before he nipped your lower lip again. He guided your hand down, letting you feel just how hard he was—a silent confession of how far gone he’d become. A dizzy wave of heat flooded you in response.

Then, all at once, the kiss slowed, shifting from ravenous to agonizingly tender. His movements became deliberate. His tongue slid over your lips, gentler now, coaxing you to let go of tension you didn’t know you were holding. You shuddered, letting your eyes drift shut, melted by the softness that peeked through the lust.

When he finally pulled away, both of you breathless, he rested his forehead to yours, voice trembling. “You don’t hate me at all, do you?”

A smile trembled on your lips. “Not anymore.”

He made a sound halfway between relief and longing, then carefully laid you back against the pillows. You felt him settle against you, one leg between yours, the rhythmic press of his hips leaving you dizzy and clinging. He kissed you again—soft, consuming—like he planned to stay there forever, tasting your every breath.

Your heart pounded at the realization that you had two weeks left in this timeline. Two weeks before you’d return to being seventeen, to the version of yourself that loathed Nishimura Riki. But in that moment, with his body heavy and warm over yours, with his tongue gently lapping at your bruised lips, none of it mattered.

All that mattered was that, for now, he was yours—and you were his—and the dark weight of your previous hatred had turned into something far more potent: raw, desperate desire, laced with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

So you let him kiss you until you were lightheaded. Let him press you deeper into the mattress, let your bodies align in a flush of friction, let the sweet, filthy moans echo between your parted mouths. Because if time was running out, you’d take every second you could get.

Two weeks left. Two weeks before you returned to the rivalry, the misunderstandings, the wide chasm you once thought separated you. Maybe you’d lose these memories. Maybe he would too. But for now, you poured yourself into him, letting the lines between past and present blur, letting the possibility of something more overshadow every bitter word you’d ever exchanged.

And when you finally made your way back to bed, tangled in each other’s arms, the question of hatred or love no longer loomed so large. In the hush of that moment, with your lips still buzzing from his, the only thing that mattered was him—Nishimura Riki, the man who had once been your enemy, but who now kissed you like you were his only future.

But now you knew what could be. What might be, if you chose a different path.

And for the first time since waking in this strange future, you weren't sure you wanted to go back at all.

-

Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the bed where you lay entwined with Riki. For a moment after waking, you felt only contentment—the warm weight of his arm across your waist, his steady breathing against your neck, the comfortable fit of your bodies together.

Then memory rushed back—the memory orbs, his confession to Sara, the kiss that had changed everything—and your eyes flew open.

Riki was already awake, watching you with an expression you'd never seen before. Gone was the cocky smirk of your school nemesis, replaced by something softer, more vulnerable, yet somehow more intense.

"Good morning," he said quietly, his voice husky from sleep.

"Morning," you replied, suddenly self-conscious. In the light of day, the boldness that had propelled you into his arms last night seemed both distant and startlingly real.

You made to move away, to create some space to collect your thoughts, but his arm tightened around your waist.

"Don't," he murmured. "Please."

You stilled, acutely aware of everywhere your bodies touched—his legs tangled with yours, his chest pressed against your side, his fingers splayed across your hip.

"About last night," you began, not entirely sure what you wanted to say.

"I meant every word," he interrupted, his eyes never leaving yours. "Everything I said to Sara, everything I... showed you afterward." A faint flush colored his cheeks at the memory of your kisses, but his gaze remained steady. "The question is, did you?"

You took a breath, searching for the right words. "I think I've been fighting this—whatever this is between us—since we arrived. Maybe longer."

"Me too," he admitted. "It seemed easier to hold onto who we were than to acknowledge who we might be becoming."

His fingers traced idle patterns on your hip, the casual intimacy of the gesture making your pulse quicken.

"I've been holding back," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "Trying to maintain some distance, some semblance of our old rivalry, because it felt safer than admitting how much I've come to..." He paused, seemingly unwilling to name the emotion. "Care about you. About this life."

You understood completely. You'd been doing the same thing—clinging to old animosities as a shield against these new, terrifying feelings.

"But I don't want to hold back anymore," he said, his expression growing determined. "We have two weeks left in this timeline, and I don't want to waste another day pretending that I'm not falling for you."

Your breath caught at his directness. "Riki—"

"No, let me finish." His hand moved from your hip to cradle your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I know this isn't how either of us expected things to go. I know we're supposed to hate each other. But I can't keep acting like a reluctant houseguest in what's supposed to be our life together."

The intensity in his eyes made your heart race.

"From now on, I'm going to be the husband you deserve—the one you see in those memory orbs. The one who looks at you like you're the most extraordinary thing he's ever seen. Because right now, you are."

You swallowed hard, overwhelmed by his declaration. "What exactly are you saying?"

His smile was slow, confident, yet tinged with a vulnerability that made it utterly disarming. "I'm saying that with your permission, I'm done holding back. I'm going to court you properly, the way a man should court his wife—with everything I have."

The old Riki—the boy you'd known at Hogwarts—had never looked at you this way, had never spoken with such sincerity. This was the man from the memory orbs, the one who promised forever on your wedding night, the one who spoke to his unborn child with such tenderness.

"Are you sure?" you asked, needing to know this wasn't just the influence of your surroundings, of playing house in borrowed lives.

"I've never been more sure of anything," he said. "The only question is... will you let me?"

The vulnerability beneath his confident words touched something deep inside you. This wasn't just about physical attraction or the strange circumstances that had thrown you together. This was Riki—proud, stubborn, brilliant Riki—offering his heart with no guarantee you wouldn't break it.

"Yes," you whispered, the word feeling like a leap from a great height. "Yes."

The smile that illuminated his face was like sunshine breaking through clouds—radiant and transformative. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

"You won't regret it," he promised. "I'm going to make these next two weeks so incredible that when we go back, you won't be able to look at me without remembering."

Before you could respond, the patter of small feet in the hallway announced Suki's approach. With a rueful smile, Riki pressed a quick kiss to your lips before rolling away just as the bedroom door flew open.

"Mama! Daddy! It's pancake day!" Suki announced, launching herself onto the bed. "You promised!"

"Did I?" Riki asked, catching her mid-bounce and tickling her until she shrieked with laughter.

"Yes!" she insisted between giggles. "With chocolate chips and strawberries!"

"Well, if I promised, then I better deliver," he said, setting her down and ruffling her hair. "Why don't you go pick out your clothes while Mama and I get ready?"

"Okay!" She darted from the room as quickly as she'd arrived, leaving a whirlwind of energy in her wake.

Riki turned back to you, his expression soft. "This is what I want," he said quietly. "Not just now, in this borrowed time, but someday. For real. With you."

The simple sincerity of his words stole your breath. This wasn't a declaration of undying love—it was something more grounded, more honest. A recognition of possibility, of potential.

"We should probably get up," you said, not quite ready to examine the way his words made your heart swell. "Before Hurricane Suki returns."

He nodded, but before you could move, he caught your hand. "Just one more thing."

"What's that?"

His eyes crinkled at the corners, a hint of his old mischief returning. "I hope you realize that as your properly devoted husband, I now have full license to be utterly, embarrassingly romantic at every opportunity."

You groaned, but couldn't suppress your smile. "I'm already regretting this arrangement."

"No, you're not," he said confidently, pressing a kiss to your knuckles before releasing your hand. "But you might when I start serenading you at breakfast."

"You wouldn't dare."

His answering grin was pure Nishimura—challenge accepted.

As you headed to the bathroom, you couldn't help but marvel at the strange path that had led you here—from bitter rivals to reluctant co-parents to... whatever you were becoming now. Something new, something unexpected, but something that felt increasingly right.

Two weeks left in this timeline. Two weeks to explore what might have been—what might still be, if you were brave enough to reach for it when you returned.

For now, though, there were pancakes to make, children to wrangle, and a husband who had apparently decided that making you blush was his new favorite pastime.

And for the first time since arriving in this future, you found yourself looking forward to whatever came next.

-

The days after your mutual decision to embrace this borrowed life took on a bittersweet urgency. Each morning, the calendar on the kitchen wall served as a silent reminder—crossing off another day meant one fewer remaining before your inevitable return.

At first, Riki stayed true to his word about courting you properly—leaving wildflowers on your pillow, preparing your favorite meals, stealing sweet kisses when the children weren't looking. It was charming, thoughtful, and absolutely maddening in its restraint.

By the fifth day, your patience had worn dangerously thin.

You found yourself hyperaware of his presence—the way his shoulder brushed yours when you passed in the hallway, how his fingers lingered when handing you a cup of tea, the sound of his voice reading bedtime stories to the girls. Each small interaction sparked something within you, a slow-burning heat that grew more difficult to ignore.

At night, you'd fall asleep in his arms, your bodies pressed together in increasingly intimate arrangements, only to wake tangled even more closely. Yet he maintained a gentlemanly distance that made you want to scream.

On the sixth day, you both clung to Sara a few seconds longer during morning goodbyes. On the seventh, Riki spent an hour teaching Suki a charm to make paper butterflies, carefully recording her delighted laughter with a memory orb. Neither of you acknowledged the reason for this sudden preservation of moments—the looming reality that soon these children wouldn't be yours anymore.

At Hogwarts, you found yourself distracted during lessons, your mind drifting to Riki—wondering what he was doing, if he was thinking of you, how his hands would feel on your skin if he ever abandoned his infuriating self-control.

The breaking point came on the eighth day.

You'd returned from work to find Riki in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as he prepared dinner, humming a tune you recognized from one of the memory orbs. The simple domesticity of the scene—this man who had once been your greatest rival now cooking in your shared home—hit you with unexpected force.

"Where are the girls?" you asked, setting down your teaching bag.

"With your parents for the evening," he replied, turning to offer you a warm smile. "I thought we could use a night to ourselves. Maybe stargaze in the garden after dinner? The Cassiopeia constellation is particularly clear this time of year."

Stargazing. Another sweet, thoughtful, perfectly restrained activity.

Something inside you snapped.

"No," you said firmly, approaching him with determined steps.

His smile faltered. "No? I thought you liked astronomy—"

"I don't want to stargaze, Riki." You reached him and took the wooden spoon from his hand, setting it aside. "I don't want to be courted anymore."

Hurt flashed across his face. "I don't understand. I thought—"

"We have six days left," you interrupted, your voice steady despite your racing heart. "Six days before we go back to being seventeen and all of this disappears. I don't want to spend them pretending we have all the time in the world."

Understanding began to dawn in his eyes, but you needed to be absolutely clear.

"You keep treating me like we're starting from the beginning, but we're not. We're already married. We already have children. We already love each other in this timeline." You stepped closer, eliminating the space between you. "I don't need courtship. I need you to be present with me—right here, right now—while we still can be."

His breath caught audibly. "What exactly are you saying?"

"I'm saying fuck the courting," you replied bluntly, satisfaction coursing through you at his shocked expression. "Everything you do—every look, every touch, every sound you make—lights a fire in me, and I'm tired of pretending otherwise."

For a heartbeat, he remained perfectly still, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your skin tingle. Then, with a muttered curse, he closed the distance between you, one hand tangling in your hair while the other pulled you flush against him.

The kiss was nothing like the careful ones you'd shared before—this was raw, desperate, years of tension finally finding release. You responded with equal fervor, your fingers digging into his shoulders as if afraid he might pull away.

He backed you against the kitchen counter, his body pressed against yours in a way that left no doubt about how much he wanted this too. When you finally broke apart for air, his eyes were dark with desire, his breathing ragged.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice rough. "Because if you are, I won't be able to go back to just holding your hand."

In answer, you reached for your wand and cast a quick charm toward the stove, extinguishing the flames beneath the pots.

"Dinner can wait," you said, taking his hand and leading him toward the stairs. "We can't."

Your heart was still hammering from the last kiss, your mind spinning with the realization that you didn’t truly hate him—Nishimura Riki, your longtime rival, the one person you were supposed to despise. But after waking in this future and discovering your lives entwined? All that bitterness had morphed into a pulse-pounding tension you could no longer deny.

Riki’s sharp intake of breath was the only warning before he crashed his mouth into yours, claiming your lips with a force that stole every coherent thought from your head. He gripped the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you closer until your chests were flush. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, sucking it between his own, making you gasp into his mouth. You tasted something raw and electric on his tongue—years of pent-up rivalry fueling a desperate kind of need.

When you finally broke apart, panting, he pinned you with a dark, unwavering stare. His cheeks were flushed, eyes dilated with hunger you never imagined seeing from him.

“If we do this—” he started, words low and ragged, “there’s no coming back. I can’t go back to just ignoring you, or acting like we’re not…”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “I don’t want to ignore it anymore,” you whispered, the confession surprising even you.

He let out a sound—somewhere between a curse and a prayer—and grabbed your wrist, leading you to the bed. Each step felt like a collision of hearts, the air heavy with unspoken promises. The second your back hit the mattress, he hovered over you, breath coming in harsh pants. His body pressed you down, hips snug between your thighs, letting you feel just how achingly hard he was through his clothes.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his mouth along the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that had you shivering. “You feel so good… can’t believe we waited this long.”

You barely got a chance to respond before he slid down your body, fingers deftly working to peel away the barriers between you. Clothes were tugged off with clumsy urgency—your shirt up over your head, his hoodie tossed aside. His mouth followed a path down your torso, teeth scraping lightly, tongue soothing the marks he left behind.

By the time he settled between your legs, you were trembling with anticipation, your head spinning from the low, filthy groan he let out at the sight of you. He pushed your knees apart, lips skimming the inside of your thigh, sending jolts of pleasure right through your core.

“Riki…” you moaned, voice cracking.

His name seemed to snap something in him. With a growl that bordered on feral, he lowered his head, pressing his mouth to your center with no hesitation. The first stroke of his tongue was slow but deliberate, an experimental lap that had your toes curling. He moaned softly against you, the vibration making you gasp, and you dug your heels into the bed, hips bucking upward in a silent plea for more.

He gave you more.

Open-mouthed kisses replaced gentler licks, each one wetter, louder, dangerously addictive. Your breath caught when he focused on just the right spot, swirling his tongue, then flattening it in a heavy, dragging motion that left you whimpering his name. His hands crept up your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles into your skin as if to anchor you—as if to keep you from floating away under the intensity of his mouth.

“You taste… so fucking good,” he murmured, half to himself. Heat coiled low in your belly at the filthy timbre of his voice.

He licked, sucked, nipped lightly—alternating between decadent slowness and feral bursts of pressure—making your mind go blank. Every moan or sob of pleasure you gave him, he seemed to swallow greedily, redoubling his efforts. Your fingers knotted in his hair, nails scraping his scalp, urging him closer.

When you rolled your hips against his face, desperate for friction, he groaned, a shamelessly erotic sound that sent sparks through your entire body. He pressed his hand against your stomach, keeping you pinned as he focused his tongue with maddening precision. Your vision blurred; your only tether to reality was the slick, relentless glide of his mouth and the thunder of your heart.

“Oh God,” you gasped, head thrashing on the pillow. “Riki—”

He hummed in response—a rumble that made your thighs shake. The sensation built, rising to a point you were sure you couldn’t handle. Your breath hitched, eyes squeezing shut. You were so close, the tension in your muscles near bursting.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, momentarily pulling back to suck a bruising kiss along your inner thigh, before returning to lave his tongue exactly where you needed.

That was all it took.

The coil snapped. Your body arched off the bed, a ragged cry tearing from your lips as the orgasm crashed over you—long, pulsating waves of ecstasy that left you gasping for air. Riki held you through it, unrelenting until the last aftershocks made you shiver, your mind wholly surrendered to sensation.

By the time the world drifted back into focus, you realized he had kissed his way up your trembling body, peppering lazy kisses on your skin. His face hovered over yours, eyes half-lidded, mouth glistening with proof of what he’d done. A flush colored his cheeks, and his breathing was ragged, as though he’d been lost in it as deeply as you were.

“Fuck,” he muttered, leaning down to brush his lips over yours in a sloppy, hungry kiss. You tasted yourself on his tongue, a heady reminder of how intimate you’d just been. You let out a weak moan, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him close.

Your heart pounded, and for a moment, you just breathed each other in—sweat, sweetness, the faint tang of desperation still clinging to every shared breath.

“You okay?” he murmured, running a hand gently down your side. There was a tenderness in his tone that caught you off guard, considering how filthy the moment had been just seconds ago.

“More than okay,” you managed, voice cracked with leftover tremors. You shifted, still dizzy with pleasure, arms and legs like jelly.

A soft, relieved laugh escaped him. He nuzzled your cheek, pressing another lingering kiss to your jaw. “I’m not done with you yet,” he teased, though his voice held a trace of nervous sincerity.

You swallowed, letting your fingers tangle in his hair. “Then don’t be,” you replied softly.

And just like that, the tension began to build again, a quiet, throbbing promise of more. Because if there was one thing this impossible future had shown you, it was that Nishimura Riki was no longer just your rival—he was the man who could unravel you with a single stroke of his tongue, and you never wanted him to stop.

-

Later that night, lying tangled together in the sheets of your shared bed, you traced idle patterns on his chest while he played with your hair. The desperate urgency had given way to a peaceful contentment that felt all the more precious for its transience.

"I've been an idiot, haven't I?" Riki murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "Wasting time with flowers and stargazing when we could have been doing that."

You laughed softly. "To be fair, the flowers were lovely."

"Not as lovely as you," he replied, his expression growing more serious. "I just... I didn't want to push. Didn't want you to think I was only interested in the physical aspect of... us."

"I know," you assured him, propping yourself up on one elbow to meet his gaze. "But we don't have the luxury of a normal courtship timeline. We're doing everything backwards and on an accelerated schedule."

He nodded, his fingers continuing their gentle exploration of your hair. "Speaking of backwards—is it strange that I feel like I'm falling in love with my own wife? Like I'm both meeting you for the first time and rediscovering someone I've known forever?"

The casual mention of love should have frightened you. Instead, it felt right—inevitable, even.

"Not strange at all," you said softly. "I feel the same way."

For a moment, you both lay in comfortable silence, absorbing the weight of the admission.

"What happens when we go back?" he finally asked, voicing the question that had been hovering between you for days.

You sighed, settling your head against his shoulder. "I don't know. Will we even remember this? Or will it feel like a dream we can't quite recall?"

"I'll remember," he said with fierce certainty. "I refuse not to. Even if I have to brew a memory potion or create my own pensieve."

"And then what? We go from this—" you gestured between your entwined bodies, "—to being seventh-year students again? From parents to teenagers?"

"We find each other again," he said simply. "Maybe not right away. Maybe we need time to grow into the people who can truly appreciate each other. But we find our way back."

The conviction in his voice made your throat tighten with emotion. "How can you be so sure?"

His answer was immediate and unwavering. "Because now I know what's possible. And I'm not willing to live in a timeline where we don't end up together."

-

The remaining days passed in a blur of intense emotions. By unspoken agreement, you both devoted your days to Suki and Sara—memorizing their laughs, recording their milestones, storing away every precious moment with the girls who had somehow become your children in every way that mattered.

But the nights—the nights were for each other.

On those nights, once Suki and Sara were sound asleep, you and Riki would quietly slip away to your bedroom, hearts pounding with an almost desperate urgency. Each evening blurred into the next, infused with a need to capture every last second of this borrowed future.

It began the moment you closed the bedroom door. He crowded you against it, mouth searching for yours, a low, heated groan rising from his chest. You gasped at the contact—your bodies pressed tight, as if you had to make up for all the time lost in the past.

Clothes were peeled away in hurried, clumsy motions. The bed beckoned, but neither of you reached it immediately; you made it halfway across the room before Riki’s hands gripped your hips and he lowered you to the soft rug, the raw ache of your kiss fueling every frantic thrust. It was urgent and wild, a crash of breathless moans echoing in the dim light.

After you unraveled beneath him, panting, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, eyes reflecting a jumble of relief and longing.

The second night, you found each other in the very early hours, awoken by Sara’s soft cries—but once she was fed and settled, you and Riki lingered in the bed, half-lidded with sleep.

He coaxed you onto his lap slowly, fingertips tracing lazy patterns along your spine. The way he kissed you—soft, indulgent—made your entire body tingle. This time, the pace was slower, sweeter, each roll of your hips drawn out, every shared breath reverent. When you let go, he followed seconds later, whispering your name like a vow.

A random pillow fight after Suki fell asleep turned into a tangle of sheets on the living room floor, laughter morphing into sharp gasps when you straddled his lap, feeling him already half-hard against you.

He murmured something about you being the most infuriating person he’d ever loved, and you answered by kissing him with a grin. Before long, your back hit the cushions, his lips traveling down your neck, your chest, leaving you breathless. You tried to keep quiet—worried about waking the girls—but the desperate friction of your bodies made you moan louder than intended. Riki chuckled, pressing a finger to your mouth, but his own voice shook with suppressed groans.

The release was quick and intense, your nails leaving faint crescents in his shoulders, both of you dizzy from the risk and thrill.

The next day, once Sara and Suki were tucked in, you coaxed Riki into a late-night shower, the water cascading over your entwined bodies. The steamy, cramped space made every movement more intimate.

He pressed you to the tile, nipping along your jaw, water drenching your hair as he lifted your leg around his waist. Each slick slide of his hips was both filthy and tender, the warm rush of water muffling your shared gasps.

You bit your lip, fighting to stay balanced, but Riki pinned you gently, murmuring soft curses at how good you felt. By the time you both tumbled out, the bathroom mirror fogged beyond recognition, your limbs trembled with a mix of exhaustion and satisfaction.

On the final night, you could almost feel the looming separation weighing on you both. That awareness fed a fierce, almost frantic edge to your lovemaking—hands clutching, mouths hungry, as if you wanted to burn the memory of each other into your very souls.

Riki rolled you onto your stomach, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your spine, his breath hot against damp skin. You whimpered his name, already aching for the inevitable end that lurked in tomorrow’s sunrise.

When he finally slid inside you, the cry you let out felt like a broken confession, the tears threatening at the corners of your eyes. Every thrust reverberated with the ache of goodbye. When you came apart, you clung to him like a lifeline, and he followed with a ragged moan, arms wrapping around you, holding tight as though he could shield you both from time itself.

Every touch, every whispered confession, every moment of connection was infused with an almost desperate intensity, as if you could somehow store enough memories to sustain you through the separation that loomed ahead.

On your final night, you lay awake long after Riki had fallen asleep, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. In just a few hours, you would return to your original timeline—to being seventeen and full of misunderstandings and rivalry, with the entire story of your lives together yet to be written.

Would you remember this? The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at you across the breakfast table? How his hands felt, strong and sure, when he pulled you against him? The sound of his voice singing lullabies to Sara or patiently answering Suki’s endless questions?

You traced the lines of his face with gentle fingers, committing each detail to memory. Whatever happened tomorrow, you wouldn’t regret a single moment of the time you’d spent in this borrowed future—this glimpse of what could be, if you were brave enough to reach for it.

As dawn approached, you finally closed your eyes, your body curved protectively around his, as if you could somehow shield him—shield both of you—from the inevitable separation that morning would bring.

Six days had become five, then four, then three, until finally you’d arrived at the last day of your borrowed time together. Tomorrow you would return to being students, to being rivals, to being separate.

But tonight—tonight you were still husband and wife, still partners, still two people who had found each other across time and circumstance.

And that, you decided as sleep finally claimed you, was something worth fighting to remember.

-

Your heart pounded as reality settled over you. You were back at Hogwarts—in the Room of Requirement, specifically, which had transformed itself into a bedroom much smaller than the one you'd shared for the past month. Morning sunlight streamed through unfamiliar windows, illuminating your school uniforms draped over nearby chairs.

School uniforms. Not adult robes. Not your teaching clothes or his Auror gear.

"We're back," you whispered, the words barely audible.

"The girls," Riki said, his voice cracking. "Suki. Sara."

The names hung in the air between you, impossible weights on your hearts. You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold despite the warm room. "They're not... they don't..."

"They don't exist yet," he finished, his face ashen. He looked younger, you realized with a jolt. The subtle maturity that had marked his adult face was gone, replaced by the smoother features of a seventeen-year-old. Still handsome, but less... weathered.

You touched your own face, feeling the slight differences. No fine lines around your eyes. Fuller cheeks. You looked down at your hands—no faint scar from where you'd burned yourself making potions with Suki. No wedding ring.

"It's like it never happened," you said hollowly.

Riki stood abruptly, pacing the small room. "No. It happened. It was real. I remember everything." He turned to you, eyes wild. "You remember too, right? Please tell me you remember."

"I remember," you assured him, your voice steadier than you felt. "Every moment."

The relief on his face was palpable. "McGonagall said we would. She said the displacement would resolve itself naturally, but our memories would remain intact."

"McGonagall," you repeated. "We should talk to her. She'll know—"

The door burst open before you could finish. Professor McGonagall herself stood in the entrance, her stern expression softening slightly at the sight of you both.

"Ah, good. You're awake," she said crisply. "I see the temporal spell has resolved itself as expected."

"Professor," you began, a thousand questions crowding your mind. "The future we saw—"

"Is one possibility, Miss [Last Name]," she interrupted gently. "One of many possible futures that may come to pass."

"But it felt so real," Riki said, his fists clenching at his sides. "Those people—our children—"

"They may still come to be, Mr. Nishimura," McGonagall said. "Or they may not. Time is not fixed. The future you glimpsed was formed by choices neither of you has made yet." Her gaze sharpened. "The question is whether your experience has taught you anything about the consequences of your actions."

You exchanged a glance with Riki, a silent understanding passing between you that would have been impossible a month ago.

"I believe it has, Professor," you said quietly.

"Good." She nodded briskly. "Then perhaps this entire ordeal was not without value." She checked her watch. "You've missed breakfast, but there's still time to change for your first classes. I suggest you both make haste."

With that, she turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "Oh, and ten points from both your houses for the reckless spellcasting that caused this mess. Try to remember that magic is not a toy, even when provoked by..." she glanced between you, "...strong emotions."

The door closed behind her, leaving you alone with Riki once more.

An awkward silence descended. He looked so different in his rumpled school uniform, his prefect badge slightly askew. Yet his eyes were the same—the eyes that had gazed at you with tenderness as you fell asleep in his arms just last night.

Except it wasn't last night. That version of him—that version of you—was more than a decade away.

"So," he finally said, his voice carefully neutral. "What happens now?"

It was the question neither of you had fully answered even during your last night together. What would you do when you returned? How could you possibly navigate the strangeness of being seventeen again, with all the memories of an adult life together?

"I don't know," you admitted. "Everything's different. But also the same."

He took a half-step toward you, then stopped himself. "Is it... are we...?" He couldn't seem to complete the thought.

You understood his hesitation. In the future, you had been equals—partners in every sense. Here, now, you were just teenagers again. The depth of feeling, the intimacy you'd shared, felt both precious and impossible in your current bodies.

"I think," you said slowly, choosing your words with care, "that we can't just pick up where we left off. We're not those people yet."

Pain flashed across his face, but he nodded. "You're right. We're not."

"But," you continued, needing him to understand, "I don't want to go back to hating you either."

Hope bloomed in his eyes. "I never really hated you," he confessed. "Even before all this."

"I know." You managed a small smile. "You were just trying to get my attention."

He laughed, a sound that made your heart ache with its familiarity. "It worked, didn't it?"

"A bit too well." You gestured around the room. "Got us thrown ten years into the future."

"Best mistake I ever made," he said softly.

The sincerity in his voice made your breath catch. This was still Riki—your Riki—just younger, less certain, with all the growing up yet to do.

"We should get to class," you said, not because you wanted to leave, but because staying felt dangerous—like you might forget all the reasons why jumping back into your relationship was a bad idea.

He nodded, reaching for his school robes. "Right. Wouldn't want to lose more house points."

You gathered your own robes, hyperaware of him just a few feet away. "Riki?"

He looked up, a flash of vulnerability crossing his features. "Yes?"

"Maybe we could..." you hesitated, then pushed forward. "Maybe we could talk later? After classes?"

The smile that lit his face was so reminiscent of his older self that your chest ached. "I'd like that."

As you both prepared to face the day—the first day of your new, old lives—you couldn't help feeling that this wasn't an ending at all. It was a beginning. A chance to build the future you'd glimpsed, but this time with your eyes wide open.

Suki and Sara might not exist yet. The house with the magical extensions, the teaching career, the shared breakfasts and bedtime stories—all of it lay in a potential future, one you might or might not reach.

But as you caught Riki's eye one more time before leaving the Room of Requirement, you felt something settle in your heart. A certainty that hadn't been there before your temporal displacement.

Some paths were meant to be walked together, even if the journey began again.

-

The day passed in a blur of familiar yet suddenly strange routines. Sitting in classes you'd once taught, surrounded by peers who had no idea the person beside them was mentally a decade older—it was disorienting to say the least.

You caught glimpses of Riki throughout the day—across the Great Hall during lunch, passing in the corridor between Charms and Transfiguration, in the library during your free period. Each time, your eyes would meet briefly, a world of understanding passing between you before someone would interrupt or you'd have to move on.

News of your overnight disappearance and return had spread, of course, but the details remained vague. Most assumed it was just another chapter in your long-standing rivalry—a prank gone wrong, perhaps, or a duel that had sent you both to the hospital wing. No one could have guessed that you'd spent the missing hours living an entire month in your future.

By the time classes ended, anxiety had settled in your stomach like a lead weight. You'd told Riki you'd meet him by the lake, away from the curious eyes and gossip of your housemates. As you walked down the sloping lawn toward the water's edge, you spotted him already waiting, skipping stones across the still surface.

He looked impossibly young in his school robes, his tie loosened and hair slightly tousled by the breeze. Yet when he turned at the sound of your approach, the look in his eyes was anything but childish. It was Riki—your Riki—the one who had held you through the night and promised to find you across time.

"Hi," you said, stopping a few feet away, suddenly shy.

"Hi," he replied, letting the stone in his hand drop back to the ground. "You came."

"I said I would."

An awkward silence fell, the weight of everything you'd experienced together—everything you'd lost—hovering between you. The easy intimacy you'd developed over the past month seemed both immediate and impossibly distant.

"This is weird," he finally said, running a hand through his hair.

You laughed, the tension breaking slightly. "So weird. I keep wanting to check on the girls, and then remembering..."

"That they don't exist," he finished, pain flashing across his features. "Yet."

That single word—yet—contained so much hope, so much uncertainty.

"I went to Defense Against the Dark Arts and kept wanting to correct Professor Mays," you admitted. "I almost offered to demonstrate the Shield Charm variation I'd been teaching my fifth years."

"I sat in Potions thinking about a case I worked on last week—will work on in a decade, I guess." He shook his head. "Time travel pronouns are still confusing."

Another silence, less awkward but weighted with things unsaid.

"So," you ventured, "what happens now?"

Riki took a deep breath, as if gathering his courage. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether it was all just the circumstances," he said, his voice low and intense. "Whether what happened between us was just because we were thrust into those roles, or if it was something real. Something that could exist here, now."

Your heart began to race. "What do you think?"

He stepped closer, his eyes never leaving yours. "I think I've been falling for you since fifth year, but I was too stubborn and immature to admit it. I think aggravating you was the only way I knew to get your attention. And I think seeing who we could become together—who we are together—just brought to the surface feelings that were already there."

His raw honesty stole your breath.

"What about you?" he asked, vulnerability evident in every line of his body. "Was it real for you?"

You thought about the last month—the confusion, the gradual understanding, the growing affection that had blossomed into something deeper. Had it all been circumstantial? Just two people playing the roles they were thrust into?

"At first, I thought it was just the situation," you admitted. "That we were just adapting to the reality we found ourselves in."

His face fell slightly, but he nodded, accepting your words.

"But then," you continued, needing him to understand, "somewhere along the way, it changed. It became about you—not future you, not my supposed husband—just you, Riki. The way you were with the girls. The way you looked at me. The person I saw beneath all the bravado and pranks."

Hope bloomed in his eyes, cautious but undeniable.

"I want to be your boyfriend," he blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in his haste. "Not in ten years. Now. Here." He stepped forward and took your hands in his, his grip almost painfully tight. "I don't want to be anyone else's, and I don't want you to be anyone else's either."

The intensity in his gaze nearly buckled your knees. This was Riki stripped of all pretense—raw, vulnerable, offering his heart with no guarantee you wouldn't break it.

"Kiss me," he whispered, his voice dropping to a plea. "Kiss me, kiss me, please. I've been thinking about it all day—wondering if it would feel the same, if you'd taste the same—"

You silenced him the only way you could, closing the distance between you and pressing your lips to his. The kiss was different from those you'd shared in the future—more hesitant, less practiced—but the spark was the same, the connection immediate and electric.

His hands released yours to cradle your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you with increasing certainty. You curled your fingers into the front of his robes, anchoring yourself to him.

When you finally broke apart, both slightly breathless, he rested his forehead against yours, unwilling to let you go completely.

"So," he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips, "is that a yes?"

"Yes," you confirmed, your own smile breaking free. "But on one condition."

"Anything."

"No more turning my hair pink during exams."

He laughed, the sound lightening something in your chest. "I make no such promises. Besides, you looked good with pink hair."

You rolled your eyes, but couldn't maintain your stern expression. "We're going to have to tell people, you know. Our friends. Our families eventually."

"Let them talk," he said, unconcerned. "They'll get used to it. Might even win a few bets—I'm pretty sure half the school has money on when we'd finally figure things out."

The casual way he spoke of your relationship—as if it was inevitable, as if you were always meant to find each other—settled something inside you. The future you'd glimpsed might not happen exactly as you'd seen it, but the essential truth remained: you and Riki belonged together, in any timeline.

"So," he said, taking your hand as you began to walk back toward the castle, "think we'll name our first daughter Suki when the time comes?"

"Don't push your luck, Nishimura," you warned, but you squeezed his hand all the same.

He grinned, unrepentant. "Just planning ahead. I've got a lot of memories to make real."

His eyes gleamed with mischief as he leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper only you could hear. "Speaking of memories... are you planning to keep me 'thoroughly fucked' in this timeline too? Or was that just a future perk?"

"Riki!" You glanced around, mortified though no one was within earshot.

"What?" he asked with exaggerated innocence. "It's a legitimate question about our relationship parameters."

You elbowed him, but couldn't completely hide your smile. "You're impossible."

"And yet, you're dating me now." His grin widened. "Just wondering if I need to earn certain... privileges again, or if there's a temporal grandfather clause."

"You're definitely earning everything from scratch," you informed him primly.

"Challenge accepted," he replied without missing a beat. "Though I do hope you'll give me hints. Like whether you're wearing the same slytherin green underwear from our future, or if I need to charm them off you to find out?"

"You wouldn't dare."

His laugh was warm and intimate, sending a shiver through you that had nothing to do with the evening chill. "No, I wouldn't. Not without your permission." His voice softened. "I remember what you like. What we like together. And I'm looking forward to rediscovering every bit of it—properly this time."

As the castle rose before you, warm light spilling from its windows into the gathering dusk, you felt a curious mixture of loss and hope. You had lost a life, but gained a future—one that you would build together, step by step, choice by choice, with all the patience and passion that your journey had taught you.

fin.

-

TL: @ziiao @seonhoon @beariegyu @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @cherrybeomm @urmomdotcom5678 @jaeyunsbimbo @yongbokified @changbinniescurlyhair @en-whims

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

HOWDY HEYYY

Can you please make a story where Ena tries to take reader out for dinner (date or not WHATEVER U WANT) but the stinky penguin aka Dracula (or whatever character u want) ruins it because why not

MAKE SURE TO TAKE CARE OF URSELF

Thank you! Hope you're taking care of yourself, too! <3

.........

As it turns out, Ena's definition of a "high stakes meeting" ended up being something totally different by the time you arrived to the destination.

Of course..you should have expected this out of your girlfriend. She wanted to take you out on a date, but she could never simply say "let's go out". No sir..

She had to give you coordinates on paper to this exact location, attaching files that looked like they were printed off a PowerPoint with step-by-step instructions on how to reach it. She claimed she heard about this place "from a friend of a friend of a friend", although she didn't elaborate anymore than that. You didn't want nor need her to.

When you finally made it, you were surprised to be standing in front of a simple steak restaurant with a bar inside. Nothing fancy or inexpensive. Just plain and simple, with exterior western aesthetics to boot.

'Ah, high "steaks" meeting..I get it now.' An amused smile graced your lips as you pushed the door open, seeing no line and nobody except Ena talking to the host.

But upon closer examination, you realize she's not talking...

She's yelling.

"I cannot serve you yet, ma'am! Didn't you read the sign?"

"NO, BUT I SEE SEVERAL HEALTH CODE VIOLATIONS ALREADY! YOU WANNA GET SHUTDOWN?! REBRANDED?? I SUGGEST YOU GIVE ME AND MY ASSOCIATE A TABLE STAT!!" Her Meanie side snarls, geometric claws gripping the podium, almost like she's ready to rip it off its hinges. "OR I'LL DEVALUE THIS PROPERTY WITH MY OWN TWO HANDS!!"

'Typical Ena..' You sigh.

It was never easy dating her. Nothing about her says it'd be easy at all. But you were willing to stick through the difficult times--the times when a seemingly "normal" day ends up being the opposite.

Apparently, tonight wasn't going to be an exception.

"Like I said, I cannot seat a party of two if both entities aren't present-"

"I'm the other party member! Excuse my partner. She's had a...rough day at work."

Ena blinked, spinning around to see you have finally arrived, and her Salesperson side grinned with relief. "Oh you made it! I knew you would." She took your hands, before looking back at the host. Her expression was smug. "Now...about our table for two, good sir?"

"....of course. Right this way, Kena."

..........

"This was..very sweet of you to plan out, Ena. The food was great. But don't you think you were being a little harsh with the host? I mean...he's not the owner. He's just following the rules."

"I wouldn't care if he was the owner in disguise..I went through hell to get this reservation.." Meanie grumbled, her fork stabbing at the holographic png of a steak on her plate. "They didn't even wanna put my name on the list. How crazy is that?!!"

"Well...that's-" You started, only for her to put the utensil down and clap her hands.

"No, no..it's alright. I'm over it. It's all said and done. There's a more important matter at hand..." Her Salesperson's charm returned, her smile gentle. "I'd like to take this opportunity to renew our contract. You may find additional details that you oughta review."

Out of thin air, she presented you with a document on a clipboard, which you took. "I'm open to questions, comments, and concerns..but no criticism, please."

The moment you read it, you realized it was the confession letter she had given you several months ago. When words failed her back then, she just had you review this "contract" and wanted your signature of approval--and yes, that included your actual signature with a pen.

You remember how much of a flustered mess she was, mumbling to herself and fighting with her Meanie side over whether you'd see her "potential" and commit to her business wholly.

It took her a solid minute before she realized you signed and dated the paper, accepting her confession.

Now, you noticed that she stapled on a few more pages. They all contained ideas for future dates, written in typical business jargon that anyone else wouldn't understand--but for you, it was easy to decode.

"High stakes meetings" translated to going to a restaurant, such as where you both were tonight.

"Taking inventory on cosmic horrors and astronomical anomalies across the infinite horizon" was basically her way of asking you to go stargazing with her over the lake of viscous blood.

At the start, you've been worried that she wasn't taking this relationship as seriously as you did. You didn't know if she'd just treat you more like a business partner than a romantic one, but....this immediately cleared those doubts from your mind.

She was in this for the long run.

She wanted to deliver on her promises of "100% happiness for life" and make you feel like the most important person in her world.

"Well, you have my signature of approval." You chuckled softly, signing the bottom of the first page and sliding it back to her side. "Now then, did you want dessert or-?"

"I AM DRATULA!!!"

From a dark cloud of smoke and lightning, a certain half-penguin, half-vampire entity appeared. He was buzzed out of his mind as he swung a full wine glass around, laughing obnoxiously, before he accidentally bumped into the table.

Large droplets of red liquid splattered onto the paper, soaking it entirely to where the text was illegable.

"No!! NOOOO! Wha...What have you done?!!" Ena could only watch in utter despair and horror as it dissolved into nothingness. "Our contract!! It's....It's all ruined!! And it's--ALL YOUR FAULT!!!"

Fueled by Meanie's anger, she slammed both fists on the table and got up, glaring at the confused Dratula.

"Uhh..was I interrupting something?"

"YEAH!! OUR DATE, YOU ASSHOLE!!" Grabbing the lapels of his suit, she began shaking him back and forth violently, yelling nonsense as he tried to frantically defend himself.

Somehow, he thought uttering his name over and over would help matters.

It didn't.

Meanwhile, the other restaurant patrons have gone silent and were staring at the two. Some of them even look at you, and the secondhand embarrassment had grown tenfold.

You sighed, cleaning off your hands before getting up, knowing you had to disperse this before all three of you got kicked out.

"Come on, Ena. That's enough." By some miracle, you managed to separate them, keeping them at arms length.

Dratula looked frightened, while Ena looked a feral cat who didn't wanna give up a fight, snarling and hissing threats to him. "LET ME AT HIM, BABE!! I'LL TEACH THIS OLD BAT A LESSON-!!"

"I said that's enough!! You're causing a big scene!!"

Hearing your angered tone, she abruptly ceased all motions, her head slowly turning to you. For a brief moment, your expression showed nothing but pure frustration, but even though it disappeared quickly, it lingered long enough to make her feel absolutely horrible.

Her Meanie side gulped, for once looking intimidated rather than being the intimidating one. 'They...They got mad at me...' Her hands trembled, and she backed away from you.

Then you looked at Dratula, who was now staring into his wine glass, disappointed that most of it was gone. "How rude...I only wanted to ask how your date was going! I wasn't looking for trouble!"

"It was going good..until you spilled your drink everywhere." You huffed. "But it's fine. I know it was an accident. Ena and I were just...." But when you looked over your shoulder, you didn't find her by your side anymore. "Crap. Where'd she go?"

"Huh...beats me. Say, are you going to finish that?" He pointed to the untouched drink on your side of the table. You shook your head and sighed, digging up some chocolates and a fatty catty from your pocket, setting it down on top of the check that somehow appeared during the chaos.

However much the bill was, you didn't care. You were more worried about where your girlfriend ran off to.

Fortunately, the patrons who were watching the show were now minding their own business. As soon as the waiter came by to collect the check, you thanked him for the service and bid Dratula farewell, going off to search for Ena.

You eventually found her up at the bar all alone, with her hat on the floor, and several empty shot glasses to her right. 'Damn..how did she drink that much in such a short time?'

But as you got closer, you could hear her wallowing to the poor bartender about the events that transpired merely minutes ago.

"A-And...and then they yelled at me! Sayin' I caused a big scene!" Her Meanie side hiccupped, slinging back another shot before slamming it down.

"Well um...you kinda did.."

"I'm the worst, aren't I?" Her forehead collided with the table, her sclera turning black. "Why does every good thing I try to do for 'em go to shit?! I must be cursed...a victim of capitalism who can't afford one moment of respite. Damn it all!!" She banged her clawed fist down, sniffling. "Maybe I'm not cut out for this business.."

"You forgot something."

Feeling the familiar hat being placed on her, she turned her head to see you on the barstool beside hers. You set a hand on her back, giving the bartender an apologetic smile. "You can close her tab. She's had enough."

"There's that buzzword again....."enough". I bet all my life savings that you've had enough of me, right?"

Looking down at her once more, you sighed. "Ena, that's not what-"

"This night...'wuz supposed to be perfect for you. 100% satisfaction with guaranteed happiness. But all I've gotten was....negative feedback from my most valued client. Forgive me, m-my..my most treasured colleague.." She sounded like she was about to cry, her eyes turning glossy. "My heart's going through a recession, and my liver has no resale value. Would you like a refund on your experience?"

Her Salesperson side never sounded so....upset, and you frowned, hating to see her look so guilty; so ashamed for letting herself get out of hand again--and above all else, so afraid that you were mad at her because of that.

"Sweetheart, it's alright. I'm sorry I got angry earlier. I had a good time tonight. I really did." You comforted, rubbing her back. "But how about...I choose the place next time?"

"..but...but our contraaaaact..." She whined, her meanie and salesperson voices blending into one for a moment. "'s gone down the drain..like our stock.."

"It's not null and void just because the paper got ruined. We can draft a new one together, and....maybe have it laminated so that doesn't happen again."

Those words seemed to bring the spark back to her eyes, as she sat up and gave you the sweetest yet most lopsided grin. She grasped your hands, the stool's legs wobbling--yet somehow she was able to hold herself steady.

"Your strategic mind never fails to impress me, [y/n]. I promise..I'll pick up the tab at our next endeavor." She winked, before her Meanie side glared at the bartender. "HEY! Bring my partner here the best of the best!!"

"...I, erm..already closed your tab at their request, miss."

"Why I oughta-!!"

Before things could escalate for the third time tonight, you gave her paler side a kiss on the cheek, and she turned back to you, looking absolutely flustered. "A-Ah...you...I...." But she couldn't find the words.

"Why don't we go home?" You calmly suggested. "The sooner we work on that contract, the better."

"....f-fine."

For once, Meanie was complacent in what you wanted to do. So after paying the tab (by offering the bartender a fatty catty), you had to escort your drunken girlfriend home--which was an experience in itself as she nearly threw hands with Dratula again on her way out.

But she gave up quickly and opted to cling to you and brag about how awesome you were for "putting up" with an "economical disaster" like her.

Would you go out to dinner with her again? Definitely.

Will you have countermeasures in-place to minimize the amount of chaos that may inevitably occur? Also yes.

[venusinmyrrh]

You said you love a good fashion doc- do you have any more to recommend?

Designers and tastemakers

Very Ralph (2019). The preeminent American designer of our time, one of the very few who can stand toe to toe with the titans of Paris and Milan. To call Ralph Lauren's work "sportswear" is to call the Sistine Chapel "kind of a big painting".

Halston (2019). Speaking of going head to head with Paris, Halston did it first. Skip Ultrasuede-- this is a much better doc about the king of American 70s disco glam.

McQueen (2018). When people talk about fashion as an art form, chances are they're thinking of Alexander McQueen. Worth watching for the pulse-pounding runway shows alone.

Westwood: Punk, Icon, Activist (2018). Obviously you already know about this one, but it's gotta go on any comprehensive list. Without Vivienne Westwood, punk would have been nothing but a handful of noisy assholes.

Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel (2011). My icon, my north star, my personal hero. The empress of taste and high priestess of personal style. Watch this doc whenever you need encouragement to do and wear whatever the hell you want.

The Gospel According to André (2017). Diana Vreeland's protegé and a godfather of style in his own right. If it happened in fashion in the last fifty years, André Leon Talley was there for it.

Lagerfeld Confidential (2007). I have a high tolerance for difficult and unpleasant people as long as I like their work. Your mileage may vary, but Karl Lagerfeld's immaculate, relentless taste cannot be denied.

Institutions and events

The First Monday in May (2016). Witness all the hustle, bustle, savvy, and stress that goes into planning the Met gala!

The September Issue (2009). Same as the above, but for the famous September issue of Vogue. Watch this to learn who Grace Coddington is.

Dior and I (2014). How do haute couture collections get made? In 8 weeks from start to finish, I guess, if you're Raf Simons during his first season at the House of Dior. A documentary and a thriller.

Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf's (2013). No matter what other retailers might want you to think, Bergdorf Goodman is the last great department store. A portrait, already halfway to a time capsule, of what luxury shopping used to be.

Peripheral, but may be of interest

Nose (2021). The passionate, delicate art of perfume creation for the House of Dior. The French landscapes where they source their materials will make you swoon.

Larger Than Life: The Kevyn Aucoin Story (2017). As the makeup artist to pretty much every single icon of the 80s and 90s, Kevyn Aucoin invented the image of that era as much as any designer.

Fabergé: A Life of Its Own (2014). Come for the dazzling jewels and sumptuous objets d'art; stay to find out how this illustrious name ended up on hair care products in the 70s.

Crazy About Tiffany's (2016). Another luxury jeweler whose name alone is the stuff dreams are made on.

Bill Cunningham New York (2010). The original street style photographer, since before "street style" was even a thing. A love letter to curiosity, and a testament to the power of taking an interest in the world around us.

Still on my watchlist

Salvatore: Shoemaker of Dreams (2020). Directed by Luca Guadagnino, which is enough to put this Ferragamo doc at the top of my list.

Advanced Style (2014). Portraits of seven women aged 62-95 with truly fab personal style. Top Letterboxd review is seething about how out of touch they are with the real world, which means I am probably gonna love it.

Suited (2016). A study of gender through clothing in modern culture.

Dries (2017). A year-- and four collections-- in the life of Dries Van Noten, who, interestingly, doesn't see the point of clothes that people can't buy to wear, and so does not do couture.

Yellow is Forbidden (2018). This doc about Guo Pei appears to use her career as a framework to understand the gatekeeping of global culture by the West. Dope as hell, if it can pull it off.

American Style (2019). The political, social, and economic history of America through its fashion. Another one that could be really awesome if done with insight and panache.

Quant (2021). She may share the credit for inventing the miniskirt with two other people, but it cannot be argued that Mary Quant invented 1960s Swinging London. And for that we say thank you Dame Mary.

[mahowaga]

WHERE THE PLUM BLOSSOMS FALL | N.K. — ACT II

SUMMARY: you were born beneath a crown, nanami was raised beside a blade—two lives shaped in silence, crossing in the hush between breath and bloom.

PAIRING: general!nanami kento x princess!reader CONTAINS: slow burn, forbidden romance, angst, hurt/comfort, yearning, historical au, imperial court shenanigans, period, monarchy dynamics, political intrigue, court politics, non-sexual intimacy, mutual respect, power dynamics, repressed emotions, courtship in silence, loyalty and betrayal WC: 6.2k WARNINGS: implied violence, depictions of grief and loss, character death, emotional manipulation, dubious morality, sexism

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🌸 ACT II — THE WEIGHT OF NAMES

SOUTHERN WING – 昇旗の庭 (COURTYARD OF RISING BANNERS)

The sun rises sharp and golden that morning, the sky a veil of pale silk stretching over the imperial courtyard. Banners of crimson and gold dance high along the parapets, each ripple deliberate, rehearsed, as if the wind itself was instructed in how to perform.

The courtiers arrive early, dressed in ceremonial silks and smoothed expressions. Perfumed sleeves brush polished stone. Voices, clipped and civil, murmur beneath the beating hush of the drums. The palace shines, a lacquered mask of grandeur and serenity. But beneath the surface–beneath the gilded elegance and the tea-sweet smiles–Nanami can feel it.

Tension.

Like the moment before a blade is drawn.

He stands at the western edge of the courtyard, just within the cool shadow of a carved colonnade. His posture is immaculate as always, his hands folded behind his back, his golden eyes forward and unreadable. He does not blink often. He does not shift his weight. Even the wind seems to move around him.

Ceremonial presence is not difficult. It is just another kind of battlefield.

Today marks the return of the beloved Crown Prince. Your brother.

Nanami had met the man once before–briefly, years ago, during a military review on the northern barracks. The prince had arrived unannounced, trailing advisors and gifts and compliments wrapped in smiles. Even then, Nanami had sensed it: the sharp mind behind the polished exterior, the calculation behind every bow, every gracious word. The prince was not unkind. But he was not harmless either.

He played at ease the way a swordsman played at clumsiness.

Now, as the massive gates begin to part and the ceremonial horns sound their low, mournful call, Nanami finds his gaze drawn–past the gilded archway, past the forming line of ministers and chamberlains.

To you.

The Princess.

You stand across the courtyard, just beneath the arching shade of a plum tree that has not yet begun to bloom. You had not been placed there. You had chosen it. Distant enough to be apart from the main gathering, but close enough to be impossible to ignore.

You wear pale silver silk edged with storm-gray thread, your sleeves long, your posture faultless. You make no move to join the line of greeting dignitaries. No smile graces your lips. No false expression is offered.

You do not need to claim power with noise. You hold it in silence.

Nanami lets his eyes linger on you only a moment longer than protocol allows, then returns his focus to the gate as the Crown Prince rides in.

His horse is black and doused in ceremonial gold. His robes shimmer like dusk on water–black over crimson, imperial embroidery glinting with phoenix feathers. He dismounts with the ease of a trained performer, bowing low to the ministers, smiling with perfect timing.

He moves like a prince from a fable.

But Nanami sees the tightness at the corners of his eyes. The flicker of irritation when one minister fumbles his scroll. The cold gleam beneath the warmth.

The prince greets his father’s representatives with practiced poise, exchanges pleasantries with noble lords, laughs–light and clear–at a jest too polished to be sincere.

And then he turns.

Nanami sees it. The pause. The flick of his gaze toward the edge of the courtyard. Toward you.

The prince’s smile doesn’t falter, but it changes. Just slightly. Less brightness, more calculation.

He walks through the crowd as if it is a part of the performance, each step fluid, his shadow trailing behind him like a red-tinted ghost.

You do not move. You wait for him to come to you.

“Sister,” he says when he is near, voice honeyed and smooth. “Still radiant as ever.”

Your head tilts the faintest degree. “Brother.”

“Have you missed me?”

Nanami notices the way your fingers clench against your side, but your expression remains unbothered. “No.”

The word hands in the air like a falling leaf. Soft. Precise.

Nearby courtiers chuckle–thin and polite. The kind of laughter meant to fill a silence they don’t understand.

The prince chuckles too, brushing off the blow like dew from his sleeve. “Still sharp,” he says.

You offer him a smile. Or something like it, anyway. It does not touch your eyes.

Nanami watches you both closely.

There is no embrace. No familial ease. You and your brother stand like diplomats across a narrow bridge–one wrong word and the rope will snap.

“I brought you something,” the prince says after a moment. “Amber combs from the southern isles. Carved from volcanic stone. I saw them and thought of you.”

You tilt your head, the light catching the storm rumbling in your eyes. “I have hairpins enough. I’m sure they’ll suit one of my attendants.”

A flicker passes through the prince’s gaze–gone too quickly for most to notice, but Nanami notices.

And you know he has.

The prince turns then, as if to release the tension, and spots him.

“Ah,” he says. “General Nanami.”

Nanami straightens, bowing just enough. “Your Highness.”

The prince approaches with a gracious smile, arms open as if welcoming an old friend.

“We’ve met before, haven't we? You were the one who broke the siege at Maruhan’s Ridge.”

“I was one of many who served, Your Highness,” Nanami replies evenly.

“Modest. The Stoic Blade indeed.” The prince’s eyes glint. “And now, assigned to my sister. An honor, I’m sure.”

“I serve the Empire, wherever I am placed.”

The prince laughs, stepping closer. “Of course. And I imagine you’ve already seen how… spirited she can be.”

Nanami says nothing. He doesn’t meet your eyes, but he knows you are watching him.

You remain silent a few feet away from him, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. You’re out of earshot.

The prince drops his voice, almost conspiratorial. “It must be exhausting. Keeping her in line.”

Nanami looks him in the eye. Calm. Direct. “I have not found her difficult.”

A longer pause this time. The prince’s smile twitches. Just slightly.

“Even so,” he says, tone still pleasant, “I trust you’ll keep me informed if she starts wandering too far from her path.”

Nanami knows now what he believes you have known all along. The Crown Prince and the Emperor do not simply fear rebellion. They fear you. And they fear what might happen if someone like Nanami–respected, uncorrupted, and beloved by the Guard–stands too close to you.

Nanami bows his head a bit. “I am under orders to report to the Emperor, Your Highness.”

“But the Emperor is not always available.” The smile doesn’t falter. “And I do so like to be informed.”

Nanami says nothing again.

The prince studies him, then claps a hand lightly to his shoulder. “You and I, General–we’re both loyal men. I’m glad we understand each other. We’ll speak again soon.”

Then, without another word, he turns and walks away.

Nanami exhales slowly through his nose, smoothing his stance before he steps to your side.

“Well?” you say.

He turns his head. “Princess?”

“What did you think of him? Our Crown Prince.”

He hesitates. He shouldn’t even think it. “He smiles too easily.”

A pause, then a small huff of breath from you. Almost–almost–a laugh.

“Be careful, General,” you say, voice soft. “That almost sounded like an opinion.”

He doesn’t answer. He can’t. Not without betraying the things he is beginning to feel–the slow pull of something deeper, something unspoken, threading itself beneath the skin of duty.

And as the drums fade into silence and the wind passes between you both, carrying the scent of plum blossoms still waiting to bloom–

Nanami wonders, not for the first time, if he will still be able to draw his sword when the time comes. Or if, by then, you will already be holding it.

WESTERN WING – 帝国請願殿 (THE HALL OF IMPERIAL PETITIONS)

The sun is harsher today–sharp and insistent, almost accusatory–as it leaks brightly through the stained windows, painting the hall a kaleidoscope of colors, like a canvas come to life. It beats down on marble and silk alike, illuminating every crack in the stone, every meticulously embroidered thread of the courtier’s robes, every false and carefully constructed smile.

General Nanami Kento stands near the brazier at the doors. His golden eyes scan the assembly with careful neutrality. He remains motionless, hands clasped behind him, expression schooled into flawless calm, though he feels anything but. Beneath that practiced mask, his mind is restless.

He watches silently as yet another young noble steps forward, bowing too deeply, too earnestly, his smile shining just a little too brightly. Nanami has already forgotten the boy’s name. They have begun to blur–these carefully selected, impeccably groomed young men, hand-picked to wed the Emperor’s only daughter. He recognizes their ambition, their pride, their eagerness for prestige and heirs.

This one is barely twenty, richly dressed, eager as a hunting hound set loose. His voice is clear, confident, yet the slight waver when he pronounces ‘loyalty’ betrays nerves roiling beneath his polished surface. Nanami sees past it easily: the boy doesn’t want you; he wants the power you embody, the legacy he can claim.

You sit elevated on the raised dais, observing calmly, your posture once again flawless, your features carved of ice. Your gown–pale silver threaded with dark plum accents–ripples like moonlit water around your frame. Your eyes are distant, carefully detached, neither cruel nor kind. You listen without interrupting, a polite silence sharpened to an art form.

As the suitor rattles on about his family’s supposed virtues, Nanami lets his gaze slide briefly to the Emperor’s balcony, high above your dais. He knows the Emperor is watching, and beside him, the Crown Prince–both silent, calculating, plotting their next move.

Nanami’s jaw tightens when the boy mentions fertility, an easy slip wrapped in sweet words. A part of him–a fierce, primal part–flares hot with protective anger. He smothers it immediately, as he must. As is his duty.

The suitors are tests–trials intended not merely to wed you but to break you slowly into submission. Nanami was briefed privately by the Emperor before; he knows the final arrangement that awaits you should you continue to refuse these offerings. The man chosen is powerful, brutish, respected among military houses, older by decades, already a widower, and infamous for the roughness with which he treats those beneath him. He once boasted, at a military banquet, drunk among generals and lieutenants alike, that clever women required harsh training before they were useful.

Nanami had almost drawn steel then.

Not for offense. Not for justice. But because the image of you beside that man–tethered, reduced–made something inside him fracture.

Nanami’s gloved hands flex involuntarily at the memory, tightening until the leather creaks. He knows too well the cruelty men wield when they believe themselves entitled to obedience. The thought of you in such a marriage sickens him; the thought of his own complicity nearly breaks him.

Yet his orders remain clear.

Keep her in line.

You stand then, gracefully signalling the conclusion. The suitor bows deeply again, too eager, too hopeful. You dismiss him with perfect composure–no hint of insult, no whisper of disdain–yet unmistakably final. A steward hastens forward, guiding the boy away before embarrassment can rise further.

You don’t look up at the Emperor or the Crown Prince. Instead, your eyes drift across the assembly, unseeing, detached, until you land on him. The weight of your gaze is sudden, palpable, and Nanami straightens instinctively. Your expression is unreadable, but the silent command is clear.

He steps forward, naturally falling into place at your side as you exit the hall. His mind buzzes with the need to speak, to reassure, to explain–but protocol and careful practice hold his tongue.

You pass through the corridor of carved screens, the light fractured into ornate patterns upon the floor, until the murmurs of the hall vanish behind you. The air cools as you reach a narrow passageway near the inner palace. You slow your steps slightly, allowing him to match your pace.

“They’re getting worse,” you murmur quietly, eyes ahead.

“Yes.” He answers without hesitation, voice calm, though it masks deeper turmoil.

You stop, turning slowly. The lattice windows cast intricate shadows across you, highlighting the graceful slope of your neck, the quiet intensity in your eyes.

“Do they think I’ll grow desperate?” you ask softly. “Or docile?”

Nanami pauses, considering his answer carefully. “I suspect they hope both.”

Your gaze lifts to him, coolly curious. “You know what happens if I don’t choose, don’t you?”

His silence is answer enough.

“What did they tell you about him?” you ask, a hidden challenge in your voice.

His jaw tightens, a muscle feathering there briefly. He cannot lie, but neither can he admit everything. “Enough.”

Your lips curve slightly–not a smile, merely acknowledgement. “And yet you serve them.”

He meets your gaze squarely. “I serve the Empire, Princess.”

For a moment, your eyes narrow, regarding him intently. “No, General. You serve me.”

His chest tightens. You don’t know–not yet–what orders he truly carries. You don’t understand that he is not yours, not entirely. And he cannot tell you. He feels something fracture inside him at that realization, even as duty binds him fast.

You take a step closer, lowering your voice into a softer murmur. “I wonder what it is you would do if they gave the order. If they said to hold me down, make me silent, deliver me to that brute’s estate like a ceremonial gift wrapped in red silk.”

Your words strike him like a blow, the mere thought nearly wrenching a physical response from him. Nanami breathes slowly, measured. Your closeness is almost too much to bear. He can see the faint tremor of a pulse at your throat, delicate yet fierce.

He holds your gaze, his voice deepening, firm. “I would never allow harm to come to you.”

You step even closer, eyes searching his face. “And if I said I’d rather burn this court to ash than be sold to a man I do not choose?”

Nanami’s breath catches. The words leave him before he can temper them, low and raw with sincerity. “Then I would help you light the match.”

Something flickers across your face–surprise, confusion, perhaps hope. Your mask slips slightly. Your vulnerability, briefly glimpsed, nearly undoes him.

Your voice is softer now, edged with confusion, something fragile beneath. “I thought your loyalty was to my father.”

He forces his tone back to careful neutrality. “My loyalty is to you, Princess. My orders are to see you safe.”

You watch him, scrutinizing, thoughtful, seeking something deeper in his eyes, something true. You finally withdraw, retreating behind your cool composure, the moment passed, hidden again beneath layers of silk and silence.

You turn away. “Escort me back, General.”

He bows, stepping beside you as you move down the corridor, your footsteps matching in practiced harmony. Yet, as he walks, his pulse quickens with a truth he cannot get admit aloud, even to himself.

Nanami is no longer here to merely follow orders. The lines have blurred, shifted irreversibly. His place is no longer between you and the world. It is at your side–whether you know it or not.

And with every passing day, it becomes increasingly clear: he would defy every order, cross every line, if it meant keeping you from harm.

NORTHERN WING – 断ち音の間 (THE CHAMBER OF SEVERED ECHOES)

The chamber is dim–deliberately so. It smells of old paper, iron, and dying incense, the kind that has burned too long in a closed space. One narrow lantern sways faintly above, casting a long oval of amber light across the floor. The shadows stretch out like blades.

Nanami kneels within the circle of that light, spine perfectly straight, knee pressed to the cold stone tiles, one hand resting over the hilt of his sword, his cape fanned out behind him.

It is the posture of complete submission, and yet he has never felt more rebellious.

Across the room, the Emperor sits behind a low, lacquered table, its black surface worn smooth by age and power. His silhouette is more shadow than flesh–broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, his eyes gleaming under the light like two coins of dull obsidian.

He speaks without looking up.

“She speaks to the court too freely.”

Nanami says nothing. The words are not a question. They are an accusation.

“You said she was composed. Controlled. Do you still stand by that, General?”

A long silence stretches between them.

Finally, Nanami lifts his head a fraction–just enough to speak.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“She is drawing attention,” the Emperor hisses. “I hear it from every wing of this palace. Ministers. Nobles. Even the foreign dignitaries take note of her. This is not what I instructed.”

Nanami’s jaw tightens. His shoulders remain still, but his fingers twitch subtly, betraying the tension crawling beneath the surface.

“She has said nothing of danger,” he replies. “Nothing of rebellion.”

“Not yet,” the Emperor snarls. “But she tests. She prods. She refuses what is asked of her. Her rejection of suitors is not pride–it is politics. Her defiance is not feminine stubbornness. It is calculation.”

The word lands heavily, like a stone dropped into the still water of a pond.

Nanami’s eyes flicker downward again, though his mind does not lower himself. His hand, the one resting against his heart, curls, the leather of his glove creaking in protest.

“She is your daughter,” he says carefully.

“She is a threat,” the Emperor snaps. “And if she were born a son, she would have been broken or exiled by now. Maybe even a warrior, if disciplined. But she wears her mother’s smile and walks like a ghost through the same halls. And the people–curse them–they admire her.”

He leans forward into the light, his face drawn and pale, mouth twisted in a mixture of disdain and fear.

“You are not her confidant, General. You are her leash. You will remember that.”

Nanami bows his head again despite his body pushing back against it. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

There is silence. Then a faint scrap–paper against wood. The Emperor turns back to his desk, already done with the exchange.

Nanami rises smoothly, every movement quiet, controlled. He bows once, not deeply–never deeply–then turns and exits the chamber.

The door clicks shut behind him like a blade locking into its sheath.

The corridor beyond is wide and silent. The floor is dark stone, veined with gray. Lanterns burn at even intervals, their flames whispering softly as Nanami passes. He walks with precision, but each step feels heavier than the last.

Past the twin lions carved in marble, their eyes hollow.

Past the embroidered tapestries–scenes of imperial conquest and divine order, threaded in gold and black silk, each one meant to remind every soul who walks these halls of the empire’s greatness.

He does not feel its greatness now. Only its hunger.

Servants move from alcove to alcove, heads bowed low. They do not speak. They do not meet his eyes. He stays silent.

His thoughts, however, churn with quiet, violent clarity.

He did not tell the Emperor that you rise early, before the bells ring, to study ink-worn scrolls about merchant routes and border rotations–not because you seek influence, but because you want to understand what others hide from you.

He did not say that you walk in the garden at dusk, alone, because it is the only place in the palace that does not lie.

He did not speak of the way your voice sounds when you speak without performing.

He did not speak of the way you pause before responding to questions–as if calculating, yes, but also listening. Feeling. Choosing.

He did not say that he has begun to recognize the rhythm of your thoughts, the flicker of your mood shifts, the precise tilt of your gaze when you are amused or incensed or wounded.

And he did not say–could never say–that when you smile, rarely, with no audience, and no purpose other than to share something real, it makes something inside him ache.

He didn’t tell the Emperor any of that. Because it is no longer just loyalty he feels. It is something deeper in his chest–unwanted, unspoken, but growing.

And the lie he gave tonight–that you are still composed, still in control, still manageable–has buried itself in him like a slow-moving poison.

He reaches his barracks long after the sun has set. There are two sentries guarding you tonight–you asked him to retire today, for you claim you have never seen him rest.

The air is thick with heat and the heavy scent of woodsmoke. He enters without lighting a lamp, removes his armor by habit, and sits at the edge of his bed, gloved fingers resting on his knees.

He stares at the wall, breathing slow. Not meditating. Not calming. Simply trying not to drown.

You do not know. You don’t know what he was sent to do. You don’t know that every time you let him close, every time you open your mind or your silence to him, he is swallowing down the truth like broken glass.

And he does not know how much longer he can hold it.

Not when the Empire wants to break you. Not when he is no longer sure he won’t break with you.

EASTERN WING – A CORRIDOR BETWEEN EVERYTHING AND NOTHING

It is late afternoon, and the heat settles upon the palace like a silken shroud–heavy, suffocating, impossible to ignore. The air is thick, threaded with the scent of blossoms too ripe, too sweet. Even the distant hum of cicadas is muffled, as though the entire world outside the palace has stilled, leaving only silence and heat within these walls.

General Nanami walks three paces behind you, the princess. He has grown accustomed to this distance; it is respectful, precise, proper. Yet today it feels charged, filled with something dangerously intimate, something that quickens his pulse against his own careful restraint.

You move down the hallway slowly, almost languidly. Your robes–icy blue threaded with shades of steel-gray, matching his own cape and uniform, not that he is paying attention to it–flow gently around you, capturing what little breeze slips through the narrow corridor windows. Each step is measured, composed. Your fan moves quietly, rhythmic in your hand, soft clicks punctuating your thoughts.

You pause at a window framed in carved wood, the late sunlight pouring through, illuminating the elegant line of your neck, the precise curve of your cheekbone. It catches upon the strands of your hair, artfully arranged and pinned high with an obsidian comb shaped delicately like a serpent. Nanami wonders idly if you know how deeply fitting the adornment is.

He comes to a stop behind you, as always silent, attentive.

You do not turn. Your eyes, as distant and thoughtful as they often are, linger on the gardens below.

“General,” you say, voice velvet-soft. “Do you know what I envy?”

He pauses, considering your words carefully, though his answer comes quiet and neutral. “I cannot presume, Your Highness.”

Your fan taps gently against the edge of the windowsill, each click like the tick of an unseen clock, measuring the beats of his traitorous heart.

“The guards at the eastern gate,” you say softly, gaze still fixed beyond the glass. “They spend their days beneath the sun, speaking to no one. No ceremonies. No scrutiny. No one arranging their life for them behind closed doors.”

Your tone is careful, even gentle–but it is laced with bitterness. Longing, perhaps, or resignation. It stings something inside him to hear it, though he ensures his expression remains blank.

“You would trade your crown for a pike?” he asks.

At that, you finally turn your head slightly, your eyes flicking toward him in sharp amusement. “It’s not the pike I envy. It is the freedom to wield it.”

The space between you both hums suddenly, stretched taut. Nanami knows he should break it, should redirect. Should remind you of your place, of his own place. But he finds he cannot lie, not to you–not in this small, guarded honesty you have granted him.

“Then perhaps the Empire should fear the day you are armed.”

You stare at him, and he is once again unable to read your expression. His pulse quickens.

You turn back to the window then, slowly, purposefully, though your voice comes heavier this time, barely a whisper. “They warned me about you.”

A sudden chill takes his body hostage, despite the oppressive heat. He forces his voice to remain steady. “Who?”

“My father. My brother. The ministers.” Your fan is still now, motionless in your delicate hands. “They said you would not flinch. That you would not speak unless spoken to. That you would follow orders as the blade follows the sheath.” Your voice dips slightly. “They said you were the most obedient man in the empire.”

His throat tightens, guilt squeezing the breath from him. You do not know–you cannot know–

“And do you find that true?” he asks softly, barely audible.

Your lips curve faintly. It isn’t quite a smile. It is sharper. More dangerous. “No. Not entirely.”

Nanami’s fingers flex behind his back, leather glove stretching in protest as his hand curls and uncurls. You turn again, and your expression shifts subtly as you look up at him–amusement layered over contemplation.

“You know,” you murmur, “I think I prefer calling you General Kento.”

His gaze lifts sharply to meet yours. “Why?”

“Because everyone else calls you by your surname,” you say quietly. “And I have no interest in following the same rules as the men who placed a leash on my throat and called it silk.”

Your words slice through him like steel.

He freezes–heart lurching painfully, chest constricted. For one terrible moment, he thinks you know. That somehow, through all his carefully crafted silences and gentle half-truths, you have discovered why he truly shadows you, why he walks three steps behind unless you tell him otherwise. That you realize that he is the leash your father chose–obedient, watchful, ready to pull you back when you cross lines the court dislikes.

His breath stops. He waits for accusation, betrayal, fury. Anything.

But none comes.

You hold his gaze steadily. Open. Trusting. And Nanami realizes, with a sickening, wrenching clarity–you have no idea.

You trust him.

And it nearly breaks him right there in that sunlit corridor.

His voice comes out rough when he forces himself to speak, shaken by the near exposure of his truth. “Princess–”

You tilt your head, eyes curious, watching the spasms of anguish he cannot hide in time.

“Is something wrong, General?” you ask gently. Too gently. He does not think he deserves it. The concern in your voice is nearly his undoing.

He swallows hard. Forces the mask back into place, though it aches and cuts him. “No, Your Highness.”

You study him carefully. He can almost feel your gaze tracing the lines of tension in his shoulders, the subtle tightness around his jaw.

Finally, like the murmur of a creek, you speak again. “I think,” you say, each word delicate, measured, weighed, “if I had been born a man, they would have taught me to wield a sword.”

His response comes before he can stop it–truth spilling from him raw and unguarded. “I think you never needed to be taught.”

Another silence–this one thick and tense–builds swiftly between you, too charged to be safe.

Then you speak again, barely audible.

“You should pay mind to your words, General. One of us is beginning to sound like a traitor.”

He bows his head slightly, eyes lowered, pulse hammering in his ears. His reply comes without thought, dangerously honest. “And which one of us is that, Princess?”

You do not answer. You don’t need to.

You watch him, quiet, your eyes catching and reflecting the last rays of the dying sunlight. He can almost feel the unspoken questions you hold, the truths you are both afraid to name aloud.

Then, at last, after what feels like ages, you step away. Your silk robes whisper against the polished stone, a gentle, sorrowful sigh.

“Come,” you murmur. “They will wonder where we’ve gone.”

He follows you, obediently. Three careful paces behind, precisely as before. But nothing is as it was moments ago.

His heart is no longer in rhythm with his steps. It races ahead, stumbles behind, bruised by the quiet trust you have granted him, wounded by the hidden betrayal he carries.

He does not yet dare name the feeling that gnaws at him–sharp yet tender, and growing rapidly–but he knows it is dangerous.

Dangerous enough to destroy you both.

WESTERN WING – THE CROWN PRINCE’S QUARTERS

The Crown Prince’s chambers are warm. No–suffocating.

The heat is not natural, not like the beams of sunlight that bring whispers of heat with them. It’s heavy and fragrant, pulled from incense braziers nestled in the corners of the room, coiling in the air like waiting serpents. The scent is too sweet. Lotus. Myrrh. Crushed cinnamon bark. Something floral, something bitter. The mix is overwhelming, potent–luxury masquerading as power.

It clings to the skin like a second robe. It settles in the lungs like smoke.

Nanami kneels again.

His posture is perfect–as always. Back straight. Hands on his thighs. Head only slightly bowed. The prince likes it that way. Controlled. Contained.

From his lowered gaze, Nanami sees the shimmering hem of the Crown Prince’s robes–dark navy trimmed in silver. The silk catches the candlelight like water catches the moon. Beyond it, the rustle of movement. The gentle clink of a porcelain wine cup being turned in a hand that has never known the weight of a blade.

“You’re quiet these days, General,” the prince says, reclining lazily against a fan of pillows arranged like a throne. His voice is smooth, idle. Almost bored.

Nanami doesn’t answer.

The prince waits for a beat, then chuckles softly. “And your reports,” he continues, “have grown… spare.”

“I give only what is relevant,” Nanami replies, low, measured.

There’s a weighty pause.

The prince shifts–just slightly. A turn of the head. A change in tone.

“And what is relevant?”

The question hangs like a dagger suspended in air.

The Crown Prince rises slowly from his cushions, crossing to pour himself more wine. His movements are languid, elegant–but Nanami sees the sharpness beneath them. The control. The awareness.

“She spends more time in the gardens now, doesn’t she?” he asks over his shoulder. “She walks alone. She reads the old imperial records. The ones from before the unification. The tax ledgers. The grain distribution reports. Who studies those things, I wonder?”

Nanami remains still. He does not trust himself to reply. He knows not to.

The prince turns, wine cup in hand, his eyes gleaming like oiled steel.

“She goes to the training fields, hidden. I’ve heard the soldiers there favor her. Some even speak of her fondly. Not out of duty. Out of respect.”

He takes a sip of wine, never looking away.

“But they do not know her.” Pause. “And she has still not chosen a suitor.”

The silence is heavy, sharp, oppressive.

The prince’s voice sharpens like glass. “Is she planning something, General?”

Another pause.

“Tell me,” the Crown Prince pushes, stepping closer. “Tell me she isn’t honing herself for something I will have to stop myself.”

Nanami lifts his eyes.

The silence between them is heavy now. Charged with something malicious yet unspoken. They are not on the same side, and they both are realizing it as they hold each other’s gaze–one cloaked in silk, the other in steel.

“No, Your Highness,” he says. “She is only surviving.”

The prince stills. Slowly lowers the cup. His brow furrows slightly.

“Surviving,” he repeats, as if tasting the word on his tongue. He narrows his eyes at Nanami. “Interesting choice of word.”

He studies Nanami’s face for a moment too long. Then, lazily, returns to his seat.

“You’re fond of her,” he says after a while, too casually.

Nanami doesn’t react. If he does, he will ruin himself.

“Or maybe not fond,” the prince muses aloud, “but… protective.” He leans back. “Do you pity her, General? Is that what this is?”

“I fulfill my duty,” Nanami replies, voice flat.

“You were not placed at her side to fulfill sentiment.”

Nanami lowers his gaze. He can feel the noose tightening around his neck.

“You are dismissed,” the prince says at last, waving him away like smoke. “Leave me.”

Nanami bows. “Your Highness.”

He rises and turns, his feet moving automatically toward the door. The incense curls around him as he leaves, whispering in his wake.

The corridor outside is dark and narrow, flanked by unlit lanterns and heavy beams. Quiet.

Nanami doesn’t move. The door closes behind him with a soft but final click. He remains still.

Then–suddenly–he reaches out, placing his palm flat against the stone wall beside him. His fingers splay slightly. The cool surface steadies him, grounds him.

His breathing is slow. Too slow.

His heart, however, is a different story. It slams inside his chest like something caged.

She trusts me.

He leans forward, resting both forearms against the wall, his forehead bowing to the cool stone. The scent of incense is still assaulting his nose, suffocating. The air in the corridor is still, but inside him, everything is breaking apart.

The Princess trusts me.

She speaks to me. Smiles at me. Confides in me–not entirely, not yet–but enough.

She has let me walk beside her through the gardens, has allowed my silence to fill the space between her thoughts. She has called me General Kento.

She looks at me like I am real, not a blade to be wielded, and yet–I was sent to hold her by a leash.

Nanami’s eyes close briefly. The weight of it crashes over him like a tidal wave. He hadn’t been sent to protect you. He’d been sent to observe. Correct. Contain.

If you ever discover what he was meant to be, that the leash your father forged was him–he might lose you forever.

And now, now, the Crown Prince suspects. The Emperor too, no doubt. They can smell the shift. The hesitation. The silence that no longer feels obedient but dangerous.

He is slipping. And the worst part?

He does not want to stop.

He wants to be loyal, more than anything, but you make him want to be honest. He wants to follow orders, but you make him want to choose. He wants to remain your shadow, but something inside him wants to step into the light–even if it means being burned, cast aside.

He straightens slowly, the motion stiff. His muscles ache beneath the armor. He has not removed it all day. Not even in rest. Not even when alone.

It feels heavier than ever now.

With each step, it drags against him–iron and guilt and unbearable heat.

He rounds the corner into a deserted passageway–cooler, shaded, lined with decorative spears no one has used in a generation–and finally begins to unfasten the chestplate.

The buckle sticks. His fingers tremble slightly, unsteady, not from weakness, but from restraint.

He exhales sharply through his nose, jaw clenching until his teeth ache, and rips the fastening free. The weight falls away. He catches it with both arms and lowers it carefully to the stone floor, the sound echoing softly through the corridor.

Next: the bracers. The pauldrons. The gorget. His fingers move with mechanical precision, practiced from years of repetition.

Piece by piece, he removes what made him the Stoic Blade, and beneath it? A man unraveling.

His black undershirt clings to his back, soaked with sweat. His right hand curls involuntarily–the same hand you once touched when you took the blossom from him, your fingers warm. The same hand he clenched at his side when you called him by name, your mouth curving slightly.

Kento.

No one calls him that. No one has in years. Not since he was thirteen.

And yet, when you say it, he wants to answer. Wants to belong to that name again.

He lowers to a bench beneath a carved lattice window, rests his forearms on his thighs, and lets his head droop.

His breath catches. His shoulders shake–once. Barely. But it’s there.

A man raised in silence. Hardened by war. Forged to follow orders. Now ruined by a woman who walks like dusk and speaks like prophecy.

He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead.

What if they’re right? What if the Emperor and the Crown Prince are right? What if you are the serpent in the garden? Clever. Ambitious. Dangerous.

What if you are using him?

He wants to believe otherwise.

He has watched you move through the court with precision and grace, never once overstepping. He has seen your kindness, too–the way you listen, truly listen, when a servant speaks, or when a soldier makes a passing remark about drought in the provinces.

He has seen your loneliness, your fury, your restraint.

He has never met anyone like you.

And god help him–he believes you. He trusts you. He wants to protect you.

Not because he was ordered to–he wasn’t, and he doubts he ever will be–but because he cannot bear to see you broken. Because he needs to. Because every part of him–every scarred, disciplined, obedient part–screams that you deserve to be free.

He sits there in the corridor for a long time. The armor lies at his feet. The truth weighs heavier still: that the only thing he sees when his mind quiets–

Is you.

A/N: let this man have a breakdown (art by ykRRR23 on X)

[phantomsies]

𝐬𝐨𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | 𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐠𝐚𝐬 𝐝. 𝐚𝐜𝐞

intimate mornings with the love of your life

wc: 4.1K

modern au ofc (this is a part of the foodie/travel blogger au I’m working on!) very soft smut + lots of fluff, reader and ace are married, humor, kissing, breeding, handjob, cuddlefucking, prone bone, back kissing + praise (calls him daddy a couple times and he calls her pretty girl)

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life hadn’t always been the absolute dream for Ace as he knew it today..rather than waking up surrounded by lilac painted walls and a warm bed, swaddled in crisp white sheets…he awoke to crooks and pains in his joints from sleeping on wooden floors. Instead of chirping birds, crashing waves from the nearby beach and complete serenity, he was greeted with the sounds of yelling and chaos. Parents, who by all accounts loved him, but made his upbringing more difficult than it should have been and tough-as-nails grandparents who didn’t extend the grace typical ones would. His food wasn’t served to him in a professional-esque kitchen or on a silver platter. He got it in scarce rations and on paper plates if lucky…perhaps, it was why he indulged so much now. It was why he walked around with an abundance of joy, kindness and gratitude in everything he did. An attitude that had earned him quite the online following alongside the reviews of all the different cuisines and delicacies that eluded him in his younger years. He may have been the most jovial spirit anyone had ever laid eyes upon but it wasn’t always that way. All those harsh conditions could turn the warmest heart cold and Ace was no exception. Mad at a world that didn’t give him a fair shot to begin with..but that all changed once he met the woman he’d spend the rest of forever alongside. In life and career..his beloved (y/n). Someone who was equally harmed but made the best of it in the end. Someone who shared his passion for food and lust for life…hoping to explore all of the unknown together. One video at a time and share those experiences with the world. Just by being your authentic selves, you have been able to gain a pretty large platform and turn your very humble beginnings into a dream reality. Hence why he rejoiced in the fact that he could wake up every morning, next to his precious, adoring sweetheart and begin his day the correct way..being gracious.

being gracious that you were all his. That this spacious, two story house you shared together felt more like home every single day and that he was truly blessed to call you wife.

“Mmmm..there’s my handsome husband. Good morning, baby..”

it was a phrase he’d never get sick of hearing. Going from a wandering bachelor, never really finding his place in any relationship to someone’s forever person..it was surreal. He’d peer down at the glistening diamond on your ring finger, spread across his chest as you rolled over. One he’d been blessed to spend a decent amount on. More money than he’d ever been able to in his life. Your bare face is an absolute vision of beauty..one he could gaze upon forever and never tire of it and those big brown eyes glaring at him as if he were the most amazing thing in the world. He’d bring a hand up to the back of your neck and shoulders, brushing that silk bonnet that covered your freshly styled braids for an upcoming vacation.

“Good morning…how'd my pretty girl sleep?”

the name sending pings throughout your stomach as you giggled, nuzzling your face into the crook of his neck. He loved when you were so affectionate and touchy. You practically wanted to reside in his skin when you got like this but he didn’t mind at all. Placing gentle kisses along his jugular and earlobe, (y/n) confided in him that you’d slept amazing but woke up with him on your mind. Naturally, he wasn’t going to deny your wishes whatsoever. In fact, he’d shift a bit to meet your gaze, hoping to pry more info out of you. “Yeah? And what are you thinking about, sweetheart?”

it was an answer too salacious for such a tender moment. You didn’t want to ruin the mood but it was painfully obvious that you were craving more than just these tiny pecks and teasing.

“Mmmm…I just..missed you. ‘S all..” certainly a strange thought, considering he’d been by your side all night. But alas, it didn’t take your husband long to decipher exactly what you meant. That was one of the many beauties of marriage. It was one of the many admirable qualities he loved about you. How gentle you became in his presence, how shy you were after all these years and how bashful you became when asking for the one thing you never had to beg him for! It was too cute..as for the reason behind your sudden clinginess, he could only attribute it to the fact that you’d had a terrible dream that consisted of him leaving you or someone left a distasteful comment on your videos, saying that he was too good for you. But there wasn’t a chance in hell that Ace would ever be so foolish to come up off of you! He was the happiest he’d ever been in all his twenty something odd years on this earth. And you were the sole reason.

“You missed me?”

“Yes..so bad.”

eventually, you’d begin to become a little bit more coherent and that’s when your hand would shift from your own sides to his torso; gliding down to his pelvis. He’d then feel your palm cup his shaft and stroke it slowly as your lips met his neck. You’d shuffle around in the sheets, attempting to feign your urges by squeezing your thighs together. But it was of no use..he’d already picked up on it. Reading your body language like a book.

“Aw..well don’t, babe. I’m right here.. ‘m not going anywhere. you know that.” with an arm draped across your shoulder, Ace would plant two kisses atop your forehead before shifting entirely. Turning over onto his side, he’d usher you to do the same. The crinkle of the sheets sounding off in the once quiet room…that would soon become filled with sounds of your lovemaking as well.

“You promise?”

“Of course, pretty girl. I love you so damn much. Here, back up against me..there you go. I got you..”

with the two of you lying on your sides and the covers still draped across your nude bodies, (y/n) clenched the sheets and awaited his first move. He’d keep your leg hoisted between his curled fingers.

“Let me hold you, just like this..”

With a few seconds of anticipation, he’d guide that tip along your wet folds..subtle smacking noises could be heard as he teased you. He knew how sensitive you were so he didn’t want to make any sudden movements. Instead, he’d coo into your ear as he prepared to glide in.

“Can I put it in?..are you ready?”

“Of course...please.”

With that, the two of you became one as he nestled that thick cock between your inviting walls. Sinking in almost immediately. The sound of the impact alone made his knees buckle. You always felt so warm, silky and comforting. Writhing around, (y/n) maneuvered until you felt comfortable for him to begin moving. “Fuck..are you okay, sweetheart? Can I start moving?” Naturally, you’d grant him permission with a nod and faint whimper. It was something about those gestures of consent that made the moment all the more special. But he needed to hear you say it..to tell him exactly what you needed.

“Words, baby..talk to me..”

“Y-yes. You can start moving, please..”

Along with those gentle kisses against your neck as he slowly began to thrust.

“You know, I’ll never get tired of waking up and starting my day like this..just me and you. Getting to make love to the most beautiful woman in the world…”

Ace would dote as he continued to buck his hips forward, keeping a firm arm around your upper half and his hand coiling your elevated leg. Meanwhile, those full, swollen balls smacked against your entrance..suddenly, you’d feel one of those hands glide downward and begin massaging your clit. In return, you’d grasp the sheets tightly and brace for the sensation. Crying out, you’d glare up at your husband with those doe eyes he adored so much; your lip quivering and moans growing louder. His large, veiny hands occasionally gripping your breasts..pinching and rubbing those sensitive nipples just to stimulate you more.

“Mmmmph..and it always feels so good. Thank you, daddy..thank you so much.” Your graciousness was as adorable as it was arousing. Something about hearing that name made him want to spill every last drop into your pretty little cunt and let you make him one!

“Shit..keep talking like that and I don’t think we’ll ever get out of this bed, baby.”

“That’s fine. Just keep fucking me..like that.”

You were so overwhelmingly stimulated, he was afraid any other movements would send you over the edge. Even so, your husband continued to feed you deep strokes..all the while, filling your ear and mind with affirmations about how beautiful you were, how special you were to him and how he was so happy you were a part of his life. It wasn’t a luxury he had been afforded prior. All the other women who’d entered his life were gone before he even got the chance to know them well or get to that stage…just temporary flings for a fleeting love that never came to be. He always felt abandoned and lonely…as if no one could ever fill that void in his heart. That was until you came into his life. And he couldn’t dream of letting you go.

“Aw, you’re so cute when you get like this…all needy and shit..but you’re taking me so good, baby. I’m so proud of you.”

those sweet nothings constantly altering your mind and making you melt within his grasp. You felt as if you could just lose all control and allow yourself to completely submit. As if your only job was to lie there and let him bring you closer to ecstasy. Drool would begin to seep from your lips, along with a smile forming across your face. Just as a flashback came to mind..

“Do you remember the first time we fucked like this?…that night was so much fun…” and it didn’t take long for your husband to garner the memory as well. Chuckling as his pace slowed to a steady rhythm without breaking those incredible strokes. “Oh my gosh, are you kidding? I couldn’t forget. Waking up in the middle of the night in your apartment…all your friends in the next room and we had to stay quiet. You almost failed miserably, by the way.” The two of you began reminiscing on a time when your relationship didn’t quite have the same dynamic as it did now. You were still sharing a condo with your three best friends and he was still living with his two brothers in a less than ideal space. That particular night, you were all out at a club and rather than making the trek home, plastered out of his mind, Ace decided to stay over. Needless to say, when the clock struck around three am and that alcohol hadn’t quite worn off, the both of you awoke to the incessant urge to ravage one another!

however, there was the pressing matter of your roommates sleeping next door and the possibility that you’d wake them. So as a solution and compromise, he’d put you on your side with his hand cupping your mouth as he pounded up into you. He’d grunt and whisper the nastiest things in your ear; only for you to be forced into silence. Clenching his shaft and squeezing down every time he spoke. By the time he placed you onto your tummy, ass sticking into the air..you had lost track of your own orgasms.. “You took ‘fucking me to sleep’ literally. How the hell was I supposed to stay quiet?” To which he could do nothing but softly chuckle. Even of his own admission, he knew he was on an entirely different level then..but those days were far behind you both. No longer were the nights of reckless, alcohol fueled hookups with nothing but lust on your minds..they were instead replaced by passionate love making sessions as a result of being wine drunk and dancing around in your kitchen to R&B. No need to silence yourselves or be inconspicuous…you had a space all your own and you were going to use it as you saw fit. Including moaning and screaming your husband’s name so loudly that you’d wake your slightly distant neighbors.

”But we don’t have to worry about that anymore…I mean, we can fuck each other like animals if we wanted. We can do this whenever we feel like it..”

the statement, as outrageous as it sounded, was true! (Y/N) would burst into a giggle as those words and reality sank in. “Yeah, you’re right. Just one of the many great things about being married and in your own space.” It was something about that sentiment that made him speed up. As if the reality that he was spending an eternity with you made him tick. The same occurred when you called him ‘husband, hubby’ or told him that you can’t wait to have his baby someday. It was something that he never would have imagined to be true. Reaching back, (y/n) ran your fingertips across his face whilst pulling him into a kiss.

“I love you, (y/n)..so much, baby..”

“I love you more, Ace..”

just then, those movements became a bit sporadic and your body began to jolt around, breath catching in the back of your throat..it was beginning to make your head spin and eyes dilate; trailing to the back of your head. “Ah—you’re close, pretty girl. I can feel it. Don’t worry, I am too. I’m about to bust, honestly.” admitting just as you felt that cock twitch and pulsate inside of you. Those walls began to constrict and there was no way you were going to let him pull out. With that coy little smile stretching across your face, you’d instruct him to do exactly that.

“Well you know where I want it…”

“Yeah? Tell me then, sweetheart. Where do you want me to come?”

he could almost sense the desperation in your tone. Especially when you begin to curse or get louder.

“Nut in me..nut in this fucking pussy, please..”

“That’s more like it..”

He knew it was a sign that you were reaching your peak. However, his plans didn’t include either of you stopping. For a split moment, he’d bring that hand back to your throat and squeeze a bit tighter than the first time around. Meanwhile, your tongues clashed once more and engaged in a bout of sloppy, nasty kisses.

The two of you would laugh from delirium setting in and the impending orgasms. That’s when he’d instruct you to release at the same time and once that climax came, neither of you could contain yourselves. Ace would halt altogether and you were trembling as streams of warm juices came spilling down your legs and onto him.

“Oh my God!..I’m coming!..fucking coming—“

“Me too! Oh shit..”

with that, you were stuffed to the brim with your husband’s seed. His entire face went blank and those brown eyes trailed to the back of his skull. “Oh my gosh, yes!” The warm liquid filling the inside of your womb and that fat cock of his still pulsating for seconds after inside of you. He’d hold you close to him as he tried to get himself under control..shaking, breathless and sweating profusely, Ace removed the dark hairs plastered to his forehead before looking down to examine you. Only to be met with that beautiful smile and adorable laughter.

“What’s so funny?” To which you’d respond with the most innocuous yet hilarious answer.

“Oh nothing. You should’ve just seen your face. You looked like you were having an exorcism.” That laughter only becomes heartier as the thought sets in. One thing he had come to learn about his precious (y/n), was that you loved to laugh. Even at his own expense sometimes! Cracking jokes and poking fun at one another was just a part of your love language though. It’s what made the relationship so joyous and healthy. Even so, he had to get his revenge for that one!..

“And who’s fault might that be, woman? You’re the one who was begging me to do it.”

“I don’t recall.”

your sense of humor was certainly something to be admired. Sometimes, Ace didn’t know whether to take you seriously. Just one of the many joys of being in a relationship with you.

“Yeah, sure you don’t. Such a brat.” Scoffing and chuckling to himself as he kept marking your neck with kisses. Meanwhile, his hands had returned to your breasts and continued to grope gently. He’d release soft grunts, almost like rough moans whilst feeling you up.

“But you love it though.”

“Damn right I do..I can’t get enough..”

That much was evident by the way his hands roamed and caressed your body. He obviously hadn’t been fully satisfied, despite pumping you full of his cum just moments ago. He was almost certain to overstimulate himself and be knocked out for another four hours afterwards but it was a valiant sacrifice he was willing to endure just to have you once again. It wasn’t something that alluded you by any means..if anything, you didn’t help matters at all by gently bouncing your ass against his crotch. Even with that cock still nestled inside of you, you could still maneuver around. Which elicited another set of whimpers from your husband. Causing him to even whisper in your ear.

“Yes..fuck. Move that ass on me. Just like that...”

“You’re still so hard..”

it was painfully obvious that he hadn’t quite sated that ravenous appetite for you..and you hadn’t quite had enough. Despite being filled to the brim. Reluctantly, he’d pull out of you and drag a trail of that warm seed along with him. However, it wasn’t the end of your early morning fun…

“Flip over f’r me, I’m not done..”

It was something about that slight aggression in his tone that really aroused you. Hell, it even caused you to twitch as you followed his instructions. Just as you were maneuvering, he’d feed your plump ass cheek a hard smack before gently grasping the back of your neck.

“On your stomach, baby..there we go..”

once you were positioned just as he hoped, Ace would then follow suit and readjust so that he was on his knees and planted behind you. With those hips and asscheeks slightly raised, he’d stretch your arms outright before pinning them to the mattress. That thick cock rested atop your backside, slowly teasing the visible entrance. You were still leaking traces of his nut and something about the sight gave him the incessant urge to fill you with more.

“I swear..you’re so perfect. I don’t know how or what I did to deserve you but…I’m so happy you’re mine..”

those sweet nothings were followed by a soft grunt and a trail of kisses, slowly marking your spine. He’d bend down and place gentle pecks from your shoulders, to the top of your back and eventually reach the center. Each one eliciting a moan from (y/n).

“I know it may seem selfish..hell, a little greedy. But I just can’t get enough of you, pretty girl. I’m so fucking in love with you…I don’t know if I could survive if you weren’t here..” his profane language almost mimicked that of love drunken confessions. However, he was completely sober and meant every bit of what he uttered.

“Aww..you mean that, baby?..”

“Every word, sweetheart..every…single..word.”

Answering you as he slowly glided back into your inviting warmth. That sloppy cunt greeting him with a sloshing sound and pop as he stuffed you full once more. Once he was nestled about halfway, that swollen tip began prodding your insides and stimulating you. Even reaching a hand under to rub that clit again.

“You look so pretty when you’re all fucked out like this..that look on your face, it’s so hot…” doting on you even as he fed you those deep, slightly rough paced strokes. His hips snapped with each movement, sucking his teeth to try and maintain his composure. When he got like this, he was less concerned with making love and more so fucking the shit out of you!…

“I know how much you hate when I pull on that beautiful hair…but you love getting choked..gets you so much wetter, doesn’t it?” Spoken as if he didn’t know each and everyone of your ticks.

“Yes!..keep pounding this pussy, daddy. Faster..”. Begging him to increase his speed as he wrapped a hand around your throat. The band of his silver watch grazes your skin in the process. You were both becoming incredibly vocal and louder. Which meant that those orgasms were making a return for round two. It was only a matter of time before your bodies collapsed but for now, you were going to enjoy every second of this lust filled ride! Even shortly reminiscing on how the two of you woke up in this same manner on your first trip to Bali, just before filming a travel blog for it.

“Yeah? That’s what you want? Want me to fuck you faster, baby?” Rhetorically questioning as he increased his speed and roughened that pace. Even feeding your ass two heavy slaps yet again. He was trying to maintain his composure but just couldn’t quite hold it together! “God, yes! Right there…don’t stop!..”His hips snapped sporadically and before long, he was buried to the hilt inside of your fertile cunt. He knew the possibility of impregnating you was very likely and even so, Ace couldn’t resist the urge to pour every drop of his seed into you. Flat against that mattress, you’d gasp for breath and continue to plead for harder strokes. You were yet again on the brink of a climax and you needed his assistance to get there.

“Reach down and rub your clit, pretty girl..hurry up.” Strands of hair fell slack against his forehead, courtesy of the copious amounts of sweat beaded around your forehead. You’d heed his instruction and curl your hand underneath your belly. Tracing tiny circles around that aching bud, (y/n) wailed and cried out as your husband’s throbbing cock was pulsating inside of you. He was always so keen and aware of your body, including when you were on the brink of collapsing. Leaning down, he’d mumble against your ear; his own voice becoming drowsy and spent from all of this activity.

“..Same time…don’t hold back, okay?” With a heavy nod and shallow breaths, you’d find yourselves mimicking your actions from only moments ago, allowing your juices to splatter the sheets and his cum to paint those greedy walls. Seconds later, you’d both collapse to the mattress and in each other’s embrace with a barrage of kisses. Riding out those climatic highs into the sweet bliss of afterglow..your husband would cusp your cheek in the palm of his hands, just to catch one more glimpse of that beautiful face. Whilst those thick ropes finished pumping into you. Even after all of the lust filled, sensual moments and amazing sex, it was that moment alone and ones like them to remind him that life couldn’t get any better than this.

“Here, let’s stay like this for a little while…let me hold you.” His voice lowered to that of a comforting tone. He’d feel the warmth of your tears on his chest and knew that the overstimulation had taken its toll. “Don’t worry, pretty girl. You did amazing… ‘m so proud of you.” But he’d remain here as long as he needed to. After all, it was his favorite place in the world and where he felt the safest. Life may not have begun with the easiest path and it was a bit difficult sometimes…but every single day, he was committed to growing, becoming a better man so that even when things became hard, he was still softer with you!

[arasinchahonghong]

I Wanna Be yours ||L.Jh

Pairings - Woozi x femreader

The Unscripted Melody

Woozi had faced countless interviewers. They were a blur of polite smiles, rehearsed questions, and the occasional insightful probe. But Cho Y/N was different. From the moment she walked in, there was an effortless grace, a quiet confidence that intrigued him. She didn't gush, she didn't fan-girl; she simply settled in, her eyes holding a calm intelligence.

The interview began like any other, a familiar dance of questions about music, concepts, and future plans. Yet, as Y/N spoke, her voice a warm, clear tone, Woozi found himself listening more intently than usual. She asked about the nuances of his creative process, the hidden inspirations, the vulnerable moments in songwriting that few ever dared to touch upon. She genuinely wanted to understand the heart behind the music, not just the technicalities.

He found himself opening up, sharing thoughts he hadn't articulated before, feeling an unexpected comfort in her presence. There was a moment, when he was explaining a particularly difficult part of composing "Healing," that he looked up and met her gaze. Her eyes, a rich, warm brown, were filled with a profound understanding, a shared empathy that sent a jolt through him. It wasn't just professional interest; it felt like a connection.

As the interview neared its end, a strange reluctance settled over Woozi. He didn't want it to be over. When she thanked him, her smile soft and genuine, he felt a warmth spread through his chest.

"Thank you, Y/N-ssi," he said, his voice a little softer than usual. "That was... a really good interview."

She just smiled, a gentle blush dusting her cheeks, and the way the light caught her hair, the subtle scent of her perfume – it all imprinted itself on his mind.

Later, as he reviewed the interview footage, he found himself replaying her questions, her expressions, the way she tilted her head when listening intently. He realized with a jiddlering sensation that the comfortable, almost familial feeling he usually reserved for his members, had begun to extend to Cho Y/N.

He found himself thinking about her when he was in the studio, wondering what she would think of a new melody. He’d catch himself hoping to see her again, not for an interview, but just to talk. The realization hit him, quiet and undeniable, like a perfectly placed chord in a composition: Lee Jihoon, the stoic, music-obsessed Woozi, had fallen for the interviewer, Cho Y/N. And the thought, instead of alarming him, felt surprisingly, wonderfully, in tune.

The Melody of Y/N

The studio, usually Woozi's sanctuary of focused creation, had become a canvas for something new, something that hummed with a different kind of energy. Days bled into nights as he wrestled with a melody, a chord progression that felt just right, yet elusive. It wasn't about a concept, or a feeling to be universally shared; it was about her.

He’d catch himself sketching out lines, not on sheet music, but in his mind. The way her eyes crinkled when she genuinely smiled. The gentle curve of her hand when she gestured. The quiet strength in her voice as she asked a particularly insightful question.

The first few attempts were clumsy, too direct, too simple. Woozi, the master of intricate compositions, found himself humbled by the task of capturing a single person. He wanted to convey the unexpected comfort, the gentle understanding, the subtle spark that had ignited within him.

Finally, late one night, as the city outside slept, it clicked. A soft, almost ethereal piano intro, a familiar warmth yet distinctly new. He began to hum, then to sing, his voice a quiet murmur against the silent studio.

The lyrics flowed, unbidden, from his heart:

(Verse 1) The usual lights, the same old questions framed Just another face, another name proclaimed But then you walked in, a quiet, gentle hum And suddenly the noise just felt numb.

(Chorus) Like a melody I'd always yearned to find A harmony that truly soothes my mind In your eyes, a depth I couldn't see before Now every silence whispers, "I want more."

(Verse 2) You spoke of feelings, hidden, tucked away And in your quiet patience, I began to sway Not just the music, but the heart beneath the sound A connection made, on hallowed, sacred ground.

(Chorus) Like a melody I'd always yearned to find A harmony that truly soothes my mind In your eyes, a depth I couldn't see before Now every silence whispers, "I want more."

(Bridge) I write in rhythms, structure every beat But you, you're the freedom, beautifully complete An unscripted note, a surprising, sweet refrain Washing over me, like gentle, falling rain.

(Outro) Just Y/N... a song I never knew I’d compose... My quiet inspiration, where my heart now goes.

He played it over and over, refining, polishing, ensuring every note resonated with the burgeoning feeling in his chest. It wasn't loud, or grand, or full of dramatic flair. It was understated, personal, a gentle confession whispered into the silent air of his studio. He titled it simply, in his mind: "Still Here." Because with her, he felt like he was truly present, truly himself.

[dessarchive]

JO CAMERON, FAME DR ౨ৎ A DISCOGRAPHY DEEP-DIVE!

i wanted to post an in-depth post for each of these releases months ago but couldn’t bring myself to do it because it’s just so much. i really hope you enjoy this as much as i do because this is my favorite discography i’ve ever created!

ballad of a homeschooled girl (April 14, 2023) [1st EP]

• ballad of a homeschooled girl

• making the bed

• mess it up

• pretty isn’t pretty

• freak the freak out

• slim pickins

• take a hint

• bad reviews

silence between songs (June 21, 2024) [Debut Album]

• miss me too

• into the walls

• difficult

• the bottom

• block me out

• don’t tell my mom

• talk too much

• hard to sleep

• silence between songs

• amelie

• unsteady

• home to another one

• scared of my guitar

• the climb

• wondering

• home to another one (acoustic)

message in a bottle (2024)

• message in a bottle

b.o.y. (2025) [2nd EP]

• intro

• see you tonight (feat. ILLIT)

• denim

• goodie bag

• lyevia & mckenna

• boy for a day

• joe’s interlude

• raised by rihanna

• no, i am not in love

• sue me

• purple lace bra

• think later

• bloodonmyhands (feat. Flo Milli)

• boy is yours

• outro

jo cameron (2026) [2nd Album]

• dream

• you belong with me

• fearless

• make it in america

• shower

• hey stephen

• when archer falls in love

• jump then fall

• enchanted

• never grow up

• begin again

• superman

• girl i’ve always been

• electric touch (feat. Thomas Welling)

• our song

• ever seen

• feels like

• let it happen

• a place in this world

• today was a fairytale

• i can see you

• crazier

JC (2028) [3rd Album]

• ready or not

• style

• ain’t my fault

• blank space

• last friday night (t.g.i.f.)

• brokenhearted

• the louvre

• the very first night

• teenage dream

• shake it off

• boyshit

• homemade dynamite

• close to you

• nonsense

• 15 minutes

• paris

• bed chem

• wildest dreams

• good graces

• espresso

• slut!

• feather

• california girls (feat. Kendrick Lamar)

• juno

• harleys in hawaii

• new romantics

a nonsense christmas (2029) [3rd EP]

• intro

• a nonsense christmas

• buy me presents

• santa doesn’t know you like i do

• cindy lou who

• is it new year’s yet?

• santa tell me

• with it this christmas

• december

• not just on christmas

• true love

• winter things

• santa tell me - naughty version

new york (2031) [4th Album]

• new york

• diet pepsi

• money is everything

• aquamarine

• lost & found

• high fashion

• summer forever

• in the rain

• dress

• fame is a gun

• times like these

• life’s no fun through clear waters

• headphones on

blackout (2033) [5th Album]

• gimme more

• sports car

• von dutch (feat. Addison Rae)

• blow

• turn ya head

• applause

• 808

• like i do

• if u seek amy

• we r who we r

• claws

• revolving door

• 365 (feat. Shygirl)

• you can’t come to my party

• blah blah blah (feat. 3OH!3)

• machine girl

• when i grow up

• who owns my heart

• s&m

• anthems

• get back

• b2b (feat. Tinashe)

• your love is my drug

deluxe tracks (2033)

• girl, so confusing (feat. ???)

• sympathy is a knife (feat. Mckenna Grace)

• freakshow

• skin

• miss possessive

• take it off

• guess (feat. Archer Sinclair)

• break the ice

• perfect lover

• phonography

• i know love (feat. Thomas Welling)

• buttons

• circus

• mannequin

• d&g

• e.t.

• breathe on me

• outrageous

• i might say something stupid

• spring breakers (feat. kesha)

• radar

• heaven on earth

eternal sunshine (2037) [6th Album]

• intro (saturn returns)

• eternal sunshine

• supernatural

• true story

• the boy is mine

• yes, and?

• we can’t be friends (wait for your love)

• bye

• imperfect for you

• ordinary things

• warm

• dandelion

• Hampstead

positions (2039) [7th Album]

• shut up

• 34+35

• motive (feat. Doja Cat)

• just like magic

• safety net (feat. Kendrick Lamar)

• my hair

• breathin

• nasty

• r.e.m.

• west side

• sweetener

• successful

• love language

• positions

• confused

• obvious

• no tears left to cry

• pov

deluxe tracks (2039)

• someone like you - interlude

• test drive

• god is a woman

• thomas welling

• 34+35 (feat. Doja Cat, Megan Thee Stallion) [Remix]

• worst behavior

• get well soon

[wriothesleybear]

Best friend's Bachelorette Party

~a/n: Inspired by on the most beautiful fanart I've seen on twitter by minoru_uwuarts. Here’s a Christmas present for my fellow Wrio lovers. Probably my last fic to end the year. Merry Christmas and happy holidays everyone! Enjoy!🥰❤️

~warnings: some plot, smut, male stripping, mentions of blowjob, cunnilingus, jerking off, fingering, squirting, consent, gentle face fucking, ends in some fluff, fem!reader, MDNI!

~summary: Being the maid of honor, you throw your best friend a bachelorette party and order a male stripper. He tells you to meet him in the guest bedroom after the party. You took him up on his offer and it was not disappointing...

~word count: 5.9k

Being the maid of honor was a very busy job. The jobs included helping prepare for the wedding, getting invitation cards ready and sent out in the mail, helping the bride choose her dream wedding dress, and many other jobs. One of them included the bachelorette party. Your best friend said anything you planned was fine for her party because she trusted your tastes. In the past, you remember she mentioned wanting to get a stripper. Being the maid of honor, you wanted to fulfill her one and only bachelorette party of her dreams, so you did as she asked.

You've never ordered a stripper before or even gone to a strip club. It was a bit of an embarrassing new experience but it was for your best friend! While searching online for the best professional strippers who had good reviews and made house calls, you came upon a website called Celestial Temptations. It was a very fancy and elegant website that had a list of many different types of professional male strippers. They showed a picture of each gentleman with a personal description below it. Scrolling through the many types of male strippers was a bit exciting and made it difficult to choose which one to hire because they all looked gorgeous and sexy. You kept in mind what your best friend's taste was in men while deciding. You came across one in particular that caught your eye. His name was ‘The Duke’. He was a buff, handsome man with black and gray hair with part of it looking like animal ear tufts. Scars littered his skin but they added to his beauty. He wore a professional business suit that was open to show his torso and chest, tie loose as he pulled on it in the picture. You rubbed your thighs together, already getting excited just from his picture alone.

His description read: The Duke. "A man of mystery who will do anything to please a woman. "

You were already taken in by the picture of this man but his description just pulled you in more. Clicking on his profile, you get more information about him like his age, height, likes and dislikes, turn-ons and turn-offs, etc. You click on the 'order services' button and put in your information and payment, all the while, your heart is pounding with excitement. You get a confirmation email, telling you that the order went through and The Duke was booked for your best friend's bachelorette party. This was going to be an interesting party..

~

The night of the bachelorette party finally came and you were excited for your best friend to have the best time of her life tonight. Deep down, you were also a little excited about the 'special entertainment'. While the soon-to-be bride and guests were busy opening gifts, the doorbell rang. You figured it was the long-awaited entertainment. "I'll get it!" You hurry to answer the door, making sure that everyone is preoccupied with the bride. You open the front door to see a tall, handsome man that looks exactly like the man from the picture that you ordered for. A charming smile graces his facial features. A smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

"y/n, right?" You lose your train of thought when you hear his deep voice but soon snap out of it.

"Um yes! That's me. The Duke, correct?" He gives you a flirty smile and replies yes. You blush. "Follow me. I'll show you where you can get ready." Opening the door wider, you let him in and close it behind him as he scans the front room of the house. He then turns to you, smiling, "Lead the way." You lead him to a spare bedroom down the hall. As he followed you, he kept checking you out from behind without you knowing.

You open the door to the guest bedroom, letting him enter first. "Here you go, you can prepare in here and we'll do the show in the living room where everyone currently is." He sets down a bag on the bed and already begins to take off his jacket. You're able to see his back muscles flex through his shirt. His deep voice breaks your daze. "No problem. I'll be ready in five." He says as he turns to you, giving you another one of his charming smiles. You quickly turn around and get ready to leave but then he stops you. "Oh, and make sure you get a front room seat. I do a little something special for those who catch my eye." He teasingly says. Instead of turning around and replying, you simply shut the door. Leaning your back against it, you try to calm your beating heart. You could feel the heat in your cheeks and also between your thighs. You're finally able to calm down and gather yourself, pushing those feelings down. He says that to a lot of women probably. It's not that special, you think to yourself.

You head back to the living room to see that everyone has finished watching the bride-to-be open her presents. You gather everyone's attention. "Alright, ladies! We have a special show for everyone, especially for the main lady of the night." Noises of excitement and curiosity fill the room. You turn the bride's chair around so she's facing towards the hallway where the entertainment should enter from. "I remember you asked for a very special entertainment for your bachelorette party. So, I did my duty as maid of honor to fulfill that wish." Your best friend gets all giddy, getting an idea of what this 'special entertainment' could be. “Would it have something to do with that metal pole you installed today?” She points to the stripping pole connected to the floor and ceiling nearby in the room. You smirk, acting oblivious. “I’m not sure. I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

You grab a blindfold from your pocket and wrap it around the bride's head, covering her eyes. You dim the lights and turn the stereo on to play some sexy music to get everyone in the mood. Everyone begins to chant and cheer for the 'special entertainment' to come out, the bride especially.

Wrio hears the music play and the women calling for him so he takes that as his cue. He opens the door and walks down the hall towards the living room where the audience is waiting. All the women cheer as soon as he enters the room. His charming, seductive smile added to the sexy aura that surrounded him. "This must be the lucky lady." He walks towards your best friend and kneels before her. You remove the blindfold covering her eyes and once her sight focuses, it lands on the handsome man in front of her. She blushes as he takes her hand in his, leaving a kiss on the back of it. "I'm The Duke. I hear you're getting married soon. I better do my best to make your last night as an unmarried woman the most memorable one ever." Squeals and cheers fill the room once again, letting the man know to start the show. You take a seat nearby, grab a specialty drink, and take a swig of it.

While checking out The Duke, you notice he changed his outfit from earlier. He's now wearing a black suit with a red tie around his neck. His pants fit snuggly to his legs, accentuating his nice ass. Pulling on his suit jacket, he takes it off, tossing it somewhere in the room. Oh god, how can this man make taking off a simple jacket so sexy? Next, he begins to loosen his tie and unbutton his dress shirt. Whistles fill the room when he completely removes his shirt, showing his buff body and muscles. Your eyes scan his bare upper body, admiring his chiseled abs, ripped arms, and the scars that litter his skin. He grabs the blindfold from the floor, wrapping it around his eyes and tying it.

He walks over to the bride, and grabs the bottom of her chair, moving her to be positioned right in front of the stripper pole. “Gotta have front-row seats to the show.” His hips sway to the beat of the music as he grabs onto the metal pole and swings on it. He’s able to effortlessly climb the pole to the top of it, with his back to you as you can admire his ass and back muscles that flex when he grabs the pole. Wrapping his legs securely around it, he leans back until he’s facing the audience upside down. His hands grip the pole between his legs, holding him as he slowly slides down the pole. Screams and cheers fill the room once again. A flirty smirk covers his face from hearing the ladies cheer for him. Calling out to the bride seated in front of him, he tells her to take his blindfold off. Wasting no time, she unties the blindfold, letting it drop to the floor. The sight of his blue eyes gazing intently at her while doing his signature smile would make any woman’s legs turn into jelly. He slowly slides himself down the pole, face right in front of her legs. He uses one hand to grab her leg, positioning it to the side of his head as his hand moves up her leg to her thigh, making the bride blush. He removes his hand before going any further, leaving her wanting more.

He turns his head to where you’re sitting, eyes landing on you. Winking at you, he beckons you over with a finger. You’re hesitant, not wanting to take the attention away from the bride-to-be, but she walks over to you, grabs you by the hand and pulls you over to her seat in front of him. Plopping you down, you make eye contact with The Duke, his gaze sending tingles down your body. He uses both of his hands to slide up your legs, slowly easing up to your thighs. Similar to what he did to the bride but with you, he doesn’t stop himself at a certain point. Hands move further up to the inside of your thighs, almost touching your core. Blushing and slightly embarrassed from knowing people are watching, you try to close your legs but he prevents you from doing it. He chuckles at your actions. Removing his hand, he grabs your hand, pulling it to his abs to feel it. The feel of his soft, chiseled abs does something to you. You get entranced by the feel of them, slowly rubbing your fingers up and down his stomach. He brings your hand to his mouth, leaving a sweet, short kiss on the palm. Suddenly, he pulls you by the hand so your face is near his, eyes widened with surprise. He whispers in your ear, Meet me in the guest bedroom after the show. Your thighs clench together as heat goes down to your core from his mysterious words. He releases his grip on your arm, allowing you to pull away. You’re in a daze from your small interaction with him, but a cheer of “mores” from the guests breaks you out of your trance. You gain your composure and get up from the seat, allowing the bride to sit back down to have her turn again. Walking back to your seat, you’re left wondering what he meant with his words. What would happen if you did meet him in the guest bedroom after the party? The curiosity eats at you, leaving you wanting more. He knows the effect he has on you. That was his plan after all.

~

Once the entertainment was done, the party was officially over and the guests began to leave. You close the door once the last guest leaves. Joining your best friend on the couch, you're exhausted. Your best friend tells you how much she enjoyed the party and thanks you for it while hugging you as her words are slurred. She's wasted. You laugh, laying her down and putting a blanket over her. Once she settles down, she brings something to your attention.

"I think the stripper has the hots for you."

"What?" You pause, surprised by what she said.

"Yeah, I could tell how he looks at you, especially during the special dance he gave you."

"Yeah, okay. I'm sure that's just him acting for his job."

"Nope, I can tell. I'm psychic and I know he has the hots for you. He's probably waiting in the guest bedroom for you right now. You should go in there and see." She says, her words slurring more as she begins to get sleepier. "If you don't go in there and fuck him, you're not my maid of honor anymore."

Rolling your eyes and laughing at her. "Whatever you say. You're drunk. Go to sleep." She begins to snore, signaling that she's passed out. You think about what she said in her drunk rant. You can't help the thoughts of what if she's right. Shaking your head, you ignore the thoughts and head to the guest bedroom where The Duke is waiting. You knock on the door and hear his deep voice saying Come in.

Opening the door, you see him sitting on the bed, legs spread. "I was wondering if you'd take me up on my invitation." He stands up and walks over to you. Your back leans against the door as he hovers over you. He cups your cheek, his thumb rubbing on your bottom lip, feeling the softness of your lips. He thinks about how nice they'd feel against his own. Not wanting to wait any longer, he presses his lips to yours. You feel the sparks as his lips finally touch yours. Hot, passionate kisses that take your breath, making it hard to breathe. His tongue invades your mouth, exploring and intertwining with yours. You feel like you’re suffocating, but it feels so good. His kisses are addicting. His hands move to the bottom of your shirt. "Raise your arms." Raising your arms, he pulls your shirt up over your head.

Once he discards it to the floor, he pulls you back into a kiss. Rough, calloused hands explore your upper half. Starting from your hips, up to your waist, and around to your back to unclasp your bra. It falls to the floor. His large hands cup your breasts, groping and pinching your nipples. You moan into the kiss. With an arm around your waist, he slightly bends down, wrapping his lips around your bud and sucks, as his free hand fondles the other. The tip of his tongue plays with the tip of your bud, hardening it. The feeling of your bud hardening under his tongue makes him moan. Your head falls back as moans leave your lips due to the pleasure. You comb your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to your chest. He switches to giving your other breast the same treatment with his tongue, playing with the previous one with his hand.

Once he's done giving your breasts attention, he moves back up and kisses you while his hands move down to your thighs. He enjoys the feel of your soft, squishy thighs. If only they could be wrapped around his head. "Jump". Jumping, he catches you by the back of your thighs as your legs wrap around his waist. Not breaking the kiss, he carries you over to the guest bed, pushing you down onto it. His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and hickeys. Your legs tighten around his hips, holding him close as you grind against his crotch, looking for some friction. "Someone's eager for my cock." He chuckles and teases.

The smirk leaves his face as your hand cups his cock through his pants, his breath hitching when you rub it. He grabs both of your hands, holding them against the bed next to your head. "Patience. I'll fill your pussy with my cock soon but first, I need a little taste." He litters kisses down your chest to your stomach. Letting go of your hands, he moves to the button on your jeans, unbuttoning it and pulling your pants down your legs. Tossing it to the floor, he spreads your legs and notices a wet spot on your panties. "Already wet for me and I've barely done anything." Fingers move to rub against the wet spot, making you moan. He leans down to lay on his stomach, switching his fingers with his lips. He kisses your pussy through your underwear, the wet spot growing. He experiments with the tip of his tongue, rubbing it against you. You groan from the little friction but it's still not enough. "More please." You quietly beg.

He moves your underwear to the side, enjoying the sight of your bare pussy. "Beautiful." You get embarrassed as he just lays there, admiring your pussy. "Don't just stare." You blush as you try to close your legs but he blocks you from doing that. "Sorry, I can't help myself." He shows his apology by rubbing his fingers between your folds, finally touching your pussy to help relieve the stress from the long wait. You gasp out at the feel of his rough fingers on your most sensitive spot. Rubbing your clit, one finger prods at your entrance, slowly teasing it. You whimper, silently telling him more. He pushes his finger inside you, feeling your tightness. He begins to slowly pump his finger, testing the pace as he rubs your clit. Moans fill his ears as he quickens his pace. You're already close, feeling the warmth in your lower belly. When you're about ready to cum, he pulls his fingers out, leaving you disappointed. "I'd prefer it if you came on my tongue for your first orgasm."

Slipping your underwear off and discarding it with the rest of your clothes, he spreads your legs wide, giving him full access to your core. It's a bit embarrassing but that soon leaves your mind once his mouth latches on your pussy. You moan aloud at the new sensation. His mouth was much more pleasurable than his fingers. His tongue licks your clit, switching between flicking his tongue and sucking. Your head falls back as you intertwine your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp. You already begin to feel that pleasurable warmth again in your lower belly when the pace of his tongue quickens. His tongue moves to circle your entrance, before sliding into you. He uses his thumb to rub your clit as his tongue explores your insides. The simultaneous pleasure finally pushes you over the edge as you cum on his tongue. Your sweet flavor decorates his taste buds. He groans from the delicious taste, the vibrations of his moans, and his continuous motions helping you to ride out your high.

You begin to feel overstimulated, wanting a break, but he wants more. "Gimmie more. I know you can." He replaces his tongue with two fingers, pumping them into you at a quick pace as his tongue flicks and laps at your clit. It feels so good but too much at the same time. You're not sure if you want to push his head away or pull him closer to your core. You begin to feel the warmth again, more intense this time. "Come on. Come for me. Come on my face, beautiful." He says against your pussy as he continues to pump his fingers and lick your clit at a fast pace. The warmth finally snaps in your belly. You squirt on his face, your sweet nectar filling his mouth as he tries to devour all of it, not wanting any drop to be wasted. Your beautiful moans fill his ears as he continues, his pace unrelenting. This causes you to quickly come again, tears filling your eyes at the immense pleasure. Something you've never felt before. You want more.

He begins to slow his ministrations, helping you calm down from your three climaxes. Rubbing your thighs and leaving a kiss on your pussy, it causes your thighs to twitch and a whine to leave your lips from the sensitivity. He moves back up to your face, melting his lips against yours, making you taste yourself as his tongue intertwines with yours. "Want to taste my cock now?" You eagerly nod your head, wanting to return the favor. "Good girl." He pecks your lips and gets up to stand at the edge of the bed. "On your knees." You shakily move yourself to your knees on the bed, face right in front of his covered cock. He stays silent, waiting for you to unbutton his pants.

Your hands move over to his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping. Pulling his pants down, he steps out of them. He's still dressed in his underwear but you can see the large outline of his cock. You grope him through his underwear, admiring the length of it. "Look who's being the tease now." You look up, eyes meeting his. You notice the dark lust in his eyes, silently begging you to free his cock. You hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers, slowly pulling them down. His cock springs out as his underwear falls to his feet. You gape at the sight of his cock. Large and thick with a vein lining the bottom of it. "Like the view?" His voice breaks you out of your trance. You nod your head. "Good. Now wrap your hand around it." Wrapping your fingers around his thick length, you slowly move your hands into an up-and-down motion. You spit on his cock to make it easier to jerk him off. “Suck my cock.” You lick his tip, swirling your tongue around his head, and insert it into your mouth. Sucking on his tip, you slowly take him inch by inch. His thick girth is overwhelming but feels so exciting. He grabs your hair into a makeshift ponytail, moving your hair out of your face, giving him a better view of you sucking his cock. “Good girl. Try to take a bit more. Show me how good you are at sucking cock.” His lustful words turn you on more. You want to please him.

You slide him out of your mouth, a pop sound is heard when you remove your mouth from his tip. Moving his cock up, you place your tongue on the base of his cock, near his balls. Keeping eye contact with him, you lick a long stripe up on the underside of his cock, all the way to the tip, and slip him back into your warm mouth. You go at a medium pace while sucking his cock, continuing the deep eye contact, causing him to twitch in your mouth. “Fuck. You really do know how to suck cock, don’t ya?” You moan in reply, the vibrations around his cock making his breath hitch. “Can I fuck your mouth?” A muffled ‘mhm' is heard as you give him consent. Holding your head in place, he begins to gently thrust into your mouth. You relax your jaw and place your hands on his thighs as you let him use your mouth.

Looking up, the view above you is glorious. He’s looking down at you, watching you intently. When you lick one of his sensitive spots on his cock, he moans. Hearing his moans makes you happy, knowing that you’re able to make this hot man feel immense pleasure. Wanting to hear more of his moans, you use one of your hands to massage his balls as you suck his cock more. Curses leave his mouth as his head falls back with his eyes closed. You’re making him go crazy. He’s never felt this much pleasure before. But it’s not enough, he wants more of you.

He pulls you by your makeshift ponytail, pulling you off of his cock. "Get on your hands and knees for me." Listening to him, you turn around, getting on your knees and hands. He rubs the side of your thighs, up towards your ass, and gropes it. Grabbing his cock and giving it a few pumps, he rubs his cock head between your folds, teasing your clit. You slightly whine, wanting more, you shake your ass. He chuckles. “Patience beautiful. I’ll give you what you want in due time. You have to tell me what you want though.”

“Fuck me, please. Make me cum on your cock.” Embarrassment has long left you, mind too dazed from the lust and want for him to have his cock inside of you. It’s more than a want, it’s a need. “For you, anything.” He prods your entrance with his tip then finally slides his head in. Slowly sliding himself inside your pussy, you flinch a bit by his massive girth. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten laid and your previous boyfriends never had a size like The Duke’s.

Once you’ve relaxed and gotten used to his size, he slides his cock out to the tip and thrusts back into you. He continues this, turning into a steady pace. The view of his cock disappearing inside of you and the sight of your ass bouncing against his pelvis causes his control to falter. Sounds of your moans, the pap pap sound of your ass hitting his pelvis, his grunts, it’s becoming too much for you. His hand wanders over the expanse of your back, slightly pushing down on it, signaling you to arch your back so his cock can reach deeper into you. He’s hitting your soft spot, the shocks of pleasure shooting up your body, making your arms jelly and causing you to fall face-first into the pillow. Your moans are muffled into the pillow when he quickens his pace. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your upper body up against his chest. “I want to hear you. I want to hear the sounds you make when you finally cum on my cock.” He says into your ear. His hand slides down your stomach to your clit, rubbing it while thrusting into you. His head moves down to your neck, sucking and licking another hickey onto your skin.

One of your hands holds onto the arm that’s stimulating your clit while the other goes to his head, fingers interlocking with his hair, pushing his head into your neck. Your nails dig into his arm, but he doesn’t care. It excites him. His free hand grips your jaw, turning your head to face his own, pulling you into a breathtaking kiss. The softness of his kiss compared to his hard, deep thrusts makes your head dizzy and pussy tighten around him. You break the kiss, crying out as you cum on his cock, juices leaking down your thighs. Your legs shake from the exhaustion of being on your knees so much. He’s unrelenting. The pace of his actions does not falter one bit. You already want to cum again, and you don’t mind. You don’t want him to stop, lust taking over your mind, making it hard to think straight.

He’s getting close as well. The tightening of your pussy around his cock with the melody of your moans filling his ears edge him closer and closer. Until he suddenly pulls out. You’re confused and disappointed as you’re denied your next orgasm. You turn your head to look back at him, whining for more. You’re about to ask him why he stopped, but the question is unable to leave your mouth as his hands grab you, flipping you over on your back. He crawls over you, pressing his chest into yours as his weight pushes you into the bed, making you unable to escape his intense gaze. Hands grab your wrists, pinning them to the bed on each side of your head. Sliding himself into you, he doesn’t hesitate and continues his quick pace. He looks into your eyes, intent on watching your facial expressions as you fall over the edge once again. “I want to see your expression when I fill you up.” He whispers against your lips before connecting his own with yours. Your moans are muffled in a passionate kiss as his thrusts get deeper and slower. Every time he thrusts in and out of you, his groin rubs against your clit, adding to the pleasure. He breaks the kiss, giving you the ability to speak. “Fuck. I’m gonna cum again. Don’t stop. Please.” He smirks as he pushes his hips down against yours, moving his hips in a circular motion, sending more pleasure to your soft spots.

You cry out as you release your nectar on his pelvis and cock. You twitch and shake under him as he continues his thrusting, whining from the overstimulation. You feel him twitch inside you the closer he gets to his orgasm. Wrapping your legs around him, you urge him to cum. He loses his self-control and grabs your thighs, pushing them to your chest, and pumps into you quickly. Tears fill your eyes from the sensitivity, conflicted about whether to tell him to slow down or speed up more. He grunts and moans above you. His beautiful, addicting moans. He moves his hand to your clit, rubbing it in circles. When you once again cum on his cock for the nth time, that finally sends him over.

He quickly pulls his cock out of you and moves to hover himself over your belly, straddling you as he vigorously pumps his cock. His head falls back, sensual moans fill the room as his seed spills over your breasts, covering them in his sticky, warm liquid. Once he finishes emptying himself on you, he topples over on the bed, lying next to you as you both try to catch your breaths.

“I thought you were going to cum inside.” You sheepishly say, trying to hide your disappointment. He turns his head to look at you and he notices the slight disappointment on your face, making him chuckle. “I don’t do that on the first meet. But if you really want me to, go on a date with me.” He turns onto his side and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You gonna pay for me this time?” You tease, smirking. “Of course. What kind of gentleman would I be if I let a pretty lady like you pay.” You chuckle in reply, but a thought nags you in the back of your mind. “Do you say this to all of your clients?”

“Nope. I usually don’t sleep with clients. It’s a rule in my business contract.”

“Oh no, are you going to get in trouble then?” You ask, slight worry in your voice. He only chuckles, leaving you confused. Cupping your cheek, he kisses your lips. The kiss only lasts a few seconds but it portrays his feelings. “I don’t mind breaking the rules if it’s for you. There’s something about you that makes me addicted to you. Plus, the sex was mind-blowing, don’t you think?” You gently slap his chest. “Such a sweet talker.” Drowsiness and exhaustion start to consume you, making your eyes heavy and yawn. He tightens his hold on you, resting your head in the crook of his neck. Once settling down, he notices his own exhaustion due to a very busy night. Both of you soon fall asleep, satisfied.

~

Sun rays peak through the crack in the curtains, shining on your face, causing you to stir and slowly open your eyes. Groaning, you rub your eyes to ease the sting of the sudden blinding sunlight. You move to turn away from the sunlight, but you notice that something is blocking you from doing so. You feel a solid build against your back and a strong, heavy arm wrapped around your hip. It takes you a second to gather your surroundings, the memories of last night a slight blur. You remember some moments from the bachelorette party. Playing games, opening gifts, serving drinks, then the entertainment part of the party. You slowly begin to remember what happened after the party ended. Accepting the invitation from The Duke and meeting him in the guest bedroom, then having your face shoved in the covers as he pounds into you from behind. You blush once you finally remember everything.

You slowly turn your head to look behind you and your questions are answered when you see The Duke is the one lying behind you. You carefully try to remove yourself from under his arm, trying to avoid waking him up. Suddenly, he wraps both of his arms around your waist, hold tightening as he pulls you close to his chest. "Where do you think you're going?" He whispers in his deep morning voice, nuzzling into your neck. “Um-m I need to get ready for my friend’s wedding.”

“There’s no rush. It wouldn’t hurt to get a little bit more rest. Or we could get a little session in before you have to leave.” Littering kisses down your neck, his hand gropes your body, making you excited. “As tempting as that sounds, don’t forget, I’m the maid of honor so I have a lot to do on the day of the wedding.” You move to sit up in the bed, pulling away from him to stop yourself from falling into the trap of being ravaged by the handsome man again.

He grabs your wrist when you try to get up, moving your hand to his lips to leave a kiss on it. “When can I see you again?”

“Well, since you do owe me a date, how about you come to the wedding with me as my date?”

“How could I deny a request from a beautiful lady.” He teases, inching his face close to yours. When he goes to kiss you, you stop him by putting a finger over his lips. “Best we get ready then.”

“Not even a small kiss, especially after how close we are already.” Smiling, you move your face close to his, lips slightly grazing each other. Just as he thinks you’re about to kiss him, you pull back. “Later. After you get ready.” Disappointment is shown on his face this time, making you giggle. Getting up, you start heading towards the guest bedroom bathroom. You turn back to look at him. “Come on, let’s shower.” He throws the blanket off of his bare body, getting up to follow you. You can already see his cock is hard again, causing heat to shoot down to your core. While lost in your thoughts, he picks you up, getting you out of your daze. “Come on. Didn’t you say you have a wedding to get ready for, maid of honor? You can admire my cock in the shower while getting ready.” He says, his signature flirty smile graces his face. Geez, he was going to be the death of you.

[isacksteban]

Careful — Carlando

@ellearts fueled my ideas...

Carlos knew he shouldn't, he had no business starting anything with the 19-year-old rookie he was supposed to be mentoring. But it wasn't entirely his fault. Lando was the one who had kissed him so innocently, confessing he liked him more than he should. Lando's shy, uncertain soft lips had felt so good on his own, and he couldn't bring himself to deny the sweet boy a thing, even if it was their first kiss.

It soon became something they did when they were alone, after their training sessions; they kissed often. Nothing serious, just a few reassuring pecks when Lando aced a lap time or when Lando would pout because he didn't understand a strategy. Lando would always smile so cutely, clinging to Carlos like there was no other place he'd be. Carlos liked that, liked it a lot.

The kisses eventually turned into full-on make-out sessions, and before long, Carlos didn't know how he went without it before. Tongue kisses were the best, especially because Lando would make the cutest gasps and moans, not so silently begging for more. Therefore, it was only a matter of time before Lando was spreading his legs for him, asking for more, and Carlos had a weak constitution when it came to saying no to Lando.

Which would explain their current situation at the moment. They were in the team's motorhome, supposed to be reviewing race data, but somehow Lando had shifted in his seat until he ended up in Carlos's lap. To anyone walking by, they would look like two friends discussing strategy. When in reality, Lando had made a home there, rubbing his tempting ass against the driver's lap continuously. Carlos had tried to ignore it at first and focus on the data on the screen, but Lando made it so difficult.

Suddenly, he heard something that sounded like a pen falling to the floor and rolling under the table.

 "Silly me! I dropped my pen!" Lando says with faux surprise, a smile tethering on his lips. He slides down from Carlos's lap until his knees hit the soft carpet.

"Lando," Carlos warns tentatively and is only met with innocent eyes and a palm on the growing tent in his pants. "We're in public, we can't. Someone could walk by and see us."

A playful grin graces Lando's cute face. "Your cock doesn't share the same sentiment, Carlos." He presses harder against his teammates growing erection.

Carlos grabs Lando by the jaw from under the table, forcing him to look up at him. "That's because I have an eager little slut in my lap." His grip is almost too rough, but he knows it only turns Lando on further.

Lando let out an airy laugh but didn't respond, busying himself with freeing his teammates thick cock from its tight confines. Carlos looked around with caution; there was no one in their general area due to the time of day, but he could see a few mechanics in the distance between shelves. If they were to look up, turn their heads, or walk over, they would see them. For some reason, though, that wasn't enough for Carlos to stop Lando from licking his cockhead into his wet mouth. In fact, he grabbed hold of Lando's curls and watched the teen eagerly choke himself on his dick.

"Fuck, Lando," Carlos whispered thinly into the air. His eyes lowered, swallowing down his sounds of pleasure as Lando blew him, his slick tongue sliding up and down his underside with practiced movement. Lando made for such a pretty sight. He had everyone fooled into thinking he was a sweet kid from a nice family, and while those things were all true, they didn't know the kind of cockslut Lando really was. Something that Carlos had a part in.

Just as he was getting into the tight warmth of Lando's throat, the latter pulled off with a wet pop. He stroked the length while staring at Carlos with what could only be described as 'fuck me' eyes.

"I can't focus correctly unless I'm stuffed with you. You made me this way, Carlos, take responsibility!"

Curse Lando's silver tongue. Their frequent sexual activity had made the once shy, inexperienced teen into a confident little deviant who knew exactly what he liked and how to get what he wanted from his teammate. And Carlos, despite how he pretended to be the voice of reason, was just as weak for Lando and his intentions.

He tugs Lando up and back into his lap, the teen's legs around his waist. Carlos slots their mouths together, dipping his tongue past Lando's more than willing lips, tasting himself there. The teen moans needily, trying to pull Carlos closer, but the latter's grip remains as a reminder of who was really in charge. Carlos's fingers trail down Lando's body, lifting his baby blue sweater to stroke his soft tummy before going towards his goal; unbuttoning his pants with trained fingers. Lando keens into his mouth as Carlos rubs his slick clit through his underwear.

"So wet and we only just started reviewing. You need it that bad, Lando?" Carlos asks, his digits pushing the thin fabric aside to slide along Lando's folds.

Lando covers his mouth with his sweater sleeve, his eyes already glazing over as he nods erratically.

Carlos shakes his head, feigning disappointment when in reality his cock throbs with arousal from the pretty boy in his lap. "You're in no position to continue working like this. I'll have to take care of you like a good teammate so you can focus again."

He pulls back and stands. Lando whines needily and prepares to beg, but then he's being turned and shoved forward on the top of the open lapop. Lando braces himself on the hard table and looks back at Carlos with wide eyes.

"I thought you were worried about someone seeing us," Lando teases lightly, watching his teammate stroke his throbbing length.

"Then we're gonna have to be really quiet, hm?" Carlos says, with a crooked smirk. He knew it was a risk; they were in a public place after all, and anyone, mechanic or team principle, could fall victim to the role of innocent bystander and witness their debauchery. They risked serious consequences if they got caught, but for some reason, that just excited Carlos more, and he knew Lando felt the same.

He trails his fingers against the soft inner thighs of Lando, admiring the way he trembles under his touch.

"Papi," Lando urges, but quickly regrets it when Carlos spreads his lips to view his pink entrance. He bites his sleeve, the soft blue slowly darkening, to quiet his moan.

Carlos couldn't put up a front; he was just as addicted to Lando as Lando was to him. As he pressed the tip of his cock past Lando's fat folds, he knew he'd never grow tired of the delicious heat enveloping his length. Lando moaned, rolling his hips back against his dick until Carlos was balls-deep inside his cunt.

"Fuck, Lando, you're gonna be the death of me," Carlos whispers low enough for only them to hear.

"Papi fills me up so well—!" Lando gasps when Carlos slaps his palm over his mouth, shoving his fingers in.

"Lower your voice," Carlos warns, his cock twitching inside Lando's tight snatch. "We have to be quiet. You can do that for me, right, amor?"

Carlos can't tell if Lando whines from the endearing pet name or because he hasn't moved yet, but it really doesn't matter because the teen bows his head lower and gives him a shaky nod. He smiles, dipping his digits down on Lando's plush tongue.

"Good boy. Now let Papi take care of you." He purrs, slowly backing his cock out before plunging back inside. He finds a steady pace, not wanting to go too fast, despite how much he knew Lando wanted him to, knowing if he really went all out, there would be nothing stopping Lando from wailing on his dick.

Lando holds the edge of the table with his hands, bracing himself for the hard thrusts that manage to drive them both insane with lust. The warm glide of Lando's walls feels even tighter, and Carlos couldn't believe he was fucking his teammate boyfriend in the team's garage. It was far more arousing than anything had prepared him for. It was true that anyone could see them, see him pounding into Lando who was pinned underneath him, taking each inch like a good boy, but Carlos couldn't bring himself to care in the moment.

Lando heeds Carlos's warning, barely makes a peep, his mouth stuffed with his sweater sleeve and Carlos's fingers. Only a few small gasps escape, and it's kind of disappointing for Carlos. One of the things that pushed Carlos over the edge was Lando's incessant moans and breathy calls for his "Carlos." If Lando was truly quiet, it wasn't nearly as fun.

"Baby," Carlos says, his voice soft and affirming. He moves his fingers under Lando's sweater, rubbing over his sensitive nubs. Lando audibly whines, but not nearly as loud as he usually would. "Come on, Lando, you can voice how it feels for me, can't you?"

Lando sniffles, the sound is unmistakable to Carlos's ears, and he stops mid-thrust. He turns Lando over so he's laying spread open on top of their work material, his swollen pussy and tight taint on full display for his teammate, and while the sight itself is magnificent, it's not what captures Carlos's gaze.

"Fuck, baby, are you crying?" Carlos asks, even though the answer is right in front of him. Lando's watery eyes with a reddish hue and tear stains down his cheeks. The driver's cock throbs, and he has to stop everything in himself to not come from his boyfriend's helpless face.

Lando nods. "F— feels good but I have to be quiet for Papi." He rasps, and Carlos bites back a groan. Within all the times they had fucked, Lando had never cried. He would whimper and moan about how good it felt, but Carlos hadn't seen him ever shed tears. His eyes were a soft green haze, half-lidded, pupils blown wide, and his bitten lips hung open just enough for his slick pink tongue to poke out. He already looked entirely fucked out, and they weren't even done yet. Christ.

"Feels that good, Lando? Baby crying cause he can't moan like the whore he is?" Carlos coos as Lando sniffles again, looking so gone and pathetic. Carlos taps his tip against Lando's wet pussy before pressing back inside. "My baby is so pretty even when you're crying. I know it's hard to hide your voice, but we have to be quiet unless you want to be found out."

Lando shakes his head in understanding, his arms reach for Carlos, holding him close by his shoulders. The position was entirely uncomfortable, the books' hard covers and pointy edges pressing into their bodies, but Carlos couldn't care less about the pain his body would be in later. The teen under him, completely capturing his attention.

"Tell me how it feels," Carlos urges.

"A-ah, Carlos," Lando pants, millimeters away from Carlos's parted lips. "So good, I wan' you to cum in me, please, please. Haven't I been good, Carlos, wan' it so bad," He's babbling, more desperate tears fall, and Carlos can't resist grabbing him by the jaw and dragging his tongue over his soft cheeks, licking up the wetness. He moans deeply, even Lando's tears tasted sweet.

"Sí, Lando, you've been a perfect teammate, you deserve a reward for your hard work," Carlos kisses his boy, his hips fixated on a slow deep thrust to avoid making the table shake. Lando yanks him close until their faces are touching, allowing Carlos to hear every delicious whine right next to his ear.

"P-Papi 's so dirty for fucking me in a library, but I love it. Your big cock makes me feel so full, hits every spot, love it so much," Lando whispers a bar of lewd words before biting Carlos's ear. "Cum in me, Carlos."

Carlos is finished upon hearing that, he slams his hips into Lando one last time, his cock twitching as he fills the teen up with his load.

"Fuck, Lando," he gasps loud, muffling his noise into Lando's neck and sweater. His release rocks through him, and for a moment, he forgets where they are, only able to focus on Lando and his filthy words that sent him to the brim.

Lando kisses Carlos lazily as he orgasms himself, legs holding his teammate's waist while they both come down.

"Lando... you did that on purpose," Carlos says later, putting his spent cock away while Lando carefully adjusts his pants back on his waist.

Lando smiles, only reaffirming Carlos's suspicions. "You were being a pervert about me crying so I wanted Papi to lose control too."

Carlos can't find it in himself to be actually bothered. He came harder inside Lando while having discreet sex in the back corner of the garage than any other location. Lando's words were just fire to the fuse.

"How can I not? You drive me crazy," Carlos smirks, rather pleased that his partner was just as perverted as he was. He adjusts his glasses and looks at the table. The laptop had random letters typed into various locations on the spreadhseet they had opened. Carlos deletes them, double checking before shutting the computer. He then turns to Lando, whose cheeks still wore a hint of pink. He licks his lips.

"...How about we skip work today?"

[auggieblogs]

ugh, math!

Max Verstappen x reader

Summary: Overwhelmed by math exam anxiety, you were on the verge of despair. Max's comforting presence and soothing words were your saving grace.

Author's note: Oh my god, I absolutely love this prompt. Thank you so much, the anon who requested this. I really hope you enjoy this!

P.S.- I am not technically a woman in STEM so I don't know the struggles, but I have 12th grade math, and it is downright depressing for me. Again, I might have projected a little too much. Apologies in advance.

The weight of the upcoming math final pressed heavily on your shoulders, making your chest tight with anxiety. Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring the complex numbers and equations in your textbook. You deeply regretted taking this class, and an overwhelming sense of incompetence washed over you. You were about to give in to despair, convinced that you simply weren't smart enough for this. The more you tried to grasp the concepts, the more they seemed to slip through your fingers like sand.

Just when you thought you couldn't bear it any longer, the door opened, and Max walked into the room. His perceptive eyes immediately caught the distress etched on your face, and worry flashed across his features. Without hesitation, he rushed to your side, his voice filled with genuine concern.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Max asked softly, crouching down in front of you.

You looked up at him, your eyes brimming with tears, and it all became too much to bear. You broke down in front of him, your sobs escaping uncontrollably, your head buried in your trembling hands.

Max hated seeing you like this. He immediately wrapped his strong arms around you, pulling you close to his chest, and kissing your forehead gently as he whispered soothing words. His fingers ran through your hair in slow, calming strokes, offering comfort and reassurance.

You hiccupped between sobs, words tumbling out in a rush. "I can't do this, Max. It's so difficult, and I feel like giving up. I'm not smart enough for this, I just can't."

Max held you even closer, his voice unwavering and reassuring. "Listen, bub, you are incredibly smart, and you're not a quitter. I know you can do this."

His words gave you a glimmer of encouragement. Sniffling and wiping away your tears, you took a deep breath and returned to your study materials. Max remained by your side, not entirely understanding the complex math, but his presence was a source of comfort.

As you worked through the complex equations, Max fetched your favourite chocolate milk and prepared your go-to comfort sandwich. He knew that a touch of familiar comfort would help you feel better. Between study sessions, he quizzed you on formulas and cheered you on with a smile and encouraging words.

Hours upon hours passed in intense studying, but Max's belief in you never wavered. He could see your fatigue setting in as the night wore on. Gently, he suggested, "You've been working so hard, love. Maybe it's time to get some rest."

Reluctantly, you agreed, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling upon you. Max helped you tidy up your study materials and led you to the bedroom. He tucked you into bed, his fingers continuing to run soothingly through your hair.

"Try to relax," he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. "You've got this"

After a night of restful sleep, you woke up early, refreshed and determined. Max's encouraging words from the previous night echoed in your mind, reminding you of your own capabilities. With newfound confidence, you revisited your formulas and reviewed the key concepts, ensuring you were as prepared as possible.

As you entered the exam room, your heart still raced with anticipation, but there was a newfound sense of self-assuredness within you. The questions on the paper no longer seemed insurmountable; you tackled them with determination and clarity.

Hours passed by in a blur of focused effort, and when you finally submitted your exam, you felt a sense of accomplishment wash over you. The exam went remarkably well, and you couldn't help but smile as you left the room.

Outside, Max was waiting for you, a proud and supportive grin on his face. His mere presence brought an extra layer of warmth to your already joyful heart. He enveloped you in a hug.

𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆｡˚ 𓆝⋆｡˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆｡˚𓆝⋆｡˚

The day the results were finally revealed was a day of both excitement and trepidation. Your heart raced as you logged into the exam portal, hoping beyond hope for a passing grade. As the page loaded, your eyes widened in disbelief, and a rush of pure elation surged through you – you hadn't just passed; you had aced the exam!

Unable to contain your excitement, you called Max immediately. His voice was filled with pride and joy as he exclaimed, "I knew you could do it, baby! I'm so incredibly proud of you!"

He couldn't wait to celebrate this incredible achievement with you. He suggested a celebratory dinner or date night. However, you were still feeling the exhaustion from your intense studying and the emotions of the past few days. You wanted nothing more than to stay in and unwind in the comfort of your own space.

Max decided to make the evening just as special at home. He ordered your favourite takeout, ensuring it was exactly what you were craving. He also brought home an assortment of your favourite ice cream flavours, knowing that dessert would be the perfect indulgence for this celebratory occasion.

As evening descended, you both snuggled on the couch, surrounded by pillows and blankets. The collection of your favourite movie, "The Princess Diaries," is played on the screen. Max's arm wrapped securely around you as he pulled you close, planting sweet kisses on your forehead. Laughter filled the air as you indulged in your ice cream, not caring about what was going on in the film but rather the ridiculous jokes Max was currently making.

With each passing minute, the exhaustion from the weeks of preparation began to catch up with you. Max noticed your eyelids growing heavy, and he couldn't help but smile at the sight of you, content and peaceful in slumber. He gently brushed a strand of hair from your face and took a picture, capturing the moment .

maxverstappen1 posted on their story

[anundyingfidelity]

I'M A RUIN — Soldier Boy/Ben (Part V)

Series summary: After the events of the Seven Tower, you present Grace Mallory a new secret project you're working on already to develop a cure to Compound V. The only problem? You need Soldier Boy for that.

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x female reader.

Word count: 2.4k.

Warnings for series: set after S3 (spoilers), some OOC!Ben, some depressed!Ben, angst, hurt/comfort, eventual smut, slow-burn, language, PTSD, reader has Compound V (she's no Vought supe tho), Soldier Boy being an usual asshole, reader is a fucking liar.

Warnings on this chapter: some misogyny and shit (you know who), psychiatry stuff, canon gore, blood, heads exploding, and violence?.

Notes: so I'm sorry for any mistakes during the psychyatric process, I go to therapy and take medication myself so that's all I know plus google research. And be aware of the gore descriptions, I tried to do my best I guess lol. Thanks for reading as always!

this fic tags: @k-slla @syrma-sensei @mostlymarvelgirl @cheynovak @drasticemotions @soldirboy @deans-spinster-witch

☕ if you like my writing, support me with a ko-fi !

get yourself in the taglist!

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | | Part VIII

GEN MASTERLIST! — SERIES MASTERLIST!

Part V: Blow Your Mind

With a deep breath, you reviewed the symptoms Soldier Boy barely 'gave' during your session. The list was kind of long on the pages and it read:

Always being on guard for any danger, self-destructive behavior, irritability, angry outbursts, panic attacks, feeling emotionally numb, not trusting anyone, not feeling safe, hypervigilance, intrusive thoughts, fatigue, muscle tension, headaches, back pain...

There was a weird silence surrounding both of you, mostly because of his mood and his change in demeanor from a somewhat friendly asshole to an irritated, unbearable jerk. Once you had started with the uncomfortably stupid questions, he felt threatened. Soldier Boy wasn't actually open to talk about his past and the traumatic experiences he had, and that meant it was difficult to get to know how his body and mind were reacting to all the stress and madness he went through in decades, adding those weeks after Billy Butcher had released him from his nightmare.

He was opposed to speaking directly about how he was feeling, but you knew better that Ben speaking out on his symptoms was not going to happen. So you had to ask each one of them and review some his most harsh experiences directly, in order to receive monotonous responses, limited to: 'yes', 'no', 'I don't know,' and finally 'what the fuck is that?' You took them all as an absolute yes.

He was being defensive and you knew better than to miss anything after he almost burned the whole damn building. And with the small but confident experience you had with psychiatry, you concluded that he needed medication and therapy. As soon as fucking possible.

"Yeah, you have PTSD," you said after a moment and your eyes found his unreadable gaze.

He raised his eyebrows with false surprise. He already heard that shit from Hughie before. "And where's the fucking drugs?"

"For that to happen, you have to stop the weed first."

"I've survived bricks of coke mixed with shit you probably don't know about and you want to take the only thing that's keeping me sane? Fan-fucking-tastic!" he fumed, but you didn't flinch. Not a bit.

"Look, my goal is keeping you safe and making you sane because you definitely are not. Not right now. And since I took you out, you'll follow my process, so stop whining."

He chuckled softly with a bitter grimace on his lips as he shook his head softly. "No, that's not gonna happen."

"I don't care if you agree with that, it's settled," you continued, a triumphant smile plastered on your face.

It was true, you didn't give a single shit. He had to be clean and quit any type of drugs to start the medication but most importantly, to use his blood. Eventually. You were more than aware that he wouldn't die easily, that was proved. And it was just a matter of time to get him to your lab to take samples of his blood and run the necessary research on them while you and your team still continued the studies with the Anti-V prototype. You were only hoping that day would arrive soon enough. Two months sober, that was all you needed from him. And the best part? Soldier Boy didn't have to really know the whole details.

Ben, on the other hand, clenched his jaw so tight and closed his eyes for a moment after hearing your statement. You really were a fucking bitch, letting him fall into the abyss of misery and torture that was his own wrecked mind. He considered your intentions internally, once again for the millionth time. You showed up there all dressed up, playing a rich doctor when in reality you were just a fucking slutty brat, just to tell him he had to stop his usual pot, which you also brought happily when he asked you to. And now, you were taking away the only thing that stopped him from ripping your head off. What a great move.

"That's not smart," he insisted.

"Why not? I have you under my own terms."

Ben tilted his head, studying you carefully. "You can't stop me, doll. None of you can. I'm only here because I find it suitable instead of storming out and catching unnecessary attention."

Ben saw you swallow down, he immediately knew it was because you were angry, not scared. You never really seemed scared of him. And you tried to restrain yourself from slapping him right away. "Are you blackmailing me again, Soldier Boy?"

"Is just a warning," he said, nonchalantly. "Wouldn't want to harm such a pretty thing like you, now wouldn't we."

"Oh well, just a reminder I can also turn on the damn gas if needed," you snapped. The arrogant smirk on his lips fell off and it was your turn to smile back. "We all have hidden cards, right?"

Such an arrogant bitch, he thought.

"So, what's your plan?" you switched the subject to avoid going further into what was troubling him.

"What do you mean?"

"Homelander. You want him dead, don't you? You must be getting ready to fight again..."

His body seemed tense once you pushed him to talk, looking away from you to calm a bit. "Isn't that what all of you want?"

"Any sane person would love that, trust me."

Soldier Boy narrowed his eyes. "Well, I can do it. If I wasn't here... You've seen what he's capable of. Jesus, I've seen it," he bitterly chuckled. "And the kid? He's a fucking menace."

"You've been watching the news, I take that—"

"The fuck I do! Wasn't gonna wait for you to keep me up to date of what the fuck is going on!" Ben shouted, his loud voice roaring in your ears despite the distance.

"I don't want you to stress out more than you do," you said, vacillating. "A lot of things take time, such as you adapting to the twenty-first century."

"I'd love to know when that'll happen," Ben insisted. "Or else, I might just break out."

With a tentative smile, you started to write down the report. "I'm so glad you're talking more during our sessions."

You barely said goodbye to Soldier Boy once you finished your daily session. Your head was aching as you walked down the aisle, barely leaving the empty wing of the building behind. Certainly he was hard to handle and was behaving defensively. Before you left he began asking, or better said, bossing you to get him whatever the kid Hughie told him he needed to learn how to use. Shit like the internet and GPS, he said. You told him he was not ready for it yet.

But you'd give him a golden star for trying and insisting so badly, even if he was against eighty percent of your methods. He was up to something, there was no question for that. He was a soldier, more or less like his given supe name. People like him always had a plan, and underneath his facade, there were more plans backed up with words of honor that you had to track sooner or later.

As you made your way to your office, greeting your lab employees and guards, a disturbing sensation grew up inside. Before crossing the doorframe you subtly looked around, focusing for some reason in the security camera, more time than you'd like to admit. You turned again to finally get inside, facing the entry of your office when hurried steps and a voice stopped you from doing so.

"Doctor!"

Once again you turned on your heels to see your assistant, tablet in hand. Those had to be the results.

"Hey," you began. "You have everything?"

Bianca nodded with a straight face and handed you the tablet. You noticed her tight grip and her somehow trembling fingers when you took the device from her hands. You eyed her a little, she remained with her hands intertwined in front of her, her attention seemed lost. With caution, you continued to check the file.

"Is the patient alright?" you asked, reading the profile of the supe who had the not so good luck of being tested previously.

Solaris was his supe name. And he had the ability to manipulate light and matter with his mind. He had taken part in the program for a month now and this was his first test. As always, each supe you had into the program was low-profile. You were thankful of your team keeping these supes under their gaze to offer them some sort of solution, even after all the deaths you tracked from time to time when a test of the Anti-V was run. More than a solution for them, it was a partial contribution to find it.

You quickly scanned the updated file that Bianca completed for you. He was doing better than projected, his powers were still gone with a forecast of probably coming back within a couple of hours. A deep breath left your lips. Now that was an improvement. It was the first time anything like that happened on any tests. The supe survived, he was weak but the powers were off for a bit. It was a small step closer to your goal. Just a little bit more maybe and it could be done, finally...

"He's resting right now," Bianca interrupted your thoughts. Your eyes were back on her face.

"This is great news, thank you. I trust he's doing okay."

She nodded. "He is."

"Great, I guess I'll see him in a couple of hours," you said about entering your office.

"Wait!" Bianca suddenly closed the little space between both of you. She breathed heavily before stuttering words out. "I, I have- I'm sorry..."

"Are you okay?" you inquired, knowing her behavior was unusual. She swallowed down, turning her gaze away, her hands shaking. Was she sick? "Bianca, what's wrong?"

You tried to reach her cheek with your hand, but she stepped back abruptly, looking at you like if you were a ghost with her eyes red and wet, and a fine layer of sweat adorning her skin.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed.

You walked towards her, worried about what was going on but every step you took, she also gave it back.

"Bianca, what's happening?"

Her back bumped the wall of your office, and finally, she started to cry. "I'm sorry. You have to go, please..."

Your heart started pounding heavily on your chest. "What—"

"Go now! Please... Please don't hurt me..."

"I'm not going to hurt you, Bianca," you whispered, trying to comfort her.

But she continued crying and mumbled incoherent words with eyes shut, while hot tears streamed down her face. She choked on her sobs as she pleaded for her life. But you didn't understand why. You tried to soothe her, reaching her shoulder with your free hand.

And when you placed your palm on her, everything became red. It all happened in seconds. Ropes of warm blood covered your face in an instant. A loud gasp fell from your throat. You felt every drop mixed with brains on the skin of your face, on your neck, and sliding down the skin under your blouse. It was shocking and equally disgusting. And your eyes remained shut, not brave enough to move or see the horrid picture in front of you.

Your palm was still on her shoulder when the remains of her body fell to the ground with a thud. Your trembling hand wiped some blood from your face to open your eyes anew. The wall was painted with her, as much as you were, and it left a trail of blood from where her corpse slid to the floor. Her head long fucking gone.

"Shit."

Shit. Fucking shit. Was it him? It had to be him. There was no reason to doubt it. It was him. And he complied with his promise. Had Homelander been controlling Bianca? Was she the only one? No. There had to be something more. Homelander wasn't easy and he wasn't merciful with anyone. You had to stop him and get Soldier Boy out of the building. Now.

You tried to control yourself as best as you could, walking away to reach anyone, crossing a corner on the hallway, where a guard was casually passing by.

He stopped on his tracks at your sight, covered in blood and meat. "Doctor?"

"I need your help," you whispered.

He nodded quickly and you began explaining with a low, shaky voice.

"I don't know what happened, my assistant was right there with me when— Fuck!"

You walked some inches away when his head exploded, just like Bianca's did. Luckily, or not, this time was inside his helmet. All the red brains and blood were catched by it. Still, you wanted to throw up right fucking there. The remains of his body fell to the floor with a loud sound.

With a deep breath you continued your way, finding guards, lab assistants and agents. If they were alive, their heads popped into your sight. And if it was your somehow lucky moment of the day, you just found their headless corpses lying on the ground, creating a pool of blood you tried to avoid.

The only thing on your mind was taking Ben out of the building. The alarm had been turned on and the annoying sound of it was driving you crazy. Your head ached more than ever as you made your way to Soldier Boy for the second fucking time during the day.

Since there was no time to open the heavy door properly, you used a force field around the metal, moving the door until it slipped enough to let you in. You found him standing in the middle of the room. Eyes dark and alert, with fists and frame ready to fight. He wrinkled his nose once you entered the place.

"What the fuck's going on?" Ben growled, observing your blood covered face.

"We need to go, now. Take your clothes off."

He blinked, taken aback. Before he answered you continued with an explanation.

"I'll turn you invisible, but can't turn your clothes," you ordered, looking in the closet for a sports bag you knew was inside and picking a couple of shirts, pants and boxers as quickly as time allowed you to. Once finished, you turned to Ben again.

"Mind to fucking clarify?" he insisted. You sighed, closing your eyes for a moment.

"Look, I'll tell you everything once we're out," you turned one of your hands invisible for him to see.

Ben snorted with laughter. How ironic, he thought.

"No fucking way."

"Strip. We're leaving."

[sunglassesbot]

This review more or less sums up my thoughts on the music made by Sabaton:

Text: No. - 0% Napalm_Satan, July 9th, 2021 There exists a certain kind of terrible album. Not just albums that are bad or annoying, but albums whose core concepts and ideas are so fundamentally idiotic and broken that they were always going to fail. Albums that are so thin on anything worth engaging with on any level that they aren't even worth deep, genuine consideration in the way most albums, no matter how bad they may be, are. The Great War is one such album; not only is it terrible, but it is a flat out non-starter. Just spelling out what it is at its core perfectly sums up why this is the case - it's a bombastic, cheesy, formulaic pop/power metal concept album about the horrors of the First World War. There is no possible way a concept like that could ever have been executed right, it is that bad of an idea right out of the gate, an idea so bad that any attempt at will not only sound mindblowingly stupid and self-defeating, but also genuinely repugnant and difficult to listen to. Of course, this is nothing new for Sabaton, with much of their back catalogue focusing on the topic of war (with their last few albums being concept albums) and their music as of late tending towards the safer side of power metal, but it's really with this album that their schtick finally rubbed me the wrong way enough to talk about it.

As stated, on a musical level this is not a significant departure for the band, which is a very big problem when The Last Stand was one of the most formulaic, sterile and tepid metal albums of 2016. In fact, this album sounds nigh indistinguishable from their last album, not just in style but in the individual ideas used, and thus the flaws of that album carry over too. The guitarwork, a seemingly endless series of the chord progressions we've heard before with not much punch or weight to them with not many riffs in sight, is one of many problems that plagued their last album and it's just as big of a problem here. The marching, mid-paced drum beats across the album are a similar story; they all sound incredibly similar and get tiresome very quickly. The synths too like last time, are just layered and layered and largely bury the guitars in a wall of generic, uninteresting and flat-out annoying bombast. The production is of course incredibly glossy and sands whatever edge was left from the instrumentation, giving it a level of sheen reserved for a pop album, one that would doubtless be 400x better than anything on display here. All the songs follow the same predictable verse-chorus structure, and there are basically no twists or turns to be found in the performances or the writing. Pretty much the only saving grace are the vocals, which are gruff but can still carry a good melody; not something you hear very often, and it is appreciated here.

Of course, all of this by itself would make for an album that is pretty terrible, but not absolutely useless and loathsome. The problem is that this entire musical foundation has been built up to serve this idiotic concept; not just the specific WWI theme going on with this album, but the general approach to music Sabaton has had for years now, where they write this bland, sugary music to set lyrics about real life conflict to. Any positive statements one could make about the music - a catchy hook or melody here and there, the vocals, the general competence of the entire arrangement - are rendered entirely moot as it is nigh impossible to derive any enjoyment from them when put into the context of the album. And of course, the flaws become far more annoying when viewed through this lens, as how safe and boring and dolled up the music really is just feels so out of place. This highlights the ultimate issue with the album really - Sabaton do not and have never had the tact or investment to give the topics they cover the respect and proper context they deserve; their music for quite a while now has sounded like pure glorification of the conflicts they cover. Setting lyrics about real people in real conflicts that ended and ruined real lives, lyrics that try to convey the horrors of war but just end up glorifying battle and 'our heroes' to this Disney metal is… disgusting. And this is not me saying that every album about war has to be this grim, pulverising extreme metal opus; there are many straightforward trad metal bands that have covered war successfully, but their music has actual bite, tact, substance and grit to it, be it in the performances, the song and lyric writing, the production, the atmosphere etc. - all of which Sabaton's music entirely lacks.

And then one has to consider not just Sabaton's general schtick, but how it manifests on this album, where they chose to write about the First World War. One of the most grim, dark, bloody conflicts in all of human history. A conflict that until recently had people that survived to recount it. A conflict started by imperialist powers that did not like one another and were willing to forcibly sacrifice millions of their own men (and many more men from societies they colonised and brutalised) to settle their differences. A conflict that ancestors of myself (as British subjects in India) and my friends would have fought in and/or lived through; I'm sure many reading can say the same. It is a conflict that for these reasons strikes a real chord with me emotionally (I found 1917 to be a tearjerker.) This is the conflict Sabaton decided to focus in on, and due to their tactlessness and detachment when making music on this matter they end up glorifying it all. And despite how detached these songs and the band members themselves may seem from the conflicts they write about, their entire schtick is anything but apolitical, as intentional or not, whitewashed, uncritical stuff like this basically entirely feeds into the glorification of the military and war that is so prevalent across many societies and a lot of history. I cannot assess the personal character of the band here; they certainly seem interested in war and well-read, but no matter how they feel about the topic the songs they end up writing just turn into these jolly singalongs that glorify some of the darkest points in human history, with seemingly no self-awareness. There is no grit or fire or ugliness to the presentation of it all, rendering this entire package to be the equivalent of casting Will Ferrell as the lead in 1917 and scoring it with that cutesy ukulele stock music we've all heard a billion times; it's an absurd album that is revolting in how disrespectful it is. It is truly detestable and without question the worst metal album of the previous decade.

Lest We Forget.

@butterflies-and-bumble-bees

[lrlamauthor]

Surprise! DAW and Hodderscape have picked up my debut series, Micah Grey!

PANTOMIME will be out next September 2025, with SHADOWPLAY and MASQUERADE to follow in October and November.

HOWEVER, thanks to the doors @say_shannon opened with her re-release of the earlier Bone Season volumes, and similar to what @_elizabethmay has done with The Falconer, I'm editing the series for content this time around.

I still think earlier PANTOMIME etc holds up pretty well considering how young I was when I wrote it. But I wanted to take advantage of this truly wild opportunity and ensure the re-release better reflects my current writing style and craft. I also wrote this trilogy when I was trying to pretend that I was straight and cis (oh, sweet summer child), so I wanted to re-visit with that fuller knowledge of myself, too.

The series will still follow the same overall trajectory, but it's being tightened, enhanced, certain things are foreshadowed better since, hey, I know how it all shakes out now. I'm also making it in some ways a little gentler, though it won't quite be cosy fantasy. Figured we could all use that escapism. Pantomime (2013) had a very rocky journey over the years. Despite strong reviews, accolades, etc, the series was cancelled and I was dropped a month after the sequel came out and I was dropped. They cited low sales, but the imprint also went bankrupt not long after. So I had achieved my dream then was promptly unpublished with an unfinished trilogy. I later sold it to my publisher at the time in the UK and was able to release Masquerade in 2017, and the series ticked along okay, then largely disappeared. I got dropped by the second publisher too after those contracts were complete. I ended up landing elsewhere and steadily started finding success in 2020, first with Goldilocks, which did okay despite the pandemic, and Seven Devils, which hit the Sunday Times in the UK (though lifetime sales remained soft, sadly). Dragonfall ended up changing things for me, even if publishing it was also emotionally quite difficult in many ways.

I thought Micah's journey was largely finished, but here we are twelve years later, flying, me lovelies. Pre-order links aren't live yet, but I hope you'll take a look next year. Nice things people said about the earlier iteration:

“Pantomime by Laura Lam took me to an exotic and detailed world, peopled by characters that I’d love to be friends with . . . and some I’d never want to cross paths with.” – Robin Hobb

“Pantomime is a fantastical, richly drawn, poignant take on a classic coming-of-age story . . . a vibrant tale told with surety and grace.” – Leigh Bardugo

Art of Micah, Drystan, and Cyan by @layahimalaya.

Come one, come all. Ladies and gentlemen, and those who are both, between, or neither. Friends and foes, curs and skags, folks from near and far.

Step right up.

[draw-you-coward]

definitely not prompted by the realization that i am more like boza at work than i am not

~*~

Roza is staring at him.

Trahearne doesn’t know what he wants. He has already surreptitiously checked his foliage (it is fine, if a little dry), and is considering sneaking a glance at the nearest reflective surface to see if there is something on his face. Perhaps Roza is waiting for him to acknowledge something? He had brought in tea when he’d come in earlier, in a surprisingly nice gesture.

“Thank you for the tea,” Trahearne repeats for the second time.

Roza gives him a miniscule nod, but otherwise does not break eye contact. Brambles. What else is there?

Trahearne clears his throat, palpably loud in the quiet office. “Er, the unit stationed at the gate bridge near Arah report that it is blocked by Risen. They want advice on how to proceed.”

Roza’s upper eyelids quiver. Trahearne thinks he has just glanced down at the map and then back up at him once more, but it is truly hard to tell. He just doesn’t… move.

“There are other pathways into the city, of course, but it would be difficult to sneak anything but a small party through. I only barely managed it by myself,” Trahearne blathers on after an uncomfortable stretch of silence.

Roza gives another small nod. Well, it is an acknowledgment, at least.

“We could try the sewers. The water would at least mask them somewhat.”

Roza’s left eyebrow furrows slightly. Is that his ‘that is an idiotic idea’ look, or something else?

Trahearne hears whistling from outside the door, and practically trips over himself to open it. “Laranthir! Could you please come in here a moment?”

The Grand Warmaster pauses, looks at both of them, and pokes his head in. “Is there something I can assist you with? Commander, is all well?”

Roza nods at him, and perhaps the sterile air and desperation both are playing tricks on Trahearne’s mind, but he swears that is his most emotive movement yet. He beckons Laranthir in hurriedly, hope surging when he lays a hearty clap on Roza’s shoulder and the commander doesn’t so much as flinch. They must have worked together in the past, right? Perhaps even closely. Hopefully closely, by Mother’s grace.

“We were—that is, I was just reviewing the situation with the unit at the gate bridge with the commander,” Trahearne elaborates in what he hopes is not too pleading a tone. “Did you, ah… perhaps have any input?”

Laranthir frowns thoughtfully, tracking his eyes across the map. “The… gate bridge? I’m afraid I don’t quite know…”

His gaze meets Trahearne, who tries to mentally convey please help me with him as accurately as he possibly can without words. Roza has at least switched his staring target now, which is a small mercy.

Perhaps the Dream can finally work telepathically, because Laranthir brightens and says, “Ah!” He taps Roza on the back in a frighteningly familiar gesture and asks, “Roza, how do you think they should proceed? Considering all the variables of the situation.”

“They shouldn’t proceed,” Roza says.

“Elaborate?” Laranthir continues easily, as if he has not just pulled a rabbit out of an empty bud.

“It would be suicide. Idiotic. Have them retreat, send in the Pale Reavers by the stealthy route to exterminate resistance. Why would you want a survey team to go into a threat level eight area in the first place?”

The sudden barrage of opinions is almost overwhelming after his prolonged silence. “I, erm,” Trahearne says, not expecting so unequivocal a resistance. Threat level eight? On what scale? “Well… I managed fine.”

Roza gives him a withering stare.

“You can speak freely,” Laranthir adds, a little too helpfully.

“If you would like to go in their place, then of course, what you are suggesting makes perfect sense.” Rarely has sarcasm sounded so snide. “But unless you wish to give our civilian researchers twenty odd years of training in how to infiltrate a zombie-infested wasteland, I would suggest pulling them back.”

Laranthir squeezes his shoulder and winks at Trahearne. “There you go. You just need to ask him. And, ah, be prepared.”

He salutes, then walks out neatly, whistling once more. Trahearne is once again left alone with his commander, who is looking largely unimpressed.

“Shall I pack your things and wish you well?” he snipes. “Don’t forget to bring a bathing suit for the sewers.”

Trahearne is beginning to see his point. He ducks his head. “Alright, fine. Er, how do you suggest we extract them? We can send in a chopper.”

Roza stares into his soul. “You wish to dispatch a loud airborne vehicle to the team of people who could barely pass mandatory defense training and are reliant on camouflage for their survival?”

Trahearne doesn’t know. He walked, for Nightmare’s sake. “I—no! Of course not. What, um, do you suggest?”

“Submarine,” Roza says easily. “We can fit in a small one.”

“Where in Tyria are we going to find a submarine?”

For the first time all day, and to be frank probably all month, Roza smiles. “That, Marshal, is where I come in.”

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #6 – Exordia by Seth Dickinson

This is a book I have been looking forward to for quite literally years, from someone who is easily one of my favourite working authors. I also read the short story the book was expanded out from before I even knew it was going to be a book, and so went in spoiled on the broad strokes of what turned out to be the climax of the whole thing. All to say my opinion on this is unlikely to match that of the typical reader, I guess.

Anyway, Exordia is a glorious spectacular mess that has no right to cohere anywhere near as well as it does. It’s target audience is small, but I’m certainly somewhere in it. Please ignore all the marketing it’s so bad you have to wonder if someone at Tor just has it out for the author.

Exordia is a, well, a profoundly difficult book to give any sort of plot summary for. The first act involves Anna, a 30-something survivor of the Anfal Genocide now living a rather unimpressive life in New York City, until one day in the early 2010s she sees an alien eating the turtles in Central Park. Then there’s a cat-and-mouse hunt between terrifying alien snake-centaurs for the future of free will in the galaxy, and the plot jumping to kurdistan, and six more POV characters from as many different nations, and nuclear weapons, and oh so many people dying messily. The first act is an oddly domestic and endearing piece of table setting, the second is (to borrow the idiom of the book’s own marketing) Tom Clancy meets Jeff Vandermeer or Roadside Picnic, and the third is basically impossible to describe without a multipage synopsis, but mostly concerned with ethical dilemmas and moral injuries. It’s to the book’s credit that it never bats an eye at shifting focus and scale, but it does make coming to grips with it difficult.

This is, as they say, a thematically dense book, but it’s especially interested in the fallout of imperialism. The Obama-era ‘don’t do stupid shit’ precise and sterile form of it in particular – the book’s a period piece for a reason, after all. The ethics of complicity – of being offered the choice of murdering and betraying those around you or having an alien power with vastly superior destructive powers inflict an order of magnitude more misery to you, them, and everyone in the same general vicinity to punish you for the inconvenience – is one that gets a lot of wordcount. It is not an accident that the man most willing and able to collaborate with the overwhelming powerful alien empire in hopes of bargaining some future for humanity is the National Security Council ghoul who came out of organizing surveillance information for the drone wars. It’s also not a coincidence that the main (if only by a hair) protagonist is someone with a lot of bitter memories over how the US encouraged Iraq’s kurdish population to rebel in the ‘90s and then just washed their hands and let them be massacred (the book couldn’t actually ship with a historical primer on modern kurdish history, so it’s woven into the story in chunks with varying amount of grace. But it is in fact pretty thematically key here).

Speaking of complicity, the book’s other overriding preoccupation in (in the broadest sense) Trolley Problems. Is it better to directly kill a small number of people or, through your inaction, allow a larger number to die? Does it matter is the small number is your countrymen and the larger foreigners, or vice versa? What about humans and aliens? Does it matter whether the choice is submitting to subjugation or killing innocents as a means to resist it? What about letting people around you die to learn the fundamental truth of the cosmos? Does the calculus change when you learn that immortal souls (and hell) are real? This is the bone the story is really built around chewing on.

All that probably makes the text seem incredibly didactic, or at least like a philosophical dialogue disguised as a novel. Which really isn’t the case! The book definitely has opinions, but none of the characters are clear author-avatars, and all perspectives are given enough time and weight to come across as seriously considered and not just as cardboard cutouts to jeer at. Okay, with the exception of one of the two aliens who you get the very strong sense is hamming it up as a cartoon villain just for the of it (he spends much of the book speaking entirely in all caps). There definitely are a couple points where it feels like the books turning and lecturing directly at the reader, but they’re both few and fairly short.

The characters themselves are interesting. They’re all very flawed, but more than that they’re all very...embodied, I guess? Distracted with how hot someone is, concerned with what they ate that morning or the smell of something disgusting, still not over an ex from years ago. Several of them are also sincerely religious in a way that’s very true to life to actual people but you rarely see in books. The result is that basically comes as being far more like actual humans than I’m at all used to in most fiction (of course, a lot of those very human qualities get annoying or eye-roll inducing fairly quickly. But hey, that’s life). Though that’s all mostly the case at the start of the book – the fact that the main cast are slowly turning into caricatures of themselves as they’re exposed to the alien soul manipulation technology is actually a major plot point, which I’m like fifty/fifty on being commentary on what happens to the image and legacy of people as they’re caught up in grand narratives versus just being extended setup for a joke about male leads in technothrillers being fanfic shipbait.

Part of the characters seeming very human is that some (though by no means all) of the POVs are just incredibly funny, in that objectively fucked up and tasteless way that people get when coping with overwhelming shock or trauma. It’s specifically because the jokes are so in-your-face awful that they fit, I think? It manages to avoid the usual bathetic trap a lot of works mixing in humour with drama fall into, anyway.

Speaking of alien soul manipulation technology – okay, you know how above I said that the points where the book directly lectured the reader were few and far between. This is true for lectures about politics or morality. All the freed up space in this 530 page tome is instead used for technobabble about theoretical math. Also cellular biology, cryptography, entropics, the organization of the American security state, how black holes work, and a few dozen other things. This book was edited for accuracy by either a doctoral student from every physical science and an award winning mathematician, or else just by one spectacularly confident bullshitter with several hundred hours on wikipedia. Probably both, really. I did very much enjoy this book, but that is absolutely predicated on the fact that when I knew when to let my eyes glaze over and start skimming past the proper nouns.

The book has a fairly complete narrative arc in its own right, but the ending also screams out for a sequel, and quite a lot of the weight and meaning of the book’s climax does depend on followthrough and resolution in some future sequel. Problematically, the end of the book also includes a massive increase in scale, and any sequel would require a whole new setting and most of a new cast of characters, so I’m mildly worried how long it will be before we get it (if ever).

The book is also just very...I’m not sure flabby is the right word, but it is doing many many different things, and I found some of them far more interesting than others. I’m not sure whether Dickinson just isn’t great at extended action scenes or if I am just universally bored by drawn out Tom Clancy fantasies, but either way there were several dozen pages too many of them. The extended cultural digressions about the upbringing and backstories of each of the seven POVs were meanwhile very interesting! (Mostly, I got bored of the whole Erik-Clayton-Rosamaria love triangle Madonna complex thing about a tenth of the way into the book but it just kept going.) It did however leave the book very full of extended tangents and digressions, even beyond what the technobabble did. Anna herself, ostensibly the main protagonist, is both utterly thematically loadbearing but very often feels entirely vestigial to the actual, like, plot, brought along for the ride because she’s an alien terrorist’s favourite of our whole species of incest-monkeys. The end result is, if not necessarily unfocused, then at least incredibly messy, flitting back and forth across a dozen topics that on occasion mostly just seem unified by having caught the author’s interest as they wrote.

It’s interesting to compare the book to Anna Saves It All, the short story it was based on – quite a lot changed! But that’s beyond the scope of this already overlong review. So I guess I’ll just say make sure to read the book first, if you’re going to.