#Those are among the dreaded questions

[chubby-bun-bun]

heavy is the crown

As princess, you are bound by duty to marry the notorious and elusive Onichynus general, in exchange for his protection of your kingdom from an impending war. On the night of your wedding, tradition demands that you undergo the consummation rites, sealing the fate of your marriage—and your future.

tags: sylus x reader, NSFW, MDNI, royalty!au, general-of-powerful-nation!sylus x princess-of-kingdom-in-trouble!reader, first time sex (mc is a virgin), unprotected sex, afab!reader, fem!reader, slight voyeurism & somno & cockwarming at the end, lowkey breeding kink, gender-based stereotypes against women due to the time period, writing this has been a fever dream, word count: 2.7k~ worldbuilding and 5.5k~ smut lmfao

read on ao3

You dared to dream once upon a time.

You dreamt of crossing oceans beyond your shores, sailing aboard majestic galleons you’d only seen in textbooks. In the quiet solitude of your bedchambers, you imagined laughing with the townsfolk of distant cities, dancing in cobblestone streets to the melodies of traveling minstrels, and finding love in a modest man who'd want nothing more than to offer you freshly picked blooms every morning.

In the sanctuary of sleep, your dreams would lull you with visions of a simple life. A stone-walled kitchen warmed by the glow of a crackling hearth, a garden vibrant with blossoms and fresh produce, and a cozy reading nook nestled in an arched window. A loyal companion would sometimes join you—a slothful cat, a melodious songbird, a high-spirited pup, or a darling mare to carry you through grassy plains and wildflower fields.

"Do you take this man to be your wedded husband, to share in life's trials and joys, to love and honor, till death do you part?"

But such dreams have no place in the heart of a woman whose shoulders bear her kingdom's fate.

And so, as you take in the muted glow of the setting sun through delicate ivory lace, you finally put those girlhood fantasies to rest.

“I do.”

—

Being the youngest and only princess came with its fair share of trials and triumphs.

Unlike the elder princes, whose lives revolved around grueling expectations and fierce competition for the throne, your position spared you such burdens. Born to a queen who had long believed her childbearing years were behind her, you were nothing short of a miracle, arriving over a decade after your last sibling. This had earned you the undivided affection of the entire castle, leaving you thoroughly indulged and doted upon.

However, growing up without siblings near your age, you often grappled with bouts of loneliness. While you had fostered polite acquaintances among the daughters of many nobles, you found their company wearisome. The endless succession of balls and garden parties always seemed to revolve around the same gossip: politics, fashion, whispers about some baron’s sixteen-year-old daughter betrothed to a forty-year-old viscount, and, of course, the inevitable question: had anyone received a marriage proposal yet?

You naturally had many—to your dismay.

The idea of marriage filled you with profound dread. As a girl tagging along in your mother’s tea parties, you had often overheard the confessions and lamentations of the noblewomen. Stories of infidelity, neglect, and abuse spilled from their lips—duchesses, marchionesses, and countesses; women who stood at the very summit of high society. To you, marriage seemed less a sacred bond and more a cruel sentence—one far grimmer than the gallows.

At least the gallows granted the mercy of a quick death.

But as a princess, you were bound to uphold the ideal image of a young lady. One who radiated beauty, yet with grace and poise. Intelligent, but subservient to your intended husband’s authority. And, most important of all, fertile—to bear him strong sons who would carry on his legacy.

It sickened you. You would rather succumb to the plague than endure such a miserable life. But given your title, you could only try to delay the inevitable.

And so, life continued as it was—a never-ending cycle of social gatherings, fending off suitors, reading through your library, mastering languages, and nurturing a growing collection of hobbies. It was a life of privilege and routine—one that, despite its predictability, offered you a quiet sense of fulfillment.

Alas, nothing holds constant in the world, and change arrived in the form of a looming war from enemies across the sea.

Though small in size, your kingdom of Noir was a veritable treasure trove. With its abundant mountains and rivers, the island was never in short supply of precious metals, gems, and rare minerals. It was renowned for producing the finest artisans, who crafted the most exquisite jewelry, armor, and weapons. While modest in territory, it more than compensated with a thriving and prosperous economy.

The ultimate conquest for any conqueror.

Through the town streets worn smooth by centuries of footfalls, the bustling plazas lined with charming merchant stalls, the outskirt villages tucked among lush woodlands, and even the weathered stone walls of the towering castle, whispers had always flowed like an unrelenting tide—the most persistent being rumors of the neighboring kingdoms readying to seize Noir at any moment. But your father never addressed such hearsays, and life within the island always seemed as jovial and peaceful as it always did.

Until one night, as you sat engrossed in some book about Noir folklore, a series of sharp knocks on your chamber doors shattered the stillness, echoing sharply through the room.

It was your father, the king. Dropped to his knees, grasping your untainted hands in his rough, weathered ones, head bowed down at your mercy.

“Forgive me, my daughter,” he said in grief. “For the sake of the people—please, forgive me.”

For months, naval scouts had reported sightings of warships at the docks of two neighboring kingdoms, suspected of plotting to raid Noir and usurp the throne. Only a few weeks ago, those suspicions were confirmed when spies returned with dire news. The enemy militaries, vast and far stronger than your own, were preparing for a siege. Noir's true power had always been in the arts and commerce, not in its military might. Should your shores be attacked by an enemy nation—let alone two—the island would fall.

So on the very day the confirmation arrived, your father and the high court conspired to seek assistance from a nation on the mainland: Onichynus.

Conversations about the state were always hushed, spoken in whispers and laden with caution. It was rumored to be an immensely powerful dominion, even surpassing that of the hostile forces looming beyond your shores. Drunk sailors boasted of its staggering wealth, built on the spoils of their wars and ceaseless conquest. With an unmatched army of hardened warriors and mercenaries, it stood as a force to be reckoned with, its presence both feared and revered across the seas.

At its pinnacle stood their elusive general, a shadow whose name and true face remained unknown. Tales from sailors, traveling merchants, and tavern songs painted him as a ruthless figure, demon-like, who laid waste to rotten cities and beheaded corrupt kings. Some claimed he was a hero, purging the realm of wicked men in power, while others saw him as the embodiment of evil, leaving destruction and death in his wake.

Negotiations with Onichynus were a success. In return for their protection during the impending siege, Noir pledged to deliver three ships laden with its most prized metals, minerals, and gems—every year for the next century.

But to ensure Noir upheld its end of the bargain, their beloved princess would be bound in marriage to the general.

You could only keep your gaze steady, chin held high, as the king knelt before you, weeping, begging for your forgiveness.

You had your time to relish the pleasures of living as a princess. Now, it was time to fulfill your duties as one.

—

The night before the long-anticipated siege had arrived. After weeks of frantic planning and tense negotiations between Noir’s high court and the Onichynus war council, warriors and mercenaries had taken their positions across the island. Some blended seamlessly with the civilians, while the majority remained hidden in plain sight, their numbers concentrated along the docks.

In the king’s throne room, select members from both factions gathered for final preparations. Clad in his battle regalia, your father seemed a shadow of his former self—skin ashened, eyes hollow with exhaustion—yet his voice remained firm as he issued his commands to all present.

The Noir court members could hardly conceal their unease under the watchful eyes of the Onichynus war council. Towering and broad-shouldered, they seemed almost otherworldly. Their dark, burnished steel armor bore engravings of monstrous creatures, and many donned cloaks of crimson or black, their edges deliberately singed to resemble fire's touch. Helmets, adorned with jagged horns, cast grotesque shadows, while those who forwent them revealed faces with jagged streaks of war paint, as if to mimic claw marks.

Then, the heavy doors groaned open, spilling thick tendrils of black-red mist into the chamber. A hush fell as all eyes turned toward the towering figure that emerged from the haze.

The general.

For all the whispered tales of his demonic appearance—horns as tall as claymores, wings that spanned the heavens, and a tail that stretched like a river—you were stunned to find a face not of a monster, but of an angel.

Against the backdrop of his dark cloak, his striking silver hair stood out in sharp contrast. His features were sculpted with precision—high, defined cheekbones, a strong jawline, a straight nose, all framed by an expression that revealed little, save for full lips drawn into a tight line. The people of Noir gawked openly, stunned to finally see the man from the tales in the flesh. His gait was languid yet exuded confidence as he strode toward the throne where you sat beside your father.

His gaze found yours, and you stilled.

The deep scarlet of his eyes was piercing. You almost felt naked under it. Instantly, you straightened in your seat, fingers twitching to smooth the fabric of your dress.

“Expect the warships to be visible in six hours,” he said, his voice cutting through the room. The low timbre of it sent a chill racing up your spine.

“General, are you certain our forces are enough to handle their fleet?” your mother asked, voice quivering as she addressed him from your father’s other side.

The general's lips curved faintly, a low, rumbling chuckle escaping him.

“Rest easy, Your Majesty. By dawn, their remains will have joined their forefathers’ ghosts beneath the sea."

—

You had come to realize that Onichynus truly deserved the fear and respect it commanded. Just before daybreak, the gut-wrenching blare of Noir’s watchtower horns finally shattered the unnerving stillness of the island.

The enemies had fallen.

You had been locked away in one of the castle’s tower chambers, away from harm’s reach. As the kingdom’s key to securing this alliance, it was critical that no harm befell the general's betrothed.

After the second wave of victory horns, your door creaked open, revealing your maidservant—frantic, breathless from the long climb up the spiral staircase.

“Your Highness,” she gasped, voice trembling. “We’ve won.”

You could see the restraint in the way her nails dug into her apron, her blown pupils amidst her ragged breaths. She was restraining herself, her elation held in check, out of deference to you.

After all, Noir’s freedom had come at the cost of yours.

With a wistful smile, you turned toward the window, watching the flickering torchlights snake through the streets below. The chorus of jubilant cries and chants carried through the valleys, their voices rising to the heavens and echoing back from the mountain’s deepest crevices.

“It seems we have,” you murmured, voice barely audible over the chorus of celebration below.

You heard her hesitant shuffle behind you. "Several of the servants have been briefed already. They shall be ready tomorrow morning to begin preparations for the wedding."

You spun toward her, pulse pounding in your ears. "So soon?"

She lowered her gaze, unable to meet your eyes. "Onichynus wanted to complete the rites as quickly as possible, so they could sail for the mainland the following day."

You let out a slow exhale. "I see."

Your maidservant hesitated, her eyes flicking toward you, before she spoke again.

"If it offers you any comfort, ma'am," she said softly, head bowed, "you saved all of us."

You swallowed hard, forcing back the sting of tears threatening to spill.

—

Like your mother, grandmother, and all the royal women before you, you had always envisioned your wedding as a day of grandeur. You pictured riding through the town streets in the royal carriage, flanked by guards, waving to the cheering crowds. You imagined wearing a bespoke gown that sparkled in the light, a train so long it would sweep behind you like a royal procession.

You imagined trumpets announcing your arrival, their triumphant notes echoing through a hall packed with dignitaries and nobility from across the realm. And at the altar, a man of honor and equal standing would wait for you, his gaze warm with affection as you joined in a union built on love, not duty.

But now—the sun has nearly set, painting the grand temple in muted amber light. Inside, the space feels hollow, adorned only by a few hurriedly arranged flowers, their disarray a testament to the servants' exhaustion from cleaning up the siege’s destruction. Your gown, though lovely, is no custom-made masterpiece—just a window display piece hastily altered by the royal dressmaker. The pews stand mostly empty, save for your crestfallen family, a handful of somber faces from the Noir high court, and the ever-stoic Onichynus war council.

Your husband-to-be, still clad in his dark battle regalia, stands steadfast at your side, his expression an impenetrable mask as the archbishop intones the ceremonial rites. You had imagined him to be someone hard to look at—perhaps as old as a grandfather, his years as a general etched into every line of his face, and his figure weighed down by indulgent vices. Yet, to your quiet relief, he is nothing of the sort. Even if he proves unsavory as a husband or father to your future children, at least he’s pleasing to look at.

“By the will of fate, you are now bound in union,” the High Priest finally says, raising his palms toward you both. “May your allegiance to one another be as steadfast as the duties you carry, and may this union bring the future of your realms to prosperity.”

—

You wince as an elderly maidservant struggles to loosen a particularly stubborn knot in your hair, the pull jerking your head painfully. She pauses, her hand gently patting the spot in apology.

Your gaze stays fixed on the cold, flatstone floor, and you hardly notice the other maidservants bustling around you. One smooths out the faint creases in your satin nightdress, while another tugs at the neckline, pulling it lower to expose more of your cleavage and collarbone. Beneath the thin fabric, your undergarments have been removed, leaving you vulnerable to the biting chill of the room. You’ve been scrubbed clean, coated in the silkiest lotions, each scent more intoxicating than the last—all for your first night with your new husband.

“Are you nervous, Your Highness?” the elderly maidservant asks, her hands gentle as she brushes through your hair.

You pause, the question settling in your chest as you ponder how to answer.

“I can’t say I’m confident,” you say, twisting your fingers together. “I’ve never been with a man before.”

In the mirror, you catch the discreet glances exchanged behind you, their pity and concern barely hidden. You force yourself to look away, but the weight of their silent judgment lingers.

“The Onichynus general… he seemed like such a massive man,” a younger maidservant whispers, her voice tinged with uncertainty. “I do hope he treats Her Highness with kindness.”

Another maidservant scoffs, her tone sharp with bitterness. “All men are beasts, driven only by their lust for control—and for anything with a pair of breasts.”

There’s a collective hiss of disapproval from the others, but the harsh words still echo in your mind. You fight to keep your face composed, though your heart aches with fear.

“Don’t worry, Your Highness,” the elderly maidservant says, her voice light. “The men from that state may be known for their ruthlessness, but with your likeness, the general will surely find himself a changed man.”

You can only hope the same.

Soon after, you begin your walk to the matrimonial room. The maidservants fall in step around you, their presence a quiet shield.  The lively chatter from your earlier preparations has faded, replaced by a tense, almost somber silence. Despite the considerable distance between rooms, the walk feels too short, each step too swift. Before you can fully gather your bearings, you now find yourself alone, sitting on the bed, the weight of the night settling in around you.

You shouldn’t feel this nervous. Women across the realm are bound to face this, especially those of royal blood. Consummation on the wedding night is an expectation, a duty. No matter how much you’ve dreaded or tried to avoid it, you’ve always known it was inevitable. All that’s left now is to steel yourself, strive to please your husband, and to embrace your role as a future mother—for Noir’s sake.

The doors swing open, and you flinch. The general steps inside, his damp hair clinging to his face, a clear sign of a recent bath. His attire for the evening is simple: loose trousers and a tunic that, despite its modesty, does little to hide the breadth of his shoulders or the strong lines of his chest. Your gaze betrays you, lingering longer than it should, tracing the way the fabric shifts with his movements. His towering height seems to diminish even the vast expanse of the room, making the high ceilings feel incredibly small.

His ember-like eyes catch yours and you suddenly feel too exposed.

“Good evening, princess.” 

“General,” you greet, wincing at how weak it sounds as it leaves your lips.

His gaze sweeps over you, lingering on the curve of your shoulders beneath the delicate straps of your ivory nightdress, the soft swell of your breasts pressing gently against the neckline. The fabric cinches at your waist before flaring out around your hips, emphasized by the way you sit at the edge of the mattress. Your posture is rigid, hands clasped in your lap—a result of all the etiquette drilled into you from childhood.

He notices the tension in your form and lets out a sigh, turning toward the couch at the far end of the room.

You blink.

“Where are you going?” you blurt out, brows furrowed in confusion.

“Your Highness,” he drawls, settling into the couch with a lazy grace. “We don’t have to do this. You look like a kitten with her hackles raised. We could ruffle the bedding, spill some oil on the sheets, and pretend we had a night worthy of the chamberlain’s inspection.”

A flash of panic rises within you. You stand, words tumbling out in a rush. “Nonsense! Marriage is not recognized before the temple unless consummated on the night of the ceremony.”

He tilts his head, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Such peculiar customs you have here on Noir.”

You had imagined a thousand ways this night could go, a thousand versions of the man you’d just married. Not one of them prepared you for this.

You flush, frustration building in your chest. “General, I would appreciate it if you respect the customs of Noir. We are a proud people, and we honor the traditions passed down to us by our forefathers.”

He rolls his eyes. Then, with a slow, deliberate pace, he stands and makes his way toward you. For every step he takes, you fight the instinct to hunch your shoulders, to shrink away. Next thing you know, he’s standing before you, his imposing size forcing you to tilt your head back to maintain your gaze.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, gently cupping your face. The heat of his touch burns through your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

You finally avert your eyes. “I’ve never been with a man before,” you manage to say with as much indifference as you can muster, nails digging into your palms.

“Really? Not even a stolen kiss in your youth?”

You clench your teeth. “There are far more pressing matters to focus on than indulging in childish flirtations.”

He laughs, a rich, deep sound that resonates through the air, stirring an unexpected warmth low in your belly.

“Alright,” he concedes, his finger tracing a slow path along your cheek. Without warning, he grips your jaw, the touch both commanding and tender, pulling your gaze back to meet his. “But if we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way. None of those absurd rules from your royal handbook.”

You pull back slightly, brows knitting in confusion. “The act is the same, is it not?”

“Do you agree, Your Highness?” he presses, lips grazing your ear ever so slightly. The warmth of his breath against your skin is unfamiliar, and the rush of heat that sweeps up your neck sends electrifying pulses deep within your core.

“Yes,” you grit out.

After studying your expression one last time, he lowers himself slightly, then grips the back of your thighs and lifts you with ease. You gasp, scrambling to find your balance. Your arms instinctively wrap around his neck, fingers digging into the firm, broad muscles of his shoulders. With a smooth shift, he adjusts your position, the inside of your thighs pressing against his hips, before carrying you to the vanity desk at the center of the room.

You struggle to speak, words caught in your throat as the sensation of being so high up in the air makes you dizzy. He finally sets you down on the desk, his large palms slowly dragging down your legs, gently pushing your knees apart.

“G—General,” you stammer, eyes wide as he pulls his tunic over his head, revealing a tanned expanse of skin and the hard, defined muscles beneath. “The bed is over there—why are we here?”

A flicker of a smile plays at his lips as he tosses the fabric carelessly to the floor. “Trust me, princess. Now close your eyes.”

You want to argue, remind him that asking you to trust the most notorious figure in the realm—whom you’ve barely known for a day—is no small request. But the gravity in his scarlet gaze quiets any protest. With a reluctant breath, you close your eyes.

There’s no movement at first. Then, his calloused palms find your knees, the rough calluses a stark contrast against the smooth stretch of your skin. Heat blossoms under his touch, searing its way upward as his hands glide along the curve of your hips, the taper of your waist. You fail to suppress the shudder coursing through you when his touch pauses just below the swell of your breasts, lingering for a heartbeat before sliding to your sides, his broad palms more than spanning the width of your back.

Then, you feel the faint brush of his breath against your mouth, a fleeting warmth before his lips capture yours in a tender kiss. The hot, wet sensation has your back arching instinctively, your hardened nipples pressing through the thin fabric of your nightgown against his hard chest. A deep, throbbing ache pulses at your core, and you clamp your thighs together in a futile effort to suppress the damp heat pooling between them.

The overwhelming rush of sensations draws a whimper from your lips, your trembling hands clutching at his shoulders for stability. His response is immediate—a low, guttural groan before he deepens the kiss, his mouth returning to yours with even more fervor.

You’ve read about kissing in your sparse collection of romance novels, tried to envision the mechanics behind the act. But the mental images always fell short, awkward and unappealing, leaving you unconvinced of its charm. You’d dismissed it as unnecessary, even pointless—especially when it came to something as pragmatic and straightforward as sex.

But now the general is sneaking in the hot, wet glide of his tongue between your lips and you panic, not sure what it is he’s doing and what you’re supposed to do. He must sense your uncertainty, because his large hand moves to steady your jaw and nape, holding you in place. When he feels the accidental brush of your tongue, he wastes no time and sucks at it, the lewd sound echoing in your ears, forcing soft, strangled sounds from your throat.

You no longer feel the seeping chill from outside the castle walls, body now feeling like it’s on fire, the wetness dripping from your entrance sliding down your inner thighs. You feel like you’re drunk and about to pass out, so you push his chest back with a gentle palm.

“General,” you say, heaving through swollen lips. “What… what are we doing? The bed…”

He takes a moment to steady his breath, eyes squeezed shut, palms pressing firmly at your waist. Then, a low, rough chuckle rumbles from his chest.

“You’re infuriatingly naive,” he mutters, his sweat-damp forehead resting against your shoulder. “You must be the only woman of all arranged marriages eager to crawl into bed with a man she barely knows.”

You flush, indignant at the implication behind his words. “What are you trying to say?” you demand, mouth unconsciously forming into a pout.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his thumb brushing gently over your lower lip. “What I’m saying, princess, is let me take care of you. I don’t know what your upbringing has taught you, but there’s more to this than just... getting it over with.”

You’re not used to being told what to do and deviating from the rules, so you force out a sharp “fine”—an unintended display of bratty defiance, considering the man before you. But he only laughs, and to your dismay, the sound makes him even more handsome than he already is.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, lifting you by your bottom this time, pressing you flush against his chest. His hands on your backside—so close to where you’re throbbing and wet—has you flinching forward. You suddenly feel the brush of something firm against the sensitive nub above your slit, and you jerk again in surprise.

He chuckles, before gently lowering you onto the soft expanse of the mattress. His lips find your collarbone first, then trail down to your nipples, where he suckles through the fabric. A soft whimper escapes you, your fingers curling into the sheets. You can feel his smile against your skin as his tongue sweeps over one of your sensitive buds, before continuing its journey down toward your abdomen.

But then he hovers his face above your groin that’s barely concealed by the bunched-up hem of your nightgown. Alarm jolts through you, and you prop yourself up on your elbows, torso rising instinctively. You attempt to close your legs, but his hands hold them firmly apart. 

“General—”

“Sylus,” he interrupts, lips brushing along the inside of your knee. “We’re married now, sweetheart. Use my name.”

A twisted sense of pride coils within you, knowing you hold both the name and face of the most infamous man in the realm.

You hesitate, swallowing the lump in your throat before continuing. “Sylus,” you echo, the name oddly satisfying on your lips. “Not that I’m… doubting your expertise, but is all of this really necessary?”

He exhales heavily, saying nothing at first. Then, he takes your hand—its size utterly lost in his grip—and guides it down your body. His movements are deliberate, stopping only when your palm meets the undeniable hardness of his cock, straining against his trousers.

You struggle to contain the jumbled stutters tumbling from your lips. “What are you—”

“I’m a big man,” he states matter-of-factly, his gaze unwavering. “And this is your first time. As you are now—you won’t be able to handle me.”

You don’t fully understand what he means, but the statement silences you nonetheless.

He chuckles, letting go of your hand, and you immediately pull it back to your chest. “May I?” he asks, his voice low as he hovers below you once again.

You flash a glare, before nodding reluctantly.

A smirk tugs at his lips as he leans back, his gaze shifting downward to the space between your legs. Slowly, he lifts the hem of your dress, inch by inch, until the cool air brushes against your exposed skin. You watch, eyes heavy, fighting the tremors rushing through you, as his hand moves along the inside of your thigh. When his fingers brush against your folds, a sharp exhale escapes you, and your head falls back onto the mattress.

“You’re so sensitive, princess,” he murmurs, amusement lacing his words.

“Shut up and get on with it,” you snap, covering your eyes with your forearm.

You hear a quiet laugh escape him before two fingers press against the sensitive nub above your folds, sending a shock of pleasure through your body. Your back arches instinctively as he slides his fingers up and down against your entrance. The motion, slick and sinful, leaves you gasping, and you struggle to keep your legs open, body trembling from the unfamiliar pleasure.

Sylus’ eyes darken, flicking between the way his fingers tease your slick folds and the way your breasts strain against your dress. His breathing grows heavier as he reaches up, pulling the neckline down to expose your chest. A soft whine escapes you when his hand cups one swell, firm yet gentle, while the other continues its relentless ministrations below.

“I’m pressing one in, alright?” he murmurs.

You barely register the words before he pushes a thick finger past your folds.

“Wait—it feels—ngh—it’s strange,” you stammer, voice hitching on a whine.

He stills immediately, digit only halfway in. “Does it hurt?”

“I… kind of? I don’t know…”

You’re panting. The pressure is peculiar, and quite unpleasant. Your body tenses at the newness of it, the unfamiliar stretch bordering on discomfort.

He remains patient, finger unmoving. Then, you feel his thumb press on your nub, drawing gentle circles against the sensitive lower hood of it. The obscene sound of slickness fills the space and you’re mortified, toes curling at the wave of arousal soaking his hand.

“This better?” he whispers, drinking in every detail—your heaving chest, the sheen of sweat on your skin, the tremor in your thighs, and the glistening mess pooling between them.

You can’t respond, overwhelmed by the spiraling pleasure.

A chuckle rumbles from him, low and pleased, as he presses the rest of his finger inside. This time, it slides in smoothly, and the high-pitched moan that escapes you is muffled by your trembling palm. Now knuckle-deep, he gently strokes upward, pressing on a rough spot that makes you jerk in his hold.

“I’m going to try something, alright?” he says softly, breath brushing against your knee as he plants a tender kiss.

“Okay,” you croak, struggling to process the pulsing sensations building deep inside you.

The circles on your nub stop, and you almost whimper at the loss. But before you can voice your complaints, something warm, wet, and utterly foreign replaces his thumb. Your head snaps back, a raw, choked cry tearing from your lips.

“General—hah—Sylus… What are you—?”

He doesn’t answer. Dazed, you prop yourself up and the sight before you is almost too much: the most powerful man in the realm, kneeling between your legs, his mouth worshiping you with unrelenting fervor. His tongue laps at your folds, drags it languidly up to your engorged nub before closing his lips around it, sucking in a way that sends sharp, electric pulses straight through your core.

Panicked by the unbearable pressure building inside, you try to push his head away. “Stop—it’s strange, I feel like I’m going to—”

Before you can finish, he slides another finger inside, stretching you further. His fingers curl, stroking that spongy spot with unrelenting precision. His mouth works in tandem, alternating between suckling and lapping at your overstimulated nub.

Tears blur your vision as the intensity peaks. You scream into your palms, hips bucking against his mouth and hand as you feel yourself tip over the high he brought you to.

Sylus watches, entranced, as your legs open wider, cries muffled as your body convulses under his ministrations. Even as you shatter under him, he doesn’t let up, prolonging your fall at his mercy. And when you’re finally sent over the edge, your release flooding his eager mouth, he drinks in the sight of you—flushed, trembling, and utterly spent.

He presses his cheek against your inner thigh, feeling the delicate tremors rippling through your body as you struggle to steady your breathing. His eyes trail over your folds, soft and swollen, slightly parted as your essence continues to glisten and drip. Unable to hold back, he dips his head and presses a slow, deliberate kiss, groaning as your intoxicating taste lingers on his lips.

Your cry pierces the air, hands flying to his hair as you tug with desperation. “W—Wait…! I can’t… it’s too much… please…”

He only chuckles, low and teasing, before placing a final kiss on the sensitive nub above your folds. Then, he moves upward, settling his weight against you. His chin rests between your breasts, arms locking yours in place as his eyes meet yours, heat and satisfaction dancing in his gaze.

As clarity slowly returns, the enormity of what just happened hits you. He—the Onichynus general, a man who strikes fear in nations across the realm—had just laved at your most intimate area with his tongue. Such an act is nowhere to be found in the guides you’ve read on sex, not even as a distant suggestion. And yet, you enjoyed it. Far more than you care to admit.

An embarrassed huff escapes you as heat blooms across your face. You throw your hands up to cover it, unwilling to meet the insufferable smugness you can practically feel radiating from him below.

Suddenly, you feel the neckline of your dress being tugged down again, catching beneath your breasts. Then, you feel the flat of his tongue gently press on a nipple, circling it with the tip before pulling it into his mouth to suckle. His hand slides up to your other bud, palm brushing over it in slow, deliberate motions. Breasts are meant to nourish, to sustain future generations—mere vessels for the creation of life. Yet the hairs at the back of your neck raise on end as you feel the return of the persistent pulsing deep within you. You bite your lip, stifling the sounds threatening to escape, back arching as you desperately chase the sensation of his mouth on you.

“We can stop now if you wish, Your Highness,” he murmurs against your skin.

Fighting the heaviness taking over your body, you grab his jaw, forcing him to meet the fire in your gaze. “Do you have a problem with consummating with me, general?”

He responds with a particularly sharp suck at your nipple.

“Ngh—! Sylus! I meant Sylus!” you cry out, correcting yourself with a gasp.

He smiles, a mischievous glint in his eyes, before moving to the soft curve of your breast. His mouth alternates between harsh sucking and teasing bites, leaving a trail of bruised blooms in his wake.

“While intercourse may be a mere formality to you Noir people, in Onichynus, it’s an act of passion and love,” he says, voice low as he shifts to giving attention to your other bud. “I wish to ensure that Her Highness, my wife, has a memorable first experience. So, if you feel spent for the night, we can always stop. At any time.”

His words settle deep inside you and you feel warmth spread in your chest. Perhaps Onichynus is more than the tales of its ruthless reputation, after all. Hesitantly, you caress his cheek, heart aching at the way he closes his eyes and nuzzles into your palm. He almost seems like a clingy pet feline.

“I appreciate the sentiment, but I want to finish the rites,” you say softly. Then, you flush, struggling to find the right words. “And, um, I didn’t expect things to be this… good. I don’t mind experiencing more, if it’s alright with you.”

It takes a moment for your words to register, and when they do, Sylus smirks—a slow, predatory curl of his lips that sends heat coursing through your body. He leans in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue brushes your bottom lip, and this time, you grant him easy access. You mimic what he did to you earlier, tentatively wrapping your lips around his tongue and sucking gently.

Immediately, a low, visceral groan escapes him as his hips press forward, grinding his restrained arousal against your soaked folds. The rough fabric of his trousers drags against your sensitive nub, sending jolts of pleasure rippling through you. You whine into his mouth, arms winding around his neck as you pull him impossibly closer.

Sylus seems barely in control now, his breath coming in harsh gasps as he adjusts his movements, angling his hips so that the ridge where his shaft meets the head rubs directly against your overstimulated nub.

Without warning, he breaks the kiss, leaving you on the verge of a whine as a string of spit bridges the space between you. He steps back, tugging his trousers down in one swift motion. Your gaze drops instinctively, and your breath catches at the sight of him.

Broad shoulders taper into a lean waist, and every inch of his sculpted body radiates strength. But it’s the thick, throbbing length between his legs that holds your attention. He notices the starstruck look on your gaze and he chuckles, walking closer to you until you're face level with it. Taking your hand, he gently wraps it around his girth. The sheer thickness overwhelms your grip, and your breath catches at the realization.

“Feel free to take a look,” he rasps.

You’ve never seen a cock before, but instinctively, you know this one is massive. The shaft is thick,  with prominent veins that seem to throb faintly, and the soft, rounded shapes below it look heavy and full. The bulbous, mushroom-shaped tip is flushed, beads of some kind of white, translucent fluid glistening at the slit. For some reason, you feel the urge to lean in and taste it.

Sylus takes your hand, shaping it into a loose 'O.' “This is you,” he murmurs, guiding your fingers to glide along his length, spreading the slick fluid. “And this…” He pushes through the circle you’ve made, the thick head sliding in and out. “…is how it’ll feel when I’m inside you.”

Slowly, he begins to move, sliding his shaft through your grip. The sensation is intoxicating, and you’re mesmerized by the sight of him—his cock pumping in and out of your hand, each stroke leaving it sticky with his arousal. You don��t even realize your lips are parting until you lean forward, your tongue darting out to flick against the leaking tip.

Sylus lets out a guttural moan, one hand tangling in your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. His taste—salty and slightly bitter—is heady, and the heat of him against your tongue heightens your arousal. He bucks into your mouth, and though you gag slightly, you fight to take more of him, desperate for the connection.

You feel too empty.

“Princess—fuck—this is torture,” he groans, his deep voice rough with restraint.

You can only moan in response, lips stretched around his cock as he begins thrusting into your mouth. His large hands steady your head, guiding your movements. You peek up at him through fluttering lashes, and you feel your folds quiver at the sinful sight of the Onichynus general panting, eyes shut, sweat-covered muscles taut as he pistons in and out of you.

You are Noir’s beloved princess—revered and envied for your beauty, grace, and intellect—yet now you’re barely coherent, delirious over the addictive taste of your husband as he fucks your mouth over and over.

One particularly deep thrust hits the back of your throat and you gag, tears springing to your eyes. Sylus curses under his breath and withdraws immediately.

“Princess, I’m sorry,” he pants, taking in the sight of you—tears streaking your cheeks, saliva glistening on your lips, thighs pressed together in a futile attempt to relieve your ache.

“It’s okay,” you croak, voice hoarse and small.

Sylus pauses, taking a moment to steady himself and pull back from the frenzy consuming him, before climbing onto the bed, positioning himself against the headboard. His hands grip your waist, lifting you effortlessly to straddle his lap. Movements frantic and barely restrained, he aligns your slick folds against the length of his shaft. His lips find yours again, urgent and demanding, while his hands grip your hips, guiding you to rock against him. The friction against your sensitive nub draws a cry from you, and he groans into your mouth.

“Let me have you, princess,” he practically begs against your lips between heavy breaths.

You barely have time to process his words before he lifts you slightly, the broad head of his cock pressing insistently against your entrance. Then, you feel an immediate, sharp stretch as he breaches your folds, pushing deeper until the full length of him fills you to the hilt.

A strangled cry escapes you and you collapse against his chest, burying your face in his neck with stilted sobs. Sylus remains still, large hands massaging your rear soothingly, coaxing your body to adjust.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips brushing against your temple. “Just breathe. Let me in.”

“It hurts,” you gasp. He shifts slightly, and a sharp sensation makes you wince, like he’s hitting a spot that feels too far, too much. “T—Too big…”

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, breath hot and uneven against your ear. His hands move carefully, gently parting the delicate skin of your folds in an attempt to ease the stretch and make it more bearable.

Keeping his hips as still as possible, he reaches for the hem of your now sweat-soaked nightgown, lifting it with as much gentleness as he can muster. His eyes trace the path of the fabric as it reveals the slick mess of fluids dripping from where you're joined, the soft curve of your belly, the delicate bounce of your breasts freed from constraint, and finally, your tear-streaked face—beautiful, vulnerable, and utterly his. Guilt flickers through him as he feels himself twitch and grow even harder inside you, despite your pained whimpers.

After tossing the fabric aside, his lips find your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses to the spots that make your walls flutter around him, drawing soft, helpless sounds from your lips. 

“Once you’re settled in our home on the mainland, you’ll have everything you could ever desire,” he murmurs, hands gliding up to rub gentle circles over your hardened nipples.

“You’ll have servants at your beck and call, and you’ll be free to do whatever you please. No one will dare defy you—no one will even think to.”

The vivid imagery of his words wraps around your mind like a spell, pulling you deeper into him. The sharp discomfort of being stretched begins to ebb, replaced by a dull ache that shifts to faint blooms of pleasure.

“And when you finally swell with my child,” he breathes, tone thick with promise, “I’ll find endless delight in claiming you over and over, until the first light of dawn touches us.”

You flush at the picture of him taking you like this, with your belly round and full with his heir.

He chuckles low against your ear, the sound dark and rich. “Oh? You like that idea, don’t you?”

You huff, landing a light smack on his chest. “Do not tease me,” you protest, voice carrying a hint of authority despite your half-lidded gaze. The sight of you perched on his lap, his cock buried deep inside you, while you fix him with a stern, regal expression befitting a princess is enough to have his hips bucking up to you.

With a strained groan, he crashes his lips against your neck, his cock throbbing almost painfully within your tight walls. “I need you, princess,” he rasps against your skin, barely holding back the urge to thrust up into you.

The pressure of the stretch still lingers, but the sharp pain has melted into pulses of pleasure. You place your hips back, grinding your sensitive nub against his groin, desperate for more. “Please do something,” you plead, hips moving in frantic, clumsy circles, chasing a bliss you don’t know you’re craving.

Sylus doesn’t hesitate. He lowers you back onto the mattress while still buried deep inside you. Propping himself up on his elbows, his gaze locks onto yours as he slowly draws his hips back, leaving only the tip nestled at your entrance. Then, in a single, fluid motion, he sinks back in to the hilt, filling you completely in one long, unrelenting stroke.

You cry out, this time in response to the delicious friction of his cock dragging against your walls. Driven wild by your reaction, he pulls back again, then thrusts deeply into you with another slow, deliberate plunge. A hiss escapes him as the head of his cock presses against your deepest depths.

“You’re doing so good,” he groans, lips brushing over the bruises left by his earlier kisses on your neck. “You’ve been such a darling for me, haven’t you?”

To his twisted delight, you remain incomprehensible, helpless sounds pouring from your kiss-bitten lips as you scramble to steady yourself by gripping his shoulders, nails digging painfully into his skin. He’s almost feral at the way your flesh ripples from the impact of each thrust. The princess of Noir, coveted by men all over the realm, now lies beneath him, sweat-slicked, legs spread, and taking his cock so wonderfully.  But beyond that, he sees the most perfect queen—one whose unparalleled intellect and sharp wit can stand beside him in his pursuit for power.

Suddenly, he pulls out, and you whine, tears staining your cheeks at the dizzying emptiness. He merely shushes you soothingly before gently turning you over onto your stomach. Before you can garble out a question on what he’s doing, he plunges into you once more, hitting a spot against your front that has you curling your toes and screaming into the sheets.

“I—It feels s—strange again—!” you manage between broken whimpers, each word punctuated by the relentless rhythm of his movements against your sore walls.

“Wanna feel good again, princess?” he murmurs against your ear.

Your answering sob is all the reply you can muster.

Suddenly, you’re hoisted up on your knees, his strong arm wrapping around your waist as his other hand grips your jaw, holding your face up. His thrusts quicken, erratic and desperate, and you gasp as his tongue traces the outer shell of your ear. Then, his hand slides lower, fingers finding the swollen nub above your abused folds. The sudden burst of pleasure at the rubbing motion has you crying out, body tightening as a familiar heat coils low in your belly.

You begin to thrash in his hold at the overwhelming sensations. “Sy—I think—I think I’m—”

“Let it happen, princess, I got you.”

With those words, your hands tangle in his sweat-damp hair as a violent shudder wracks your body, exhausted sobs escaping your lips. His relentless pace doesn’t falter, eyes locked on the harsh bounce of your breasts as he pounds into you from behind, chasing his release. The tight grip of your walls and the slick heat enveloping his cock finally push him over the edge, his thrusts turning shallow and frantic before burying himself deep with a final, forceful motion, spilling his seed inside you.

Sylus takes a moment to catch his breath, pressing soft, chaste kisses along your shoulders.

“You alright, princess?”

You don’t respond.

Confused, he gently tilts your head back, only to find your peaceful, sleeping face, soft snores escaping your lips. He huffs a small laugh. How adorable.

Carefully, he shifts against the headboard, settling you onto him with his half-hard cock still nestled inside, twitching faintly. Draping your legs over his knees, he starts massaging your inner thighs, soothing the soreness he knows must be there.

A series of sharp knocks echoes through the room.

“This is the chamberlain. I must confirm that the consummation rites have been fulfilled for your marriage to be deemed legitimate by the Grand Temple.”

Sylus scowls, eyes scanning over your sleeping form. “Can’t this wait in the morning?”

“This is necessary to eliminate any possibility of deceit in performing the rites.”

“Damn uptights,” he mutters. Then, a smirk plays at the corner of his lips. “Well, come in then.”

The door swings open, revealing the old chamberlain in his faded temple robes, his attention fixed on his ledger. He mumbles the schedule for the following day as he approaches the bed. When he finally looks up, expecting to see the usual ruffled, soaked sheets, he freezes, almost stumbling backward in shock.

You—the cherished Noir princess, known for your beauty and headstrong grace—lie exhausted, nestled against the imposing form of the feared Onichynus general behind you. His scarlet eyes glint as he sucks a mark onto the side of your neck, and beneath you, his impressive girth disappears into your swollen, intimate folds, generous amounts of your combined essences coating his base.

“This is evidence enough, no?” Sylus taunts, sneaking in a shallow thrust up to you, drawing a soft, breathless whine from your throat.

The chamberlain stammers, his words fumbling as he backs toward the door.

“Y—Yes, the rites are confirmed. Good night,” he rushes out in a single breath before slamming the door behind him.

Chuckling, Sylus pulls his sleeping wife closer, placing a tender kiss on your temple. You’ll need the rest for the long journey ahead, and for whatever adjustments await you back on the mainland.

But, in the end, none of that matters.

He’s just grateful to have found his beloved kitten again.

check out my other works!

[thankskenpenders]

The Lara-Su Chronicles: Beginnings review

The day has finally come. Many, understandably, thought we'd never get here. Maybe we shouldn't have gotten here. We've been through so much. Lawsuits, reboots, redesigns, unreleased NFTs, empty legal threats over the fact that movie Knuckles has a dad, an attempt to license out Scourge the Hedgehog to fans that immediately got canceled (in both meanings of the term), and many, MANY idiotic Twitter controversies. But now, here we are.

Thirteen years after first announcing it in the middle of his legal battles with Archie and Sega that changed the American Sonic comics forever, former writer Ken Penders has released the first part of his new series: The Lara-Su Chronicles.

Yes. I had to buy the book. I had to take one for the team. Look at the fucking URL of this blog, a blog I've been using to talk about the American Sonic comics for nearly a decade while the specter of this book loomed in the distance. The one time I've actually been paid to write an article about anything in any professional capacity, it was an article about the Penders lawsuits. I'm cited on his Wikipedia page. There was no way I was going to skip reviewing this, and there was no guarantee that scans would ever turn up online given the incredibly small audience for this trash. (Only 166 people preordered this, and even that number feels way higher than it should be.) No, I had to preorder it to ensure I could get a copy and cover it for the blog... even if that meant my name would be forever immortalized in the list of "supporters" in the back of the book. These are the sacrifices I must make as a woman who stumbled ass backwards into being an amateur Archie Sonic historian.

So, what exactly is in this book? How much of it is new? How bad is it? How did we even get here in the first place? How can this exist without Sega pursuing legal action? What happens next? And, most importantly... why are there multiple depictions of an Archie Sonic character breastfeeding in this book?

I'm here to answer those questions as best I can, and in agonizing detail.

First, for those just tuning in to this decades-long saga or those who maybe don't know the full story, here's a refresher on the background info.

"What the hell is this?"

The Lara-Su Chronicles is Ken Penders' long-dreaded long-awaited continuation of his 1994-2006 run on Archie Sonic, ignoring everything written after he left by other writers like Ian Flynn. In particular, it picks up from the cliffhanger ending of the 2003-2004 arc "Mobius: 25 Years Later," which was set in what Ken considers the definitive canonical future of the series. It stars Knuckles' daughter from that future era, Lara-Su, among other new and returning characters. The project was first announced near the start of Ken's legal battle with Archie in 2011, and he's been posting WIP previews online for about a decade. Now, after all this time, a Lara-Su Chronicles book finally exists.

We'll get to the actual contents of that book in a bit.

"He can do that without getting in trouble with Sega?"

Believe it or not, yes, he can.

Thanks to the outcome of Archie Comics' woefully mismanaged lawsuits against Ken (yes, they sued him after he started filing for copyrights, not the other way around), he now has full legal ownership of every story he wrote for Archie Sonic and every character he created for the series. This was explicitly granted to him in the terms of the settlement between him and Archie (acting on behalf of Sega). He can even reprint his old Sonic material as-is to his heart's content. The main catch is just that he can't write new stories featuring Sega characters or trademarks, and his new stories also have to be distinct from Sonic at a glance to avoid confusing readers. As such, reprints can't use Sonic iconography on the cover, a few Sega characters (mainly Knuckles) have been renamed and slightly redesigned in the new stories, and the art style has been changed to less closely resemble Sonic. But otherwise, he can do whatever he wants with his own characters.

All of this is because Archie lost the original copy of Ken's work-for-hire contract that signed over the rights to his work. Without that (or any alternative that was considered permissible in court), his comics and characters are the property of their creator by default. Yes, those old comics are full of Sega stuff, but Sega doesn't automatically own the copyright for every drawing of Sonic in existence. And Sega put their stamp of approval all over those comics and let them get sold at retail for decades, even though (in the eyes of the court) there was no legal paperwork granting them ownership of any of it. It's almost like they were unwittingly distributing a fan comic for years and declaring it a fair use of their property, and now there's no takesies backsies. It's a strange and unique copyright situation. Again, they worked all this out in the settlement. And, yes, fans have long speculated that Ken stole and destroyed his own contract to regain the rights to his work, but frankly Archie was so incompetent throughout the lawsuit (it went so bad that they had to fire and replace their lawyers midway through) that I completely buy the idea of them just losing important legal documents.

Also, in case it needs to be spelled out: while Ken's a weirdo, it's ultimately a good thing for creatives everywhere that Archie lost their lawsuit against Ken. We do not want to live in a world where corporations can claim ownership of peoples' work without the contracts to back it up. That would be an incredibly dangerous legal precedent to set. And more comic creators, and artists in general, should own their own work! Corporations are not your friend! They'll delete your work for a tax write-off in a heartbeat! It's just bewildering that this guy, of all people, was the creator who ended up successfully getting his shit back, and that this is what he's doing with it.

"What about his old collaborators? Are they involved? Is he paying them?"

Ken is mostly doing The Lara-Su Chronicles solo, though he has, in fact, talked about compensating the artists involved in any material he's reprinting. The ones who give enough of a shit to get paid for a small scale reprint of something they did 20 years ago, anyway.

On the subject of his collaborators, it's also worth pointing out that Ken's wasn't the only contract that was lost. Most of the early Archie Sonic writers from before Ian Flynn's time seem to be in the same boat as Ken, with the ownership of their stories and characters defaulting back to them. Again, Archie fucked up big time. But like I said, most of them don't really seem to give a shit. For most of them, Sonic was just a random temporary gig they took to pay the bills while Marvel was busy going bankrupt in the '90s, not the thing that defined their entire careers.

The only other Archie Sonic contributor who's tried to do anything on the level of what Ken is doing was writer and editor Scott Fulop. In 2016 he attempted to sue Archie for the unauthorized use of what are now retroactively considered his copyrighted characters and stories, and he even announced a standalone comic about his most famous Sonic character, the recurring villain Mammoth Mogul (sort of a pastiche of DC's Vandal Savage and Marvel's Kingpin, with wizard powers added for spice). However, Fulop lost his lawsuit because he didn't put together a particularly compelling case. Since then he seems to have wiped all traces of his ill-advised Mammoth Mogul comic and his company, Narrative Ark Entertainment, from the internet. For now, this leaves The Lara-Su Chronicles the only project of its kind.

"What about those other Archie Sonic reprints he just announced?"

At the time of writing, Ken is once again claiming that he's trying to get the band back together to reprint all of Archie Sonic, now under the bad new banner "Floating Island Productions: MOBIAN LINE" that I can't imagine he consulted literally anyone else on.

So, like, look. As we've established, Ken can reprint his own stories. And if he can work something out with the other contributors whose contracts were lost, he can print their work, too. But there is no fucking way he's getting his hands on Ian Flynn's run, which Sega undoubtedly holds the copyright for. Even if they don't, Ian needs to maintain a good working relationship with both Sega and IDW if he's to keep his job, so he'd never go for this. Not to mention that Ian and Ken just... don't get along! Ken's whole plan here seems to be predicated on IDW going out of business (a thing he REALLY wants to happen) and freeing up the Sonic comic license, after which he knocks on Sega's door and goes "hey I've still got dirt on you guys," blackmailing them into giving him the Sonic license back so that he can reprint the later comics. Every step of this plan is ludicrous. It's never gonna happen.

He's been saying he wants to reprint the whole series for a few years now, though. This isn't really anything new. And despite his lofty plans that set Sonic Twitter ablaze, he quickly backpedaled. The only specific things in the works right now are a "two-volume omnibus" of all of his Knuckles stories and a collection of artist Scott Shaw's work on the very early Archie Sonic issues, since they're on good terms with each other. I have no idea how Ken plans on packaging these when he can't put any Sega characters or the Freedom Fighters on the covers, but these projects are small enough in scale that there's a decent chance they'll see the light of day. Scott Shaw only did like five issues. But anything beyond that? I'll believe it when I see it.

Or, y'know, this could've all just been a publicity stunt for his new book. I wouldn't put it past him. Let's just focus on the book that actually exists.

"So he finally did it? He made a whole Lara-Su book? It's out? He finished it??"

Yes and no.

The book that's out now is The Lara-Su Chronicles: Beginnings, a prologue for the series of seven graphic novels Ken somehow plans on making, even though it's taken him 13 years to put out literally anything new. I don't know whether or not this counts as book one of seven, because it only features 30 pages of new comics. 30.5 if I'm being generous.

Most of the book is actually just a reprint of his infamous Archie Sonic storyline "Mobius: 25 Years Later", which ran from issue #131 to #144 in 2003-2004. (Again, yes, he can reprint this, he just can't put Sonic on the cover.) Why's it infamous? Well, Ken had been building anticipation for this future era of the series for basically his entire run. We kept seeing King Sonic and Queen Sally from the future. Knuckles' entire backstory hinges on his dad having a vision of this future. Several years before Silver the Hedgehog was created, it was Lara-Su who was Sonic's equivalent to Future Trunks, the cool-looking child of one of the main characters who traveled back in time to try and prevent a dark future. Believe it or not, yes, there was hype for Lara-Su. And then we finally got M25YL, and none of that cool stuff happened. Instead it really ended up being about how unbearably boring the middle aged Sonic, Knuckles, Sally, and co. are in this peaceful future where Robotnik is dead and they're all married with kids, forced into traditional nuclear family gender roles. Lara-Su is present, but she mostly just does generic teen girl stuff and complains about how Knuckles won't let her do anything even though she REALLY wants to be the new Guardian of Angel Island, like, super bad! Come on, dad!!!

In its original printing, this meandering arc ended on an abrupt time travel cliffhanger that Ken was never able to follow up on before he left Archie in 2006. This new printing slightly changes that ending, using the unresolved timey-wimey shenanigans as a convenient excuse to alter the entire timeline. This creates the slightly different world of The Lara-Su Chronicles, where the few relevant Sega-owned characters have been replaced and everyone is ten times uglier.

After this, we finally get two short new stories picking up where M25YL left off: "The Storm," starring Acorn Kingdom super-spy and known creep Geoffrey St. John, and an early release of the first chapter of The Lara-Su Chronicles: Shattered Tomorrows, the first full TLSC graphic novel.

And now that we're all on the same page about what we're looking at, let's actually talk about the book!

The cover

Let's start by beating a dead horse. The cover art: it's still bad! But why is it bad?

The cover is, of course, based on Patrick Spaziante's cover from Archie Sonic #131, the start of the "Mobius: 25 Years Later" arc. (Ken did the layout for that cover, though, so in the eyes of the law he's the original creator who owns that cover.) That cover was, itself, a tribute to the iconic cover of Giant-Size X-Men #1 by Gil Kane and Dave Cockrum, the issue that introduced the version of the team with Wolverine, Storm, Nightcrawler, etc.

Ken seems to have forgotten that the point of both these covers was to hype up the arrival of a new cast of characters. The new guys are supposed to make a dramatic entrance front and center. That's the focal point. Meanwhile, the cover for Beginnings has the old timeline versions of the cast from Archie Sonic dramatically bursting out of a shattered crystal ball, while their new counterparts look on in mild bemusement - if they're even bothering to look at all, since most of the characters here are just copied and pasted from their profile pages. That's just not how you do this particular homage! The point is supposed to be "out with the old, in with the new." And why are they using a crystal ball to view the past? Hell, why are they even using a crystal ball at all? The original arc was presented as a magical vision of the future courtesy of Tails' uncle Merlin (don't ask), but the new story leans all the way into being futuristic sci-fi.

Of course, there is no real artistic intent at play here. The old versions of the characters are placed front and center in the crystal ball simply because Ken traced over Spaziante's original art of Lara-Su and Julie-Su (the only two characters on the Sonic cover he owns) and threw out the rest, ruining the composition in the process. Look at the awkward empty space where Sonic, Sally, and Rotor once were, and the new drawing of The Character Formerly Known As Knuckles who's no longer properly centered between his wife and daughter. Even if Ken can claim ownership of the cover because he did the original layout, this all just feels scummy and lame.

And, yeah, if it needs to be said, the new characters and Ken's new rendering style look like absolute fucking dogshit. Putting new Lara-Su directly next to old Lara-Su does her no favors. The shattered glass effect looks absolutely atrocious. I could go on, but we'll have plenty of time to talk about the art style when we see how bad the stories inside look.

Changes to "Mobius: 25 Years Later"

Overall, 99% of M25YL is presented identically to its original printing. Sonic, Sally, Knuckles, et al. are still present with no changes to their names and no tweaks to the art. Even the original cover for issue #131 is included only a few pages into this book with its Archie, Sonic, and Sega logos still intact and everything. Again, because of the weird copyright situation described above, these preexisting comics can be released without any changes.

There is exactly one bizarre change to the art, though, where a hand drawn shot of Angel Island is replaced with an unfitting photo background and the ugly Floating Island photobash that Ken has been using as his personal logo for decades. I think he only did this as part of a test for his motion comic app that nobody asked for. I don't know why this had to make it into the print version. It's like the book is firing a warning shot for what's to come if you keep reading.

The new content begins on the final page of M25YL. In the original wet fart of a cliffhanger ending, Sonic and co. accidentally alter the timeline with an old time machine of Robotnik's and Lara-Su begins to fade away. Then, after everything goes white, we just cut to the present day heroes going "gee, you ever think about the future?" In this new printing, that last bit has been cut, and the rest of the page has been awkwardly shrunk down so that Ken can fit in a new panel. We now see the hands of an off-screen villain, seemingly named "Override," proclaiming that "the Praetorian" (Knuckles) has messed up the timeline again and that they'll finally get their revenge.

Who is this Override? I have no fucking clue. The new stories in this book make no mention of them. You have to buy the next book to find out.

My confusion over the identity of this villain overlaps with another big problem: name changes. So many names and nouns have been arbitrarily changed in The Lara-Su Chronicles, even ones Ken didn't have to change for copyright reasons, and I only know what half of them are replacing because Ken's been tweeting about this shit for years.

The echidnas are now a totally original alien race called "the Echyd'nya." Even in flashbacks to events from M25YL attempting to mimic the old art style, if it's on a new comic page, they're gonna call themselves "Echyd'nya." Evil echidna faction the Dark Legion is now the "Cyberdark Dominion," hailing from the "Cyberdark Colony." The Brotherhood of Guardians is still the Brotherhood of Guardians, but now the main guardian is called "The Praetorian." Angel Island is still called "The Floating Island," like it was in the older Archie comics, but it's ALSO sometimes called "Avion"? When I read this I wasn't sure if he had randomly renamed Albion, the other echidna city from the Archie comics. But no. Now we have an Albion AND an Avion. Sally is mentioned simply as "Princess Acorn," while Sonic is referenced once as an unnamed "blue-spined Erinaceinae," using the scientific name for hedgehog to make it sound more sci-fi. In an incredibly ballsy move, Ken even mentions Robotnik as "the Insurrectionist Kintobor," retaining his original surname from the Archie comics that's just "Robotnik" backwards. Guess Sega never trademarked that one.

Aside from every name change being a downgrade, this leads to confusion when you're not sure if something is supposed to be new, or if it's just an Archie thing you're supposed to recognize despite having a new name and design. Is "Override" someone I'm supposed to know already? Am I just supposed to have read a fucking tweet from Ken where he said he changed the name of some existing villain to "Override"? The answer is no, but I had to term search his Twitter just to verify this.

Moving on!

New story #1: "The Storm"

If you've been following the WIPs, this is that story about Geoffrey St. John that Ken's been posting previews of for almost a decade. The title page copyright dates it to 2015, and that absurdly long gestation is probably why the art is so inconsistent here. Even the style of speech bubbles and the font change between pages two and three.

This is a problem when there's supposed to be a deliberate and noticeable change in art style here signaling the moment where the time travel stuff alters the timeline, replacing the Archie Sonic world with the Lara-Su Chronicles world. If you don't already know that's what's going on, the idea isn't conveyed clearly at all. It just goes from one hideous art style to a slightly different one with no explanation.

The main problem here is that Ken has hitched his wagon to a franchise about anthropomorphic animals when he can't draw furries to save his life. (Though a bit later in the book we'll also begin to wonder if he can even still draw humans.) He's shifted away from the cartooniness of the original designs and given them more human proportions and facial features, but this just ends up making them look incredibly uncanny and lumpy and gross. With some designs he's trying to lean into more of a Star Trek alien vibe, but then he still insists upon retaining the giant Sonic eyes on most characters even though he has no idea how to make them emote.

The rendering of these godawful designs doesn't do them any favors, either. Ken's going for more of a painterly look now, but it almost seems as though he's shading everything with Photoshop's burn and dodge tools that are designed to darken and lighten select areas of a photo. The result is a muddy, smudgy look that makes it feel like the color layer has been smeared in vaseline. And it only looks worse after coming off of 14 chapters of M25YL that have way more palatable art.

The backgrounds, too, are a complete mess, a jumble of low res jpeg photo elements (sometimes with extremely noticeable pixelation), stock textures, and smooth digital gradients. There's no real sense of place here, and it gives everything a surreal, dreamlike quality when you can't really tell where anything is supposed to take place. This first story is seemingly set in a high-tech stronghold below Castle Acorn called "the Bunker," but it could just as easily be confused for the bridge of a spaceship. This whole story features characters speaking to each other over floating video displays and hologram projectors from three different locations, but without a hologram effect and without a clear sense of where the characters are it often feels like they're just in the same room as each other. Characters will be in one location on one photo background, and then the camera angle changes and they're in a completely different place, because Ken just uses mismatched photos off of the internet. It's been like 25 years since he first tried using photo backgrounds in the Archie comics and he hasn't gotten any better at it.

When I had my boyfriend read the book to see if it made literally any sense to him (it didn't), Anthony said this: "This is the kind of shit I'd see linked on a Second Life world that hasn't been touched since 2004." I think he really hit the nail on the head. Now, there's actually a contrarian part of me that thinks that might theoretically almost be kind of cool, in sort of a messy counterculture way. I love weird indie shit. I was a Homestuck reader! But this isn't a scrappy mixed media zine, or experimental outsider art from someone just messing around with Photoshop, or a loving throwback to weird old internet art, or even something intentionally bizarre and offputting like Xavier: Renegade Angel or a PilotRedSun video or whatever where the fact that it's weird and ugly is part of the humor. This is supposed to be a sincere sci-fi epic drawing on Star Trek and Jack Kirby comics, made by a guy who's been drawing comics professionally since the '80s. This is supposed to look good. This is supposed to compete with mainstream comics that are on sale right now. He thinks any day now IDW's gonna go out of business and Sega will come crawling back to him so that he can stamp the Sonic logo on shit like this. It just doesn't work.

But, okay. It's ugly. We knew it would be ugly. But that ugliness would be much easier to accept if it was in service of an otherwise genuinely good story. So what about the writing? After all this time, how does Ken choose to kick off this new saga? Well, credit where credit's due. "The Storm" feels like a proper continuation of Ken's writing style from M25YL.

Because it's eleven pages of characters standing around and talking while nothing fucking happens.

Here's the synopsis: A dog woman named Brownie, an ensign in the Royal Secret Service fresh out of training and the only character who's almost cute, walks up to Geoffrey to deliver a report. He's immediately suspicious of her, asking who let her in and if she's a spy for Elias (Sally's brother, if you're new here) or Alicia (Sally's mom). The art style suddenly shifts when the timeline is altered, but the scene continues uninterrupted. Geoffrey points a gun at Brownie when she won't say whose spy she is. Geoffrey is distracted by a call and proceeds to have a conversation via a mix of holograms and video screens with Remington (head of Echidnaopolis security), Spectre (Knuckles' great great great great great grandpa, the one with the helmet who always looks evil), and a new scientist character named Dr. Zephyr/Zephur. (The spelling of this character's name changes multiple times throughout the 11-page story, because I guess nine years wasn't enough time to spellcheck this shit.) They say a bunch of made up technobabble nonsense about how it looks like the timeline was just altered and Knuckles and co. seem to be involved. It's complete drivel that I'm not even going to try to make sense of. Everyone decides to investigate further, and the conversation ends. Brownie tells Geoffrey she's his spy, then walks out and implies she's actually Alicia's spy in her inner monologue.

To be continued!!!

Yes, that's it. It's really just a bunch of technobabble where some characters talk about how it seems like the timeline has been fucked with. That's it. The whole time Geoffrey doesn't even get up out of his damn chair, which he's of course sitting in backwards to show how cool he is. It's just 11 pages of Geoffrey sitting in a chair and talking to people and looking uglier than he's ever looked. Nothing happens. Nine years for this.

I'm also struck by how meaningless all of this is to anyone who hasn't read Archie Sonic. The added context from M25YL may help a little, but "The Storm" focuses on characters who weren't in that arc, and the story does very little to introduce who any of them are. Brownie could've been super useful as an inexperienced point of view character who's only meeting the others for the first time here, but instead she's really just a passive observer who's here as part of some kind of 4D chess game between Geoffrey and Alicia, an off-screen character whose motivations in this era of the story are completely unknown to even returning readers. Who are the good guys and bad guys here? What are the conflicts and the stakes of the story moving forward? What do these characters want? Basic questions like this aren't really answered. I can't imagine a new reader being able to make heads or tails of this. Hell, I can't really imagine a returning reader who hasn't been following the last decade's worth of Ken's tweets about this story making heads or tails of it, either.

...Maybe more will happen in the next story?

New story #2: Shattered Tomorrows preview chapter

After another message from Ken, the story of The Lara-Su Chronicles proper begins with the redesigned Lara-Su walking along a jpeg photograph beach at sunset and crying while thinking about how Knuckles - sorry, his name is K'Nox now - is dead.

Yep! Straight into the dad stuff!

Look, I'm the last person to complain about writers getting super personal and drawing from their own baggage in their writing, but Ken's just no fucking good at it. There's no nuance, nothing interesting to say. He just keeps writing mediocre-to-horrible dads whose misdeeds are always justified by their "good intentions," and then sometimes they die and their kids are like "we may have fought but actually you were the bestest dad ever and I'll miss you forever, I'll never be able to fill your shoes!"

This is the only part of the new material here that feels like it has any heart behind it, because I know how much his complex relationship with his late deadbeat father means to Ken (there's an author's note in this outright saying as much). But the guy died 42 years ago, and it doesn't feel like Ken has had any new thoughts about this part of his life in those four decades. He's just not an introspective or self-aware enough artist to actually mine his personal baggage for anything beyond "father knows best."

Anyway, so then it jumps forward in time(?) and now we're following this human guy who looks like this.

Previously, Ken got a lot of shit for literally just using the likeness of Anthony Mackie for this guy, based on his IMDB profile photo. Ken has thus redesigned the character... and by that I mean I think he looks more like Ernie Hudson now? Ken's clearly just working off of photo references (if not straight up tracing), given his face is the most detailed and realistic-looking thing on any page where he's present.

But you may be wondering: who is this, and why is he here? Well, for one, he's here to run around in front of some low res space photos while making trite references to things like Planet of the Apes and Star Trek. Haha, he makes a joke about red shirts! Original!! But beyond that, Commander Mykhal Taelor (yes, that's really how he chose to spell it) is a human... from Earth! Archie Sonic readers are probably confused, because in those comics Mobius is Earth in the distant post-apocalyptic future. Well, despite being a Planet of the Apes fan, Ken always hated that particular worldbuilding decision from Karl Bollers, always preferring to think of Mobius as a separate alien planet. And now he gets to make that canon in his own stories and throw out Karl's ideas. So Mobius is basically just, like, a Star Trek planet now, with its own alien creatures that sometimes just so happen to look like anthropomorphic Earth animals.

Also, at one point Taelor wonders if the inhabitants of the dead Mobius might have been human, and the alien ally he's talking to over the radio says it's unlikely. "I don't understand why your kind has a problem understanding you're a minority within a minority." Perhaps poor wording for a line said to the only Black character in the story.

Anyway, Commander Taelor here seems to have discovered the uninhabited husk of Mobius after the vague time-space cataclysm everyone was worried about in M25YL has come to pass, and he finds an audio log from Lara-Su that I presume will explain what happened. I guess those are the titular Lara-Su Chronicles. In theory this flash forward establishes some sense of pressing danger, but when the threat to the planet is so unclear and technobabble-y it just kind of lands with a thud.

It doesn't take long before we get back to Lara-Su being sad about her dad. A good little chunk of the chapter is spent with this new timeline's Lara-Su recalling moments in her life, including echoes of the original Lara-Su's memories from M25YL, which feels redundant coming hot off the heels of a straight reprint of that entire arc. And boy, for anyone who read the later Archie Sonic comics, the protagonist having vague memories of the old version of the series from before a lawsuit-related timeline reboot sure does sound familiar, huh?

The art inconsistency somehow becomes even worse in this story, with Ken flip-flopping on whether or not he wants to use outlines, with the no-outline art managing to look even worse by relying entirely on Ken's awful rendering. By this point in the book, readers are also likely to start noticing how often Ken reuses art from previous panels. This is a shortcut that tons of comic artists use, of course. Invincible famously did a joke about this. It's often understandable. But, again... it sure does stand out in a book that took 13 years to make with only 30 pages of new art. Amusingly, Ken even manages to combine his inconsistency and recycling problems by reusing the same art with and without outlines. And, of course, any time Ken tries to draw the Archie era designs it's just... the worst.

And, yes, it's in this dreamlike montage sequence of Lara-Su's life that we get...

The uncomfortable family nudity scene, followed by the dual timeline Julie-Su breastfeeding scene.

Yeah, you might have heard about this one already. If this incredibly eerie presentation of Lara-Su's hazy memories of the two different timelines make it hard to tell what's going on, don't worry. There's another, clearer version later in the book as part of Julie-Su's character profile, because I guess Ken was just so proud of it.

(I censored these myself because I'm not playing Russian roulette with Tumblr's inconsistent nudity rules and risking getting banned lmao)

Like, okay. Is a mother breastfeeding her child really that shocking of a thing to see in a story? No, not at all. But, like... when it's two characters who you previously created for an officially licensed Sonic the Hedgehog comic for 7-year-olds... and some of those officially licensed Sonic the Hedgehog comics for 7-year-olds are reprinted in the same book... and when it's drawn like this... yeah, it's kind of a shocker.

It just looks so unnatural. Julie-Su is posed very deliberately so that you'll see both of her breasts, and in the new timeline version she's barely even holding Lara-Su so you can really get a good look at her supermodel body, showing zero physical signs that she just gave birth. Most people will immediately jump to this being Ken putting his fetishes in his work (a type of criticism that I'm incredibly tired of - it's 2024, all the cool artists are blatantly putting their fetishes in their work now). And my immediate response is that, no, this is probably just Ken trying to come off as really mature on a surface level, a thing he's been obsessed with since the Archie days. Free from the shackles of writing a licensed children's comic, of course he's going to jump immediately into depicting some nonsexual, artistic nudity to try and prove he's A Real Mature Artist For Grown-Ups who just thinks the human body is beautiful and breastfeeding shouldn't be a taboo etc. etc.

But then, like. You look at some of the other character designs. Like Espio's daughter Salma, who's now this horrifying alien lizard person who's always nude, and her scale pattern puts scales exactly where her nipples should be. Or you look at his comments about the Echyd'nya age of consent. Or you look at how he keeps drawing Lara-Su in this. Like, does the shuttle really need this, like... reverse chaise lounge thing in the cockpit? So that we can keep getting these shots of the 16-year-old Lara-Su lying on her stomach and posing with one of her legs kicked up, her naked ass in plain view?

The vibe isn't great, is what I'm saying!

I'm not going to try to ascribe authorial intent here. I don't know. I'm not a psychic. Given his very blatant reliance on photo references elsewhere in the book, it's entirely possible he just referenced some figure drawing photos that were maybe just a little too sexy. And also, he's an American comic book artist, and a boomer one at that. Those guys tend to draw women a certain way, even when it's not supposed to be sexual. I don't fucking know. It just sucks. I'm not gonna make some hyperbolic statement about how this makes him a literal pedophile who should be in jail, but it is deeply offputting and objectifying.

But if you already knew about the nursing scenes and were hoping there was some other really shocking stuff in there for me to talk about in this review, sorry to disappoint, but nope. That's the only shockingly weird new thing in here. Once again, not a lot happens in this story, and what does happen is pretty boring.

Once we get past the recap stuff and the human guy, the plot developments boil down to this: The timeline was altered at the end of M25YL... but not as much as you might think. In the new timeline, Knuckles ("K'Nox"), Cobar (now looking significantly younger), and Rotor (now a rhino just called "The Emissary") still traveled via shuttle to go find a time machine in the Badlands and fix the time-space continuum, like in the climax of the original arc. This time, though, Sonic wasn't there, and Lara-Su came along without having to stow away. Lara-Su watches the ship while the grown ups go deal with the time machine, and then after a couple panels Not Rotor comes back with Cobar and is like "Hey, Cobar got hurt, we gotta leave. Dunno what happened to your dad." And then they just, like. Presume that Knuckles must have died. Even though we have no idea what happened to him. And then they just fly away. And then Lara-Su is sad that her dad died.

And that's pretty much it!

This is supposed to be a really emotional sequence - it's literally the scene where Lara-Su learns that Knuckles is dead - but instead it comes off as unintentionally funny because of how poorly it's portrayed. Not showing Knuckles' actual disappearance is a huge misstep, for one, making his uncertain fate more confusing and anticlimactic than dramatic. But also, Ken keeps just using the same two drawings of Rotor for two pages, so he doesn't really seem to be emoting at all, and he's in this spacey hazmat suit that honestly just makes him look like fucking Moltar from Space Ghost. So the whole time I'm just reading his dialogue in Moltar's deadpan voice as he's like "I dunno. We did what we could. Anyway, let's leave."

After this, we get a two-page spread previewing the rest of the story from Shattered Tomorrows. It's basically like a trailer in comic form. It has one of the most mystifying layouts I've ever seen in a comic book. I have no idea what order I'm supposed to read this in.

Yeah, I kinda have a feeling this is the full extent of what Ken has drawn for the rest of that book. I'd love to be wrong, but I fear that I'm right.

Bonus material: Data files

These are mostly very dull, recapping a lot of events shared between Ken's Archie run and the new Lara-Su Chronicles timeline. It seems like almost his entire run is still considered canon to the backstory of the new timeline, just with some names changed, and things only really diverge at the climax of M25YL. But I'll share the interesting stuff here.

Lara-Su

The main thing you'll notice in Lara-Su's profile is the massive, unreadable wall of text where Ken felt the need to list the entire Knuckles family tree, split across both pages.

This is literally so long that Lara-Su's personal history has to awkwardly cut off mid-sentence and be continued on the final page of the book, after the rest of the data files.

Also, please note that this list gives Julie-Su's mom's full name as Mari-Su of the House of Atrades. Incredible on all levels.

There's also a reference to the dark timeline Lara-Su was originally supposed to come from. You know, the one where Julie-Su is the leader of a rebel movement fighting against a Knuckles who had gone mad with power? The timeline that would have been way more interesting than the one in M25YL? Here it seems to have been written off as the result of another "timeline disruption." Lara-Su allegedly has vague memories of this timeline, in the same way that she has vague memories of the M25YL timeline.

Geoffrey

Geoffrey's bio mostly recaps events from the Archie comics, which means the Sonic/Sally/Geoffrey love triangle has to be alluded to. His rivalry with Sonic is described like this:

"He would later resurface when Kintobor was transporting his latest hi-tech weapon, the Dynamac-3000. It was during that mission he discovered a rival for the Princess' affections. Whereas the Princess would be one of a line of conquests where St. John was concerned, the blue-spined Erinaceinae who protested doth a bit too much regarding his affections for the Princess for St. John's taste would prove to be a source of great sport and amusement."

Yes. It's gross. Saying that Geoffrey saw Sally as "one of a line of conquests" is gross. Ken writing this and then still treating Geoffrey as the coolest badass ever is gross. The "Princess Acorn" is also first on the list of Geoffrey's "female relationships" elsewhere in his bio, though I suppose how much of a "relationship" they had is left vague. Honestly, at this point the fact that Ken didn't explicitly confirm that Geoffrey took the underage Sally's virginity in the book comes off as a display of restraint. The bar couldn't be any lower, I know.

Remington

His bio is, frankly, shockingly long for such a minor character, though I guess he does get a large portion of the word salad dialogue in "The Storm." There's a lot of stuff here about how the identities of his biological parents are shrouded in mystery, a plot point that fans have long speculated Ken just straight up forgot about in his time at Archie. (Ian confirmed that Kragok from the Dark Legion was Remington's dad, though, so this isn't really much of a mystery.)

Lien-Da

She gets a bio even though she's not present in the two new stories, just so we get to look at her awful new design and compare it to how Steven Butler drew her earlier in the book:

Commander Taelor

We get to see two drawings of him with the same exact Ernie Hudson face side by side! That's fun.

Julie-Su

She gets a list of "known friends," but the only character listed is Knuckles' mom. Poor Julie-Su.

Also, Ken feels the need to reiterate that Knuckles and Julie-Su are still distant cousins. He made a whole new timeline where he can change whatever details he wants, but THAT had to remain canon. Thanks, Ken.

And then after the data files we get the special thanks page, listing everyone who preordered the book and/or bought TLSC merch from Ken.

With my name on the list. Because I had to buy a copy to cover it for the blog.

My name is on the very next page right after the breastfeeding panel in Julie-Su's data file.

Yep. He got me.

Is it at least a well put together book? Like, in terms of manufacturing quality?

Its physical quality is... fine. It's a nice, sturdy hardcover. The print quality seems fine, though mine does have a bit of smudging from some sort of printing error on one page. The pages don't seem like they'll fall out on me. The image quality is crisp. The colors are vibrant. This is a low bar, but this is one of the few places where I'm able to give this book anything resembling praise.

The formatting and graphic design work, on the other hand...

(I didn't crumple those page corners, it came like that.)

For one, the placement and sizes of the M25YL pages is inconsistent, largely due to the fact that the book doesn't actually match the proportions of a comic. A lot of pages aren't properly centered vertically. Some pages go all the way up to the top edge of the paper, while others leave a visible gap of about half a centimeter. Every page has a 1cm gap to its left and right, which is sometimes filled in with a solid color or gradient that doesn't quite match the page it's surrounding. I have to assume Ken didn't have any sort of source files or original artwork to work off of, as those ideally would've had more generous bleed to account for slight shifts in printing. It kind of seems like he just got the highest resolution versions he could find of the digital releases online and printed those. The colors are a dead ringer for the digital versions, which have always looked slightly more saturated and pastel than they did in print.

I can't say this bodes well for his further plans for Archie Sonic reprints - sorry, Mobian Line reprints. If they ever come out, please, for the love of god, do not buy those. I don't care how much you love Archie Sonic, they aren't going to be good reprints. For comparison, IDW's similarly priced hardcover Sonic collections have none of these formatting problems, because they're made by people who know what they're doing with access to the actual source files.

The book also has its fair share of text-focused pages, split between the data files and messages directly from Ken about the history of his career and this project, and these are formatted in the most amateurish way possible. Just massive walls of Arial text over either plain white backgrounds, simple gradients, or faded photos. I've seen school yearbooks with better graphic design. Even ignoring my subjective feelings about the art and stories within, this book does not feel like it's worth $36 USD.

It's frankly shocking how shabby he let this thing look considering it's supposed to be his baby. And doesn't that really sum it all up?

Closing thoughts

Obviously, I did not expect this to be any good. But I'm still left kind of dumbfounded by it.

I think what really strikes me about it is that Ken had a blank check to do whatever he wanted here. He got an opportunity many writers would kill for when he gained complete ownership of his most famous work. He's free from the limitations of a monthly licensed comic book for children, free to make whatever creative decisions he wants without editors or other writers or Sega to worry about, free to completely reinvent the series to his heart's content and finally tell the story of his dreams. And with that opportunity and 13 years of his time, he made... this. A direct continuation of "Mobius: 25 Years Later" that barely changes anything about the characters or world beyond their awful new designs, even though much of the word count is spent rambling about how the timeline has changed. A story that makes zero concessions for new readers, or even returning readers who don't already have the last decade's worth of Ken's tweets explaining his creative decisions burned into their memory. 30 pages where nothing really happens and the story barely moves forward an inch despite the decades-long wait - but maybe something will happen if you buy the next book!

Who is this for? Maybe this really is a project for no one but Ken. Maybe he just really, really wants to finish the story he started, a story that's personal to him due to the family history it evokes, and the number of people who enjoy it or buy it beyond that is irrelevant. I think that many of the best artists are incredibly self-indulgent ones working with that exact mindset, artists whose enthusiasm for their own work jumps off the page or screen. So, if that's the case, then why the fuck isn't he telling the damn story? What's stopping him? Why is he still spinning his wheels? Where is that passion for his own work? Because it sure as hell isn't there on the page. There's a huge part of me that really wishes I could say "Man, what a weirdo, but you do you, Ken. You tell your weird little story." But there's barely any story here. It's like he loves styling himself as a storyteller, but he's terrified of finally having to actually tell a story after all this time. He's still stuck in the exact same mode of writing he was in almost 30 years ago when he was doing 6-page backup stories about Knuckles, just killing time and stringing readers along until he's eventually able to truly realize his vision. If not now, then when, Ken?

Even the back cover blurb is mostly just a dry recap of the history of this thing. It was a Sonic comic, the original arc was published in these issues, it went unfinished, Ken left Archie, the lawsuits happened, now he's continuing the story. There's nothing about why anyone should give a shit about this as its own story, even though Ken has spent years trying in vain to convince people TLSC is its own beast that shouldn't be judged as a Sonic story. I think deep down he knows that there's no pitch for this beyond the novelty of it originating from Sonic. And that's why, despite declaring that he'd leave the site, he's still on Twitter riling up Sonic fans. It's the only attention he gets at this point.

Maybe this is too harsh when those 30 pages of new comics are just intended as a preview for the "real" book. But the elephant in the room is that we have no idea if that "real" book will ever actually come out, let alone the entire series of seven graphic novels that will supposedly complete this saga.

Ken is undeniably a complete jackass and all around unpleasant, vindictive person who's rightly become an industry pariah. He's a self-proclaimed paragon of progressive values who'll send Comicsgaters after his successors for the crime of not worshiping the ground he walks on, and then turn around and announce he's going to reprint their work without even consulting them. He's a sore winner who already won his copyright battle on a level most comic writers would never dare to dream of, and yet still won't truly be satisfied until he sees an entire major comic publisher go out of business, putting god knows how many people out of work, because he thinks this would get him back the license to a video game franchise he doesn't even like.

But I still have to pity him.

As an artist, the trajectory of his life is my nightmare. I think all of us fear dying before we can tell all the stories we want to tell. There's simply never enough time to do everything. And here's Ken in his 60s, talking about how he's still planning on making his magnum opus all by himself out of stubbornness and pride, despite demonstrably proving he can't handle the workload, and also talking about how if he dies before the project can be finished he'll have to pass the torch on to his kids and get them to finish it for him. It's so grim. Even just typing that sends a shiver down my spine. It took nine years of his limited time on Earth to finish and release an 11-page comic about Geoffrey St. John sitting backwards in a chair.

This is a purgatory of his own creation. And yet... I'm not sure he's ever been prouder. One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

I guess if I want people to take anything away from this review, it's this:

Lesson one: If you're an artist or writer of some kind, or an aspiring creator, don't wait around. No one else is going to tell your story for you. Start writing that novel. Start drawing that webcomic. Start making that game. If Penders can put out this damn book that no one asked for after 13 years of work, then proudly proclaim that he's still going to make six or seven more books and also reprint hundreds of comics he doesn't have all of the rights to, then show up to cons with that foul Lara-Su Chronicles: Shattered Tomorrows banner and sit in front of it beaming with pride, fully aware of his critics but saying "fuck 'em, I know I'm hot shit," then you can do fucking anything. Tell the weird, sincere, cringe story of your dreams. If Ken Penders doesn't have imposter syndrome, then nobody should.

And lesson two: Don't buy Ken's books.

[endearng]

Loner to lover

Pairing: young!Spencer Reid x professor!reader Summary: Running away from your problems is said to be irresponsible, but it just might lead you to where you need to be; to whom you must be with and, utterly, to the one you're supposed to be. WC: 10.1k Warnings: jealous spencer (a warning of its own) unspecified age gap; infidelity; smut in the form of soft and vulnerable sex between two virgins - (p in v), creamp*e (sorry), softdom!spencer, dacryphilia if you squint. Let me know if I missed anything. A/N: I had to use the frightening 'L/N'. Sorry sorry sorry. Also I just know Spencer is a little shit when encouraged so... he's a bit insistent here............ anyways I love this do much and I hope you enjoy reading it as well. | Masterlist

Spencer remembers the time when you first met. The reason, happenstance and the enormous range of mixed feelings that it brought him.

Early twenties. Collecting BAs for fun. Dr. Spencer Reid thought of a social life second, third, fourth... whatever position behind his education. His responsibility and intelligence were mere details compared to his application to his studies, which was a trait that made him singular to every single one of the professors whose classes he chose to take. Quick and smart remarks, useful contributions, thought-provoking ideas, you name it; there wasn't a single good student expectation that Spencer couldn't meet. In the academic world, the young man was highly recommended and wanted by any and every superior who wanted a good insight on their research, and that was saying a lot — society's greatest minds would compete for that brilliant brain in hopes to have his attention and participation on their projects. Spencer Reid, to his colleagues, was a walking experiment: that guy was able to keep up with his classes, the research programs he was invited to be a part of (they were jealous of this particular information, because they had to almost literally fight their way into a internship) and, on his free time, he had the nerve to feed his curiosity and come up with even more ideas of his own.

A brilliant, lonely heart amidst a crowded sea of people who were mainly too focused on themselves to notice him, unless it was to compare themselves to the absolute success he was among the academic world.

Given his mild demeanor, it is no surprise that his professors would trust him anything and that he easily won their hearts over — he remembers attending dinners at their places when they were particularly close to him; Spencer was not a stranger to a safe proximity to his mentors, after all, they were his only friends. So, it was with a dreadful surprise that he received the news that his favorite professor and advisor, Dr. Brown, would retire. Immediately, Spencer thought, with a frown on his face, that nobody could replace him. Plus, it would be disencouraging to go to those classes with someone he didn’t even know. The news had dampened his mood, to say the least, and he was ready to protest.

"Don't worry, Reid," said Dr. Brown, kind eyes wrinkling in the corners as he smiled, sitting on his chair behind his huge desk, "Dr. L/N is a great person, in more ways than one. I'm sure you will be thrilled to work with her."

"I'm not sure. It takes me some time to get used to certain situations."

"I know, but I'm sure you've had to adapt to some unexpected events at some point," retorted the older man, psychologist mode in full swing, "This is no different. And, if I must say, not entirely unexpected. There's only so far a man can go without losing his mind.”

"I suppose so," Spencer muttered, feeling a bit selfish — it wasn't fair of him to put his thoughts before the older man's needs.

Dr. Brown looked at his pupil, who avoided eye contact for most of the time. The professor had taken an almost paternal liking to Spencer as they grew closer after the younger man stood behind in the classroom wanting to ask different and plenty of questions about the spectacle he had just watched, his first one. It was rare, for Mr. Brown, to have and hold a student's attention so uniquely, and it was as rare for Spencer to have someone explain things and welcome his curiosity so openly. Science had bonded them together — being men of science, they knew better than to argue with its effects.

"I was thinking, Spencer. If you're not so busy, you could keep leading the experiments in our lab, helping out our new professor." At that, Spencer's expression turned a bit sour, to which Mr. Brown chuckled, "Trust me, you'll have nothing to worry about. In fact, I think you two are greatly alike."

Spencer let nothing out but a hum of agreement, perking up slightly at that remark. He wanted to ask what the older man meant, but stopped himself, asking instead, "When does she get here?"

"I believe she is settling in her studio as we speak. You'll meet her tomorrow. I wish I could introduce the two of you, but, unfortunately, I leave at 3 a.m."

Exchanging goodbyes and wishes of a safe flight, Spencer left for his dorm, where he busied himself with the papers of the guest professor. Of course, he would not betray his ritual of researching the guest professor to know about their academic background, as well as their field of research, stylistics and projects to check if something would raise his spirits. It didn't matter that he wasn't pleased with the replacement.

Dr. L/N. You were, apparently, a great researcher for the Psycholinguistics area—a branch that made you known in fields such as Education, Criminology, Psychology, Linguistics, Communication... The list was endless. If he was honest, he felt a little baffled—and embarrassed—that he hadn't done any research on your contributions thus far. A mind like yours should get a recognition beyond any borders. Once he got a glimpse of your brain and what it could do, he was gone. Your resume was impeccable: you had studied in different institutions in countries, proficiency in multiple languages, uncountable papers and mentions of your name in studies in all the areas above.

He doesn't remember falling asleep or turning off his laptop. However, he remembers that, in dreams, he finds someone, but, strangely, he can't make up a face.

(...)

Walking through a bustling crowd of people always made you winded, the noise and the inevitable bumping too overwhelming for you to handle on top of being somewhere new. So, you preferred to sit and wait in a small, more secluded hall in the building that Dr. Brown said you would find his lab. After the morning rush, the corridors were filled by distant echoes of louder professors or students, which made you calmer; to think you weren't completely alone. Traveling to help out a friend was a much welcomed distraction from what you had left at home, something you weren't quite ready to access just yet. You could remember your shrink's voice as she said that, at times, it was useless to think so ahead of the future.

Unbeknownst to her, you agreed wholeheartedly. It was useless. The moment you could have done something for yourself was already lost, long gone, buried by endless hours of work and occupations to keep you from breaking a dam of lonely despair.

Speaking of the past, you slid your golden ring off your wedding finger, letting it fall inside your coat pocket as you made your way through the halls. Upon seeing a door with Dr. Brown's lab small logo on it, you cracked a small smile, remembering the story behind it: you and a bunch of other students trying to come up with a nice, thoughtful gift to encourage the guest professor's new interests. When you opened the door, you found a tall, thin man sitting by the computer desk, apparently engrossed until he heard the click of the lock, finding your eyes with equal parts startle and wonder, lips parted gently, surprise etched all over his pretty face.

The young man had innocent, almost bambi-like eyes. It was the first thing you had noticed about him. Staring at you, hazel eyes so expressive that you were sure he could speak through his glance alone.

After the initial surprise, you thought you knew who he was, having heard all about Dr. Brown’s new favorite student and mentee. Spencer Reid, who seemed to study for leisure, deeply intelligent and reliable. No wonder he was in the lab, settling everything so that he would be helpful. It was a faithfully vivid image, much like the one that had settled into your brain when your colleague had described who he was working with.

"Dr. L/N."

"Dr. Reid."

Your unison voices mingled in the air. You walked up to where he was, holding out a hand for him to shake. Dazedly, he stood up, taking your hands in his, which made you smile at him, appreciating his politeness. Spencer, on the other hand, felt frozen.

Whatever it was that he, at some point, imagined you would look like, it was nothing compared to the real thing. All your features seemed to be mathematically, precisely calculated to form one of the most beautiful and soft complexions he had ever laid his eyes upon. You spoke again, no longer blocked by his own voice, so gently that it was almost as if he was being physically touched by your voice. Your accent was not strong, but it was perceptible, something that he attributed to your multilingual abilities. "Sorry to barge in like that. It's nice to meet you. Dr. Brown told me a lot about you," you revealed, still smiling.

"It's okay. Nice to meet you too.” Tongue-tied. He felt illiterate, close to a woman who he was not supposed to have certain types of thoughts around. You breathed out a huff of amusement at his widened eyes.

There was a bit of an awkward silence when you both noticed that none of you had let go of the other's hand yet. With a clear of your throat and his fugitive glance, you both composed yourselves, retreating from your touch. "He said," you started with a chuckle, "and I quote, that you are now his eyes, ears, hands and brain in here. So, beforehand, I want to say that I truly appreciate your support and help." You said, politely, to which he smiled nervously with a shaky nod.

"It's no problem, really. Dr. Brown is one of the greatest here and it'd be naive of me to not accept his request."

You grinned, agreeing. "Yeah, he is a great man. Well, I believe you are more familiar with all the devices than I am." You said, motioning to the set-up behind him. "I do have these back at my university, but yours is a bit different from what I can see. I suppose they work the same way, but, to be honest, I don’t want to mess anything up."

Spencer blinked, scientist mode on full swing. "Yeah, yeah." He nodded, looking at her again. "You don't have to worry, I was just checking the last details before starting the experiments. Everything is already settled, but I can talk you through it if you want to conduct the experiment by yourself at some point.” He trailed. Curiously, he added, “If I may ask, what made you interested in this research?"

Your heart's happiness bursted into sparkles in your eyes as you smiled, glad that he asked you about it. You talked him through it, giving him specific details as he sat and listened like you were the most brilliant brain in the entire world. As you talked, he remembers feeling his lips twitching up in a small smile. Once you were done, encouraged by your honesty and heartfelt explanation, he revealed with a faint dust of pink on his cheeks, "I know. I, um, I searched and read some of your papers last night.”

"Really?" You asked, cordial.

"I try my best to get to know my professors' fields before meeting them. It's a way I found to keep my brain entertained and to get ready for what's coming next." He admitted softly, mentally patting himself on the back for not stuttering.

"That is a good approach. I must say I wish I had that kind of mindset when I was your age."

"It’s okay. You've been doing a great job."

Silence. Understanding from both parts.

"But... to answer your question, I have been really interested in working with language lately, more than usual, at least." You chuckled softly. Spencer couldn't stop his own grin at your enthusiasm, eager to hear your voice.

You agreed once he offered to show you how their device worked, sitting on the chair in front of it. Spencer motioned for you to go ahead and place your chin on the small stand. He took notice of your hands when you placed them on the desk, bitten nails and small, red spots on their edges. It concerned him, but he brushed it off, thinking it could have been a simple nervous habit, knowing he had no business asking or worrying about you. You were his professor, after all. "Whenever I lead this experiment with my students, they always tell me they feel like they are at the ophthalmologist."

Spencer chuckled. "Yeah. It does feel like it. You can't even move an inch."

You followed the instructions on the computer screen so that the device would follow your eye movements. It worked quickly, which made you pleasantly surprised and it was hard to hide it from your tone, "This is faster than any other I have tried before."

"Welcome to our university."

As you worked on the experiment, answering to the commands on the scream silently, the device following your orbs, Spencer took his time to study your features. Your hair was neatly up in a ponytail, dainty earrings adorning your ears that matched your gentle features. All your sharpness, if you had any, was in your eyes. An intense gaze that made him falter a bit, as if his brain had the need to stop for a second to store the sight of your gaze on him to remember it for good. Your movements were calm and collected, and, ironically, you looked rather young to be a doctor.

Once you had finished, you didn't pull away immediately from the device. The computer could no longer pinpoint where your eyes were, because then they were directed at Spencer instead glancing at him as if studying him, taking him in to remember his features like a quote that you knew by heart. As he turned to look at you, he started explaining how to save a volunteer's progress and, honestly, you were only half listening, focusing on his mild mannerisms, voice and use of language. You nodded here and there, absentmindedly storing that information. You two departed after exchanging some more information, mostly him guiding you through the campus, talking about each department and what was the fastest and best way to get to the building you were staying at.

Spencer remembers going home with renewed interest. He couldn't help but think about the way you portrayed yourself, the way you talked and moved, almost as if you were an ethereal being that was placed on Earth by an unfortunate mistake. Even though he had been unable to come up with a face for you last night as he read your thoughts, you had been an enchanting surprise. Unable to stop the thought, he gave it some indulgent room: you would, somehow, be a distraction. And he was crazy to get to know in which way.

A couple days went by without Spencer seeing you. You were quite busy yourself with the lectures you were planning and teaching. That morning, though, he had found you teaching Dr. Brown's previous class. It was surprising, and mildly irritating, to see that the class was the most crowded it had ever been. Taking a good look around and listening to a few comments that bothered him to no end, he found out the reason. Some of them wanted to simply see you. The thought was like being bathed in scorching water. He chose to sit in the front, because he thought, petulant, that you would know and remember his face and his face alone. As you entered the classroom and greeted the students with a warm good morning, you were pleasantly surprised to see Dr. Reid in the front row.

After neatly arranging your belongings on the desk, you started your class on the dot. “Hello, everyone. I am professor L/N and I am here to take over Dr. Brown's class.” You started, voice precisely clear. “Now, I understand that some of your colleagues might be running late for some reason. I don't mind if you are late at some point, but try not to make it a habit because it might disrupt our class. I do tend to start my lectures on the dot in respect to those who managed to get here on time. Today, we will talk about…”

You spoke gently, but you had your boundaries set and clear, which made Spencer squirm a bit. Seeing you so sure of yourself, so assertive, made something stir deep within him. Besides, the dumbstruck look of the many students gave him enough clue that he was not the only one feeling a little affected by you and your ways. As you went on and on about the topic, you gestured with your pretty hands, making smart remarks and cracking some light jokes that made everyone a lot less nervous around you. The new, pretty professor.

The topic, behavior, sounded redundant, at that point, because he had studied that subject over and over again, tiringly, exhaustingly, but there was just something about the way you spoke, about your mannerisms that he couldn't look away. You had a way with words, and he was fascinated by how you managed to make some more complex subjects so understandable to students, even if you sometimes drifted deeper into a certain concept, only to go back to them later. He couldn't even speak. The class was relieved while he was troubled.

“Huh, that's odd. Half of you are not in the roll.” You commented, turning the lights back on. “Is this correct?” You muttered to yourself, afraid that maybe you had the data of another class instead.

A girl suddenly spoke up, “Many of us are auditing.”

“Oh?” You wondered. “How many of you?”

Quickly calculating, Spencer bitterly noticed that about 70% percent of the class raised their hands. He wanted to think that it had to do with the fact that these people weren't around for Professor Brown. You smiled, warmly. It was a punch to the gut. “Well, I hope you enjoyed the lecture.

It was when the students slowly exited the class that he was able to reach you, gathering your papers and looking content. Sharply gentle eyes, impeccable posture and pristine clothes found his gaze and he found that he didn't want to look at anything else. He didn't seem to be ready to have that small heart attack every morning. He felt equal parts of embarrassment and a flutter on his belly. He approached you calmly, and as you greeted him, there was a warm look on your face. "Hi. Good morning, Dr. Reid.”

“You did a great job,” he blurted out, voice a bit strained. You only pretended you didn't notice. “Good morning.” He remembered to greet you back. Nice.

Your voice was low as you muttered a soft "thank you."

"Of course." He said, fiddling with the strap of his bag.

"I never asked... What is your field?” You inquired, curiously, grabbing your bag and walking side by side with him, exiting the room.

Spencer had that answer nearly tattooed on his brain. “I have PhDs in Chemistry, Engineering and Mathematics,” he started, nonchalantly, as he stuffed his hands in his pockets. "I also have a BA in Sociology and Philosophy. This is my third one, Psychology.”

“How old are you?” You blurted out, baffled.

“23. I, uh, I graduated from school at the age of 12.”

You stood there, speechless. Of course you knew that that was possible in some countries, but the casualness in his tone got to you more than his exceptional educational background. “That is… unreal.” You whispered. “You are so young and… and… You are still absorbed with learning.”

He chuckled, shrugging, delighted by your compliment. “Yeah, I guess… Not many people would make the same choices as I would.”

Your entire body froze, including your hidden hand, because his words had hit a particular spot within you. You gave him a nod, agreeing. “Well, it is still impressive.”

“I appreciate it.” He said, looking down and missing the slight dejection on your face. Nevertheless, his heart fluttered at the praise coming from you.

Shaking off the dark thoughts, you started again, “If I may ask, why did you switch from STEM to Humanities?” You asked, now mildly amused as he looked at you, taking the stairs with him to the office. Occasionally, your shoulders brushed.

“Curiosity.”

“Is that all?” You asked, puzzled.

“I was always surrounded with a wide access to books and overall knowledge. My mother was a Literature teacher.” He explained, a small smile gracing his face.

“That must have been nice. You must know a lot about the classics. They are my favorite kind of Literature.”

“They were good distractions, I guess… I wasn't, uh, the most popular kid growing up.” He trailed off.

“Me neither,” you said.

Spencer noticed that you walked with a hand on your pocket, but couldn't say anything about it, too much more focused on the way he seemed to be bathed in a newfound confidence around you. As you reached the office, he quickly placed his belongings on the leather couch by the door. With a low whine of disappointment, which caught your eye, he announced, “If you'll excuse me, I have to get a few books from the library.”

It was better than saying, hey, I was too distracted by you that I forgot that I also have responsibilities.

“Oh, sure. Go ahead. I'll be here.”

“Thanks.”

The door closed with a soft click, and you found yourself all alone again. Taking a look around, you busied yourself by analyzing your surroundings. There was a wall covered by huge, tall, dark shelves, cramped with books. The piece of furniture reached the roof with all sorts of technical literature. A small glass cabinet on the opposite wall showcased trinkets from all over the world, kids drawings and family pictures. A leather couch, cushions and an equally dark wooden desk adorned the room as well. A white light brightened the room, illuminating his titles, and a yellowish one lightened a painting on the wall, made by Dr. Brown's daughter, of the beach they visited frequently. It made you irrationally jealous. The reminder that other people had constant remnants of love was a stab to your chest, and you looked away from the bitter/sweet reminders.

Suddenly, your eyes got a glimpse of Spencer's belongings: technical books, a satchel bag, his coat and a small notebook. You wondered what he would write about in there, whether it was some sort of planner or he just thought out loud on those pages. You fought the urge to touch his stuff, deciding to sit on the couch after shrugging off your coat and laying it close to Spencer's things.

Still plagued by an annoying flicker of envy, you picked your ring, analyzing it with fierce focus between your fingers. The material, white gold, was supposed to adorn your hand for the rest of your life. The only personal thing about it was that it had been custom-made, by demand, just for you. A wedding band was supposed to hold, to be a souvenir of the deepest commitment of love. But as fate would have it, it had been nothing but an object. It held no meaning, since you and your husband easily slid it off when it was convenient.

There was a small date carved on the inside part of the ring. Neither you or Oliver wanted any stronger reminders of each other. To you, he was merely tolerable, and you struggled to feel anything but sorry for him. Despite the fact that you were helplessly coerced into marriage, you despised him for never having the guts of chasing a life, instead busying himself with living the fleeting pleasures that his parents' money provided him, spending his endless vacations overseas, sleeping around. A typical bohemian. A bon-vivant. The fact made you bitter. How does one possess every kind of mean and doesn't care to improve themselves as a person?

Inevitably, you were pulled into a strong stream of memories.

The sun filtered through the curtains, illuminating the dining room that held uncountable and expensive decorations. What caught your eye, though, is a much too long and large table with endless chairs. You remember thinking it was over the top, since neither you or Oliver would plan to have guests over. Swallowing your remarks, you smiled to your father and exchanged a look with your sister-in-law, not bothering to look at Oliver and therefore missing his awestruck look. It was the first time you were visiting the big house with its endless rooms, windows and useless areas. You ignored the subtle meaning of it: you were supposed to carry on your families’ names. The mason had been your parents’ gift, so you decided to stay quiet about it, not commenting on the tacky, outrageous muchness of things. You had learned the hard way not to fight back when it came to their decisions.

From a very young age, you were special. A charming, intelligent, quick-witted child who busied herself with studies and books who had a series of leisure time activities to go through during her free time. Hence, you grew up exceptional. You were always the center of attention somehow; being the first grandkid from both sides of your family granted you a few privileges, you held their entire focus, entertaining them with your particular and curious behavior during their gatherings. Whenever they showed up, your parents would remember some new ability for them to show you off. Playing the piano, chess, languages… You were always in the top of the class, in the best schools, surrounded by kids your age that belonged to the best families.

It was with a deep, heartbreaking sadness that you realized that you had their attention for your potential and everything you could add to their name. Nobody ever played with the first child.

Beautiful, graceful, wistful, clueless little you.

Your family’s connections and endless activities for you had been how you met Oliver in the first place. A smart, easy on the eyes boy who became a smooth talker as he grew older. You were friends from a very young age, but nothing more. You were always too caught up on working on yourself and your abilities in order to charm everyone that romance was something you couldn't even begin to fathom — it was nothing but a strange and distant feeling. You kept things platonic between you and him, spending time, mostly listening. Oliver would tell you all about his interests, and when the age came, he would tell you, rather technically, how his endeavors with other girls went.

You never thought of Oliver as more than a friend. In fact, his manners grew to annoy you, like a small barb in your shoe, if you were totally honest — not that you would dare to. You simply endured his existence, saving your reviles for yourself, because, growing up, you never knew what it was to freely express yourself. How lacking it was to grow up not knowing what it was to speak your mind freely without a strong reprimand of some sort.

Such painful dawnings had only taken place at the age of 20, when your parents and Oliver's had agreed to marry the both of you. Unable to fight back, you simply watched it happen. It was so damaging and traumatic that you could barely remember the times you had spent together, everything was just a big knot of confusing memories to which you felt more like an spectator than an actor. Over the course of the years, Oliver and you would make public appearances, but you had told him, on the first night after your marriage, that he was free to do whatever he wanted, as long as he didn't ruin your image. No. Not the one you had dedicated your entire life building.

Throughout the entire thing, your sister-in-law had been your anchor. A distant one, that sits in the bottom of the sea, as you navigated through your own life. Being too close to you was a sad reminder of your situation and she was aware of that. She had her friends and connections, unknowingly, check on you, though. She was all in for pretending her sad excuse of a brother didn't exist. Theresa and Oliver were polar opposites: a hard-working woman and a sluggish man.

Eventually, as you both moved through the world, engrossed in your true passions, Oliver had truly found someone. Someone you didn't bother learning the name of. Someone, you preferred to think, that didn't know about you and that if she did, she truly didn't care. The feeling was mutual. You, on the other hand, delved deeper into your studies, busying yourself to the fullest. It was nice, in a way, because that way, you were shielding yourself from the world and your inevitable, eternal struggle of a loveless life in the only way you knew how: through being someone.

It was far from a solution, but that's where it ended. It had been years since the last time you heard your name coming from someone else's lips. You didn't dream of it happening anytime soon. You didn't let it happen, anyway. Every advance was cut before it turned into expectations.

A small gasp erupting between your lips broke you out of your reverie when you heard the lock being harshly handled, which made you bolt straight to the door, dropping the ring on the floor. Opening it, you saw Spencer struggling to balance a huge pile of books and a tray with two cups of coffee. He thanked you softly when you offered to help him, your skin touching his briefly, jolts of something unknown coursing through both of your bodies. Pulling away, you placed the books on the desk, searching his eyes as he blushed like crazy.

“I got you coffee… I don't know how you take it, so I got it black with two sugars. There are many options these days, which can make choosing one a challenging decision, since there are undeniable and endless possibilities of you being allergic to some of the ingredients. Of course, there are also chances of cross-contamination. Now that I think about it, I should have probably gotten you tea. Oh, my God. Do you even drink coffee?” He finished, almost panting.

You stifled out a laugh. His ways were endearing. “It's okay, Dr. Reid. I'll drink it. I'm not allergic nor prefer tea over coffee. Okay?”

“Okay.” He said, puppy eyes finding yours again.

“Thank you, by the way. I really appreciate it.”

“Of course.” He said, smiling softly.

It quickly turned into your go-to order.

—

Students came and went, and you made conversation with them, which made you all the more endearing for Spencer. You asked about their day, how they ended up there, and you looked genuinely interested in their answers. It could be a stretch, but Spencer felt that, much like himself, you wanted to make connections — but not the professional kind. You wanted to belong somewhere, from the way your eyes held an intimate and unwavering hint of sadness when you heard their answers, but none of them had the nerve to ask you back. It was expected, though, because no one would think of a professor as a friend. The entire time, you were being addressed as such or as Dr.. You couldn't blame them. That was who you were, too lost in that character to remember who you actually were. If you had been someone, that is.

As Spencer sat behind the computer, ready to access today's tests, you chatted with a freshman student. Glancing at the clock, the girl with excited mannerisms almost shrieked, “Oh, my God! Is it that late already?! I have to go to my piano class.”

“Sorry to hear that,” you said, sounding a bit deflated. “It was nice to meet you, Dana. I'm really happy you've helped us.”

“Anytime, professor! Bye!” She said, walking through the door and closing it behind her.

You turned to Spencer, a hint of longing in your expression. “Are you leaving as well?”

“Not yet. I want to go over our results for the day.”

“Oh!” You exclaimed, approaching him to lean by his side on the desk, supporting your weight on one arm as your other hand touched the back of his chair. He could smell your perfume, something uniquely different, aromatic and so fitting. “Does it compare results automatically?” You asked, turned to look at him.

“Unfortunately, no,” he muttered, unfocused, eyes scanning all over your face, focusing especially on your lips. “I have to do that myself, which is why I'll take longer to leave. If we leave this for the last minute, it'll be much more stressful.”

“Slow and steady it is, then.” You said, grinning. “I'll stay to help you.”

—

Spencer remembers when he started feeling a lot stronger about you.

You were in the office, decorating it as your own. Spencer took notice of your belongings, trying to catch a glimpse of everything that made you yourself. There were abundant novels in many different languages filling the tall shelves, some souvenirs from different parts of the world, your titles… The analytic part of his brain took notice of the lack of family pictures and overall personal items. It was achingly professional and distant, the way you were setting your space. He couldn't help but chime in, “Is that all you're putting up?”

With a lopsided grin, you tried to justify, sensing his intentions. “I don't like cluttering.”

He didn't answer, sensing that it might be sensitive unknown territory. You unboxed a wood chess board, placing it on one of the bottom shelves. He looked at you, a silent question in his eyes. “Just in case someone wants to play,” you said, as you forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

The next day, Spencer walked through the office door with a box in hands. He hid it between the sofa and the wall. As you arrived, you talked briefly about the research, which was now coming to an end. Flopping down on the floor, crisscrossed and barefoot, you sighed, smiling as he updated you. “You know, I don't think I've ever been happier.”

“Yeah?” He asked, curiously.

“It almost feels unreal, how kind life's been to me lately.” You revealed, voice trembling a bit with emotion.

“Somehow, that's hard to believe.”

“Is that so?” You asked, playfully. Spencer had to swallow before your mischievous smile. A new expression on your face that he found that he quite liked.

“I mean, look around. You have everything some people think it takes to be happy.”

“You're right. Some people. I don't.” You retorted with a dip of your chin.

“What would make you happy, then?” He inquired, eager to find out. To become it.

You breathed in, closing your eyes. “I'll let you know once I figure it out.”

Should he say it? Would it be indelicate? Insensitive? Too much? Too straightforwa— “You sound a little hopeless.”

“Maybe I am.” You said, almost shrugging. Like it's not a big deal.

“You shouldn't be.” He retorted, sitting down in front of you.

“What makes you so certain?”

“You're young.”

“If anything, that only feeds despair, to some extent.” You said, distantly.

Internal battle at full extent, once again. “You know… I… I have been keeping an eye on you.”

You tilt your head the slightest bit, gaze unwavering. “What do you mean?”

Spencer struggled to form coherent thoughts, to articulate his own ideas before blurting them out rather excitedly. “You seem so… different. It's almost like you're out of this world. It's fascinating, actually. You're very deep in your own little world. Even the way you speak tells something about loneliness. So well, eloquently—”

“Susan Sontag.”

He smiled, satisfied. “See? How would you remember a quote by heart if your mind was filled with some things else?”

Against your will, you agreed. “You're right, Dr. Reid.”

Silence. He stood up, walking to grab the box behind the couch. He came back and sat in front of you once again, but this time, his knee brushed yours and neither of you mentioned it. You welcomed the warmth. Spencer hid the one coloring his cheeks. “Call me Spencer.”

“What is that?”

“Flowers.”

“Flowers?”

“You need some life around here.”

You giggled, absolutely delighted when you saw the box, containing an orchid Lego set. Spencer fought against his every instinct to just pull you into his arms at the sound that twisted his insides instantaneously. It was the first time he had heard you laugh, a rich, funny sound that seemed to have erupted from your own soul. “Is this for me? Because, you know, this might be the best thing I've ever gotten.”

“Oh, really?” He asks, feigning sarcasm. “I could've sworn it was the original piece on your wall.”

“Thank you, Spencer.”

“You're welcome.”

Despite your position, your posture was as elegant as it had ever been. He placed the pieces between the two of you. Eventually and almost silently, like a personal prayer, he learned how to call you by your name upon your insistence. With a soft look in his eye, he relented. Everything about him seemed to tell you that he was there to help you build the set. That it was alright, because he was there.

You two stood up, one at a time, once you had finished the set. Standing by the window, you glanced at the pretty plastic orchids that now were placed on your desk, right next to your name, a funny little piece amidst such a formal environment. He followed you after a brief moment of doubt. “You know, Spencer,” you uttered and he thought he might be addicted to the chain of sounds that makes up his name falling from your lips as he watched them, mesmerized. “Thank you so much for this. It's a nice feeling. Like I have a friend.”

You both shared the intimacy of a glance with each other. You decided to elaborate, too shaken by the thought of your loneliness being palpable. “You're right… I've always been a bit on the lonely side.”

He was pleased to see so much honesty from your end, and happy to see something of himself in you. He swallowed, trying to control these thoughts and keeping his composure. “I think you're very easy to get along with.”

“That's the first time I hear that.”

Spencer couldn't help the wince that came with the stabbing pain he felt at your revelation. “It's true. I…” Who are these people? “I think you're very easy to like.”

You thanked him again, quietly, lowering your gaze to the space between the two of you. Seemingly under a spell that had been casted by the way you let your guard down, ignoring the nervous pit on his stomach and not taking the time to process the whirlwind of thoughts and feelings running through him. You stood so close, if he could just— “Looking from up here, all people look so tiny.”

“Considering the extent of the universe, we are pretty tiny.”

You snorted, shaking your head softly. “Proportion changes perspective, huh, Spencer?”

Losing control over his words, utterly lost, he continued, “I also… I find you pretty… pretty.”

Your eyes glanced up to meet his. Spencer tried to read your expression, desperate to see if you were surprised, disgusted, uncomfortable or if you welcomed his words. Instead, he found a hint of longing in your eyes that he couldn't begin to understand. “I… I don't know what to say.”

Compliments were a sensitive, unknown territory for you. You only knew what these were if you outdone yourself in whatever earned you attention. Sighing, you looked at him, almost guilty.

“Sorry, I… I shouldn't have said anything.” He cringes, avoiding your gaze.

“It… It wasn't.” Deep breath. “It's just that… you're…”

Were there words in the English language for these feelings?

“I know. I didn't… I don't expect you to say anything in return,” he says, almost dejectedly. The truth is out and he can't take it back. “I just wanted to come clean. And I think that it's not just looks that draw me to you.”

You stood there, speechless.

“You're not mad? Or… or offended?” He tries.

You looked at his widened, scared eyes. It made you want to soothe him — the instinct disconnecting your mouth from any sense of ethics or decency that ran through your brain. Taking another deep breath, scared to death, “I’m actually flattered. You're a very beautiful person, inside and out, but… but… I'm your professor, Spencer, and older than you.” You said, voice wavering slightly as you got to look into his eyes again.

“Somehow… when I think about you… neither of these seem to be a problem. I can't—not think about you.”

His words crafted a small crack. There would forever be a memory in your brain of the exact same moment when his words settled in. You fell to pieces, and as you did, you felt yourself losing control of your own actions, of your sense of ethics or principles. Before you thought it through, as you felt every sense of reason leaving your body, you tilted your head up, a silent, welcoming consent of his lessening distance. Spencer, who looked almost pained with so much want, let out tiny puffs of breath as if the air had been knocked out of his lungs. He couldn't believe you were seemingly taking a risk like that, but he found that he couldn’t and didn't want to hold back any longer. The young man, very carefully, cradled your cheeks, bravely holding your glance as he caressed the soft skin of your cheek with his thumb. Time stood still when you closed your eyes, slowly, and he tilted your chin up the slightest bit, angling you just the way he needed. The touch, the existence of you was so intense and overwhelming that it made him shiver, and he was failing to keep his hands from shaking. Following the stream of whispered truths, you added, “I want to give you something to truly think about. I need your permission.”

Softly, Spencer brushed his lips against yours as he closed his eyes. It was gentle, tentative, almost experimental. The touch, albeit subtle, calmed his every nerve, and his shoulders relaxed at the contact. A shaky exhale left his lips when you pulled him in, placing your hand on the nape of his neck, the feeling grounding and safe. When your lips interlock together, it's a moment of realization; he doesn't think that he wanted something so badly without even knowing what it actually was.

Your touch is tender, as if you were both afraid that harshness would steal one from the other, relishing in the moment and in the rush of sensations that were unknown to the both of you. Spencer was so afraid that you were going to pull away and run, but he just couldn't control himself as he slid his tongue into your mouth, basking in the small satisfied sound that you made, his hands gripping your waist. You, on the other hand, felt as if you had been pushed into a sea of hot, scalding water. No touch had ever made you feel like that, and your desperation had you now tightly gripping at his vest, trying to get him impossibly closer to you. Your bodies pressed against each other set a trail of fire between the two of you, and the kiss gradually became more urgent. Violent, even.

When you pull back, he doesn't let you go far, his face only inches away, barely registering that you actually needed to breathe so great was his need to feel you against him once more. Panting, you leaned your forehead against his, not ready to open your eyes and see his face. You'd be lost.

“At least now I have something proper to think about.”

Flustered at him using your own words against you, you couldn't meet his gaze. You tried to say something, but all the courage pumping through your veins seemed to have found a way out of your system, leaving you helpless, utterly defeated into silence. A small feeling of guilt started to grow inside you, and you were warring against it. You had just kissed a student in your workplace when you were trying to have a fresh start. Spencer, noticing your turmoil, was quick to engulf you in a hug. The action, so simple, worked like a balm to your nerves, and you allowed yourself to take a deep breath, inhaling his scent, which had just become your favorite. You didn't want to let him go, neither did you know if you would ever be able to.

Resting his chin on your shoulder, he cradles the back of your head. Under the sofa, lies a small, shiny object that was long forgotten due to both its irrelevance in your life and the first moment of genuine affection you've ever experienced.

—

You remember how it felt like to lose control of yourself.

It had been days since the secret kiss you shared with Spencer and it had been the last time you saw him. Your days were filled with endless phone calls with lawyers and Theresa, desperate to find yourself free from your doom excuse of a… marriage? It seemed offensive to even relate that word to whatever you had been forced upon doing. Your nights were spent by your bedroom window, watching as people came and went, noticing with heartbreak how distant you seemed to be from everyone. You were a stranger in many ways, but above all, you were a stranger to yourself. Every little manifestation of action or thought made you inevitably remember all the people and their behavior that shaped you into whatever you are today.

And then there was Spencer. Spencer, whose touch was making you feel constantly equal parts guilty and entranced. Spencer, who was spamming your email inbox, wondering where you were. Spencer, who was the only person you truly allowed yourself to think about. The sight of him haunted your nights and the ghost of his voice echoed inside your head when you were sitting around in the empty studio. It was supposed to be refreshing, really, how his mere existence made a new flicker of hope bloom in your chest that had been unknown thus far. It was bold to call it hope, but you preferred to do that because there was no other word, no other feeling that you knew well enough to associate it with the memory of him.

You had forgotten the sound of your voice. The only thing your apartment walls heard in the time span of three days and three nights had been the following string of words:

“Theresa, are you there? Can we talk?”

—

Spencer remembers how it felt to miss you like a lost puzzle piece.

It had been days and your silence was upsetting him like nothing ever had. Sick of replaying that moment over and over, he decided to find you instead. It was late at night as he walked your street after pondering whether he should or not confront you about your silence. There wasn't much to discuss. It was just a kiss — secretly, he was scared that you would argue so —, but the lack of news from you had him feeling on edge. A tall building, endless windows. On the fifth floor, he could make a figure staring out into the city, and he couldn't begin to explain where the strength came from to run up to where you were. There was only one apartment per floor, so he knocked impatiently on your door.

501.

Upon hearing the sound, you stared, a bit scared, at the door. Opening a small slit, you saw him and your entire body froze. You closed it immediately, fear etched into your features as if he was an impending threat. As if he could cause you any harm.

“Please,” he cried, resting his forehead on the door. He tried not to compare the stiffness of the object to the softness of your skin. A clear of his throat. “Please. Nobody's seen you for days. I… I haven't seen you in days.”

There was a minute of mortifying silence, but he decided to wait. What was another moment if he had waited for you for so long? Spencer let out another plea, this time, calling you by your name.

You let him in, but you couldn't meet his gaze. Nevertheless, he noticed your bloodshot eyes. Speaking your name softly, he inquired, worryingly, approaching you. “What happened to you?”

You took a small step back, straightening your posture once you realized how close he was getting to you. The action made your heart shatter. “Don't,” you pleaded, soft-spoken as ever.

“Look at me.” He croaked, pleadingly, timorous.

Reluctantly, you met his eyes. They were confused, questioning, and it was a first on his expression. You felt guilty for doing this to him. “I can't do this to you, Spencer. I can't.”

“Please… Talk to me. Don't shut me out.”

“We can't do this. I'm your professor, and, and…”

“Are you seriously pulling the professor card? I'm not one of those undergraduate students. I'm me. It's me. We've been so close and when I think something finally might happen, you disappeared. It wasn't fair.”

Each of his words were stabs in your already hanging by a thread heart. Rip the band-aid.

“I'm married.”

There was a moment of stunned silence from his end. You knew how cruel it was to use your formal marital state to avoid him from coming any closer, but you tried not to dwell on it. This was it. Spencer deserved better. And for the first time in your life, you couldn't be better. His silence made your stomach churn painfully, aware of the ache you were causing him, and desperate to be the one to soothe the damage you had done.

Spencer, on the other hand, stared at you blankly. Almost skeptically, even. You'd have analyzed it better if you weren't too busy with your own turmoil about him. “I don't see him anywhere,” he finally said, defiantly.

Surprise took over your features, and before you could form another painful remark, Spencer approached you decisively. “Where is him, huh?”

Cutting you off as you opened your mouth to speak, once again, he scowled. “Damn him. I would do anything just to have you around.”

The crack was now big enough that he could see all parts of you from where he stood. Right then, though, the glimpse he caught before you violently smashed your lips against his was enough to haunt him for a lifetime. Your gaze, so utterly tired yet determined, looking at him as if he was the only thing in your entire world — perhaps he was. The kiss was demanding, fueled by sheer animalistic hunger. You had been hungry your entire life, deprived of the simplest pleasures and there he was, ignoring all your lackness. You failed to think of a motive for his actions, but you decided that you utterly didn't care. To feel seen like that was enough of a reason for you.

His tongue pushed into your mouth, exploring every inch with a neediness that surprises even him. You gripped at his shirt's collar as his hands tangled in your hair, tightly, almost afraid you'd disappear. Neither of you recognized your own actions, everything was far too new for you to know how to act properly, losing yourself in each other, consumed by the unique, addicting taste of your kisses and the heat building between you. The sizzling, almost bothersome feeling in your core, combined with the intensity of his kiss left you feeling lightheaded. He pulls away, reluctantly, squeezing his eyes shut, as if refraining from doing something. You rest your forehead against his. Uneven breaths mingle together as you had your eyes on him, waiting for the final blow, when he would look back at you. “Let me in,” he croaked. “I wanna be yours.”

Don't.

“You deserve so much more than this. Than what I'm able to offer you,” you whisper in a ragged breath, closing your eyes, hands now softly holding his head.

“I'll take anything you are.”

You winced, a helpless crease finding its way between your brows. “You don't get it, do you? I can't. I can't do this to you. I don't know how to do this.”

He softened, hands never leaving your skin and eyes never leaving yours. “You don't have to know anything. I don't know it either. I just wanna be yours tonight.”

Silence.

“Is it because of him?”

You promptly retorted. “No. It's not because of him.”

“From now on, it's me.”

Spencer crashed his lips to yours, barely giving you time to let his words sink in. Seemingly trying to convey his emotions, his willingness to beg for you to let him in, his devotion to be yours in that moment. Brushing your fear of not getting him to stay, you gave in, too blinded by the sheer strength of the burning within you. Spencer kissed you deeper as you slid your tongue inside his mouth, ravishing and relishing in the taste of him. A small moan broke through you when he gripped your tighter, leading you to the nearest surface — conveniently, the bed. Spencer barely had time to take in his surroundings when he got there, too busy with you and the strong pull between the two of you, but his body unconsciously and seemingly knew exactly where to take yours.

You had now entered a land reserved for only the two of you. You looked at him, softly placing you on the bed, kissing all over you, as if you were something worth looking at, worth worshipping. The tears streamed down your face freely, and he kissed each of them as they bloomed again. “Let it all out. I'm here.”

Intertwining your fingers on the nape of his neck, adjusting so that he was between your legs, you looked at him intently while he lowered the straps of your cami top, eyes never leaving yours, lips caressing your collarbone gently. The action made you shiver, and you were under his trance, taking whatever he wanted to give you, signaling over and over that you allowed him to be yours, just like he asked to be. In hindsight, he was making you his.

Gingerly, you leaned up to reach his jawline, kissing and nipping at the soft skin, trying to find an outlet for all the overwhelming feelings and fire inside you. He moaned softly, basking in the feeling of being marked so gently, already satisfied with the mere thought that he would have something of yours to remember. It was when you were undoing his shirt, not so accidentally brushing your fingertips against his fiery skin that a wave of pleasure, embedded with a persistent feeling of guilt, crawled its way into your thoughts. You were like a helpless being caught between the fight of two violent ends, and you found that you loved it. You loved being at their mercy. You loved being at his mercy.

Quickly getting rid of your top, Spencer leaned even lower, brushing his skin against yours, which elicited a series of goosebumps to erupt on your skin. You clenched your hands after retreating them from his body, desperately trying to find something that could ground you instead of feeling everything all at once. He was overwhelming, and he had barely touched you. “I never knew I could feel like this,” you breathed out, unable to keep the truth from him any further when he skimmed his fingertips against your ribs, touching with the most desperate of delicacies.

Grinding against you, he whispered, rushed, “Do you feel how much I want you? I see you and I want you. Let me in.”

Spencer's words, albeit simple, were hitting many unreached places within you. Without breaking eye contact and a bit clumsily, you two got rid of the remnants of your clothes, baring yourselves to each other in more ways than one. Spencer, still accommodated between your legs, eased himself so easily into you, making you hold on tightly to his arms, you two both letting out strangled noises at the feeling. You, beneath him, around him, enveloping his length in the most pleasant wet warmth, sucking him in, gripping, squeezing, never letting him go. A broken sob erupted as he mumbled, “I missed you so much.”

You could barely find your voice, too lost in the sense of him on top of you. The taste, the sight, the smell of him inebriated you like no drug ever could. “Ah—I missed you too,” you whimpered. “You… have no idea.”

“Show me, then.”

Desperately, you pulled him in for another searing kiss, trying to convey how much his absence had made you feel, how guilty you felt by putting what it felt then like an unnecessary distance between the two of you. Trying to get closer, impossibly closer than you ever had been before. The sensations were shattering, and you found that you didn't want to be put together again. No, you were gladly ruined for the rest of your life. Scratches down his back, bites on his lower lip and an endless stream of whimpers left your lips complemented the exhilarating experience as he watched how you reacted to him.

Lowering your gaze to where your bodies met, you were met with an exquisite sight, how he pulled away just to shove his cock back inside you making you dizzy as he had his way with you. Following your line of sight, Spencer moaned as he saw the mess between you two, how his skin began to stick to yours as your arousal glimmered on his skin. Fully sheathed again, you cried out, “There's—mmmm—so much of you in me.”

“Will you remember me?” He asked, resuming his thrusts, violently shaken by your words. He wanted to give you all of him.

Struggling to speak, your entire body trembling with the force of his strokes, you stuttered, “I could never forget you.”

His hips halt their movements. He asks, pointedly, with a stark gaze that burned its memory into your very soul, "Say you'll remember," he whimpered with a small sigh. It was difficult to tell if it was from neediness, impatience, frustration or anything else.

It was not the time for semantics, but you smiled despite yourself as the tears started to to steadily roll down your cheeks, and you replied with a shaky breath, "I'll remember you forever."

Spencer pushed in again, swallowing the strangled moan that left your lips as he kissed you intensely and your tears kissed his cheek as well. Your bodies embraced one another, as if they needed each other to exist. The moon and the sea. You tried to hold on to him, hands curling against the skin of his back and legs circling around his waist. Spencer, on the other hand, had a desperate hold on your waist, which would probably lead to faint marks of his fingers. You found that you didn't care, the astounding feeling of him against you, so forcefully and simultaneously lovingly, could use all the memories to tell you later it had been real. That you had been yours as much as you had been his that night.

The pleasure building within you was new, almost scary given its force to shake everything inside. Spencer was equally reeling, trying to prolong the moment as much as he could, too caught up on the existence of you to let it go anytime soon. With a mewl of his name, you let go, pleasure coursing through your veins and spreading through your body like being bathed by the sultriness of your moment together. The fever reached your heart, and with tearful eyes, you watched him as he released inside of you, eyes dazedly searching yours and his lips singing your name like a prayer.

On top of you, in that place of sheer veneration, your bodies tangled together like an abstract painting. Neither you or him made mention to move, too content in the feeling of sticking to the other.

"I'm not leaving,” he muttered after a while, nuzzling your neck.

"Spencer..."

"I'm not leaving. You'll wake up in the morning and I'll be here.”

—

Tonight, you aren't watching strangers from the windows of your office nor from the ones in your studio apartment. Instead, you are walking home with Spencer, hand holding hand, a firm, fierce, steady grip that never faltered.

You now exist, hearing your name being called several times a day. And so does he, the one proudly uttering said name, whenever he gets the chance. A small, simple reminder that you belong together.

dividers by @cafekitsune <3

[loveesiren]

𝖢𝗋𝗈𝗌𝗌 𝖬𝗒 𝖧𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍 (𝖯𝗍. 8)

Choi Seunghyun x fem!reader x Kwon Jiyong | Masterlist

a/n: As always, I'm using Jiyong and Seunghyun as characters. I'm not in any way shape or form suggesting that they'd act this way in real life.

synopsis: Feelings are hurt, grief is a strange thing, we take it out in weird ways. But Seunghyun and Y/n just want their friend to wake up.

warnings: dark i guess, hospital, car accident, rough slightly unwanted sex (borderline grape I guess but not graphic), angst, lots of feels, drunk editing, MDNI 18+, if you'd like a summary without reading, DM me

wc: 4.3k+

The crash was horrific. Jiyong hadn’t seen the semi barreling through the intersection until it was too late. There was a sickening crunch of metal meeting metal, then the world turned upside down—literally. His car flipped, once, twice, three times, the screech of twisting steel and shattering glass echoing through the night. The engine ignited on the final roll, flames licking hungrily along the crumpled hood, black smoke curling into the air like a wild fire.

By the time you and Seunghyun had made it outside it was pure chaos. Sirens howled. Lights flashed. A crowd had gathered, necks craned, camera phones out, some already recording. But none of it registered. All you saw was the burning wreckage—and the stranger. A man covered in soot, hands trembling, dragging Jiyong’s limp body across the pavement just seconds before the car exploded behind him, sending a burst of heat and debris into the air. That man, whoever he was, had saved his life.

Your legs buckled at the sight.

The glare from the ambulance flood lights seared into your eyes, making it hard to focus. Police shouted over radios, trying to push back the growing crowd, and the paparazzi—fucking vultures—had somehow shown up already, shouting questions, snapping photos. It was too much. Your lungs seized. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. You wanted to run, to scream, to disappear.

Jiyong's body—so pale, so bloody, his face barely recognizable—was carefully loaded into the back of the ambulance. You couldn’t stop crying. The tears came like a dam breaking, soaking your face, your shirt, your trembling hands. Seunghyun pulled you into his side, one arm wrapping around you tightly as if trying to shield you from the nightmare unfolding. His face was buried in your hair, his own sobs shaking both of you as you stood there, helpless, watching the man you both loved so much disappear behind those white ambulance doors.

-

The hospital waiting area felt like the backrooms.

Too bright. Too sterile. Too quiet — except for the occasional ring of a phone at the reception desk or the rhythmic clacking of keys from someone behind the counter. But even those sounds felt muted, distant, like the world was operating at half-speed while all of you sat frozen in a grief that hadn’t even fully arrived yet.

You sat curled up on the stiff plastic chair, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins like they could somehow keep you from unraveling completely. Seunghyun was beside you, close enough to feel his presence but not touching. Neither of you could. There was too much space between you now, and none of it had to do with physical distance.

Across from you, Daesung stared blankly at the floor, his fingers twitching against his leg. Taeyang kept rubbing his hands together, like he could pray the panic away. Seungri looked like he’d aged ten years in the last hour, chewing on the edge of his thumb, phone clutched tightly in his other hand though he hadn’t looked at it in a while. Not really. 

They were all waiting. Hoping. Dreading.

Jiyong’s manager sat silently in the far corner, head bowed, lips pressed into a tight line. A few YG staffers dotted the waiting room, whispering among themselves, but their presence felt like white noise. No one was really speaking. What could they possibly say?

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at anyone. Your vision swam, not from tears — not yet — but from the pressure of holding them back. You blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.

Because this was your fault.

Every single agonizing minute that passed, you reminded yourself of that.

He’d been leaving your apartment. After your fight. After you'd shattered him with words you couldn’t take back. You could still hear the slam of the door. You could still feel the weight of his anger, his heartbreak, pressing down on your chest.

You buried your face in your arms. It hurt to breathe.

Beside you, Seunghyun leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were bone white. He hadn’t spoken since arriving at the hospital. Hadn’t moved much either. But his mind was racing.

It was his fault too.

He should’ve taken Jiyong’s keys. He should’ve told him to stay the night. He should’ve been a better friend — his best friend. But instead, he let him walk out of that bar. Walk out of your apartment. Stumbling and furious, still drunk, still hurting.

And now they were all sitting here, waiting to find out if Jiyong would wake up at all.

Seunghyun glanced at you from the corner of his eye — your small, shaking form beside him, silent tears finally sliding down your cheeks.

He wanted to reach for you. Wanted to hold you and tell you everything was going to be okay.

But it wouldn’t have been true.

And the truth was — neither of you knew who you were grieving harder for:

Jiyong…

Or the pieces of yourselves that had broken beyond repair.

The sterile hush of the hospital waiting room shattered as the doors creaked open and the doctor stepped out, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable.

Jiyong’s manager was on his feet before anyone else could even register the movement.

“What’s going on?” he asked, urgency sharpening his voice.

“We need to speak to his family,” the doctor replied, scanning the room with a professional detachment that made your stomach twist.

“His family is on their way,” his manager said quickly, already stepping forward. “But I’m his manager. I’ve been listed on his emergency contacts. We can speak, let’s go talk.” He said, voice eager.

The doctor hesitated for a moment, then gave a tight nod. Without another word, he turned and let himself be led down the hall, disappearing behind the same doors Jiyong had vanished through over an hour ago.

The silence left in their wake was heavier than anything that came before it.

Taeyang sat forward, rubbing his hands over his face before looking at Seunghyun, eyes narrowed with confusion and fear.

“So… what the hell happened?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t you guys go out tonight?”

Every nerve in your body lit up like a warning flare.

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. Your palms were slick with sweat. You could feel the stares of the other boys — of everyone — even if they weren’t looking directly at you. The pressure was suffocating. The truth was crawling its way to the surface, clawing through the cracks like smoke before a fire.

Seunghyun inhaled slowly. His jaw tightened. You felt his hand come to rest on your knee, grounding you for just a second. But it wasn’t comfort. It was confirmation.

“He was drunk,” Seunghyun said quietly, his voice low and rough.

That was it. Just those three words.

Taeyang flinched slightly, and Daesung swore under his breath.

“He was drunk,” Seunghyun repeated, more to himself now, like he was trying to make sense of it, trying to say it enough times to believe it. “And stupid.”

You bit down hard on your lip, hard enough to taste blood. Tears stung the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Because even if Seunghyun was technically right, it wasn’t the whole story. Jiyong had been drunk, yes. And reckless. But he hadn’t crashed just because of the alcohol in his veins.

He had crashed because of you.

Because he had stormed out of your apartment with your voice still echoing in his head — every bitter word, every rejection, every cruel truth you hadn't meant to come out the way it did. He’d left with a cracked-open heart and nowhere to put the pieces.

You had taken away the one thing he didn’t even realize he wanted until it was already gone.

A child.

A future.

A family.

And that was what had been driving him faster than he should have been. That was what blurred his vision more than the whiskey ever could. That was what made him miss the light. What made him not see the semi barreling through the far too busy intersection outside your apartment.

Yes, Jiyong had been drunk.

But he had also been hurting.

The doctors, the lawyers, the managers — they’d sort it all out. They’d write it up in reports and argue it in meetings. There would be contracts and coverage and headlines. They’d fix it up for the public.

But none of that changed the truth.

He had been speeding away from your front door with a black hole in his chest, crushed beneath the weight of the love he couldn't keep, and the future he didn’t get to fight for.

And now all any of you could do was wait.

Wait for news.

Wait for forgiveness.

Wait for a miracle.

You stood up without saying a word. No one tried to stop you. No one even looked up. Maybe they understood, or maybe they just didn’t know how to speak anymore. Either way, you were grateful. You needed the air. Needed the distance. Needed a break from the guilt pressing down on your chest.

Outside, the night was cool and still, and the moment the sliding ER doors shut behind you, it was like someone turned the volume down on the world. The hospital buzz faded, replaced by the soft hum of passing cars and the gentle breeze rustling the trees nearby.

You lit your cigarette with shaking fingers, bringing it to your lips like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. The smoke filled your lungs, acrid and warm, and for just a second, you could almost pretend none of this was real. Almost.

You were halfway through your cigarette when you heard the doors behind you hiss open again.

You didn’t turn around. Not at first. You just exhaled slowly, hoping—praying—it wasn’t anyone. That you could just be alone with your guilt for a little while longer.

But then you saw him out of the corner of your eye.

Seunghyun.

He looked nothing like the man you knew.

His shoulders were hunched, his expression hollow, like someone had scooped the life out of him and left the shell behind. His hands were in his pockets. His eyes were red-rimmed, though you weren’t sure if it was from crying or just exhaustion. Or maybe both.

You silently held out your cigarette pack and the lighter.

He took one wordlessly, and sat down beside you on the low stone wall near the hospital entrance. The click of the lighter was the only sound between you as he lit up, inhaling deep like he needed it more than air.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. You just stared up at the night sky, the stars shining far too brightly for how dark the world felt right now.

You wanted to reach for his hand. You wanted to press your palm against his, to offer some kind of comfort, even if you didn’t deserve to give it. But you didn’t move.

“Seunghyun, I—” you started, voice thin and raw.

But he didn’t let you finish.

“You should go home,” he said, cutting you off with a quiet firmness that hurt more than if he’d yelled.

You looked down at your shoes, swallowing hard. “I-I don’t want to go back there…” you muttered, barely audible.

The words carried too much weight.

Your apartment. The place where Jiyong had stood broken and shaking, where the worst things had been said. Where you’d sent him out into the night with a wound he hadn’t been able to outrun.

You couldn’t go back to that.

Seunghyun sighed, and the sound was so heavy it made your chest tighten all over again. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his keys and holding them out to you.

“Here,” he said. “Go to my place.”

You hesitated. “I—”

“I don’t want you here,” he said, voice sharper now. Not yelling. Just... tired. Defeated. Final.

The words sliced through you like glass. You flinched, your hand recoiling from the keys even though you knew he wasn’t wrong.

“I want to make sure—”

“I’ll call if there’s an update,” he said, already turning his gaze away. “Just...go.”

You stared at him, your vision going blurry with tears. But you knew better than to argue. Not now. Not with him. Not with everything so fragile and raw.

You nodded, swallowing the sob threatening to climb your throat.

You called an Uber and didn’t look back.

-

Seunghyun’s apartment welcomed you like a ghost. Everything was familiar — the scent of his cologne still clinging to the air, the soft hum of the fridge, the faint echo of laughter that only existed in your memory now.

You walked slowly through the space, your fingers trailing over the back of the couch, the counter, the hallway wall — like touching these things would somehow bring you back to a time when this place felt like home. When he felt like home.

You reached the bedroom and stripped out of your clothes with a kind of numb autopilot. You opened his drawer and pulled out one of his oversized t-shirts — the one he always wore on lazy Sunday mornings.

You slipped it over your head, the fabric brushing your skin with a familiar comfort, and for a moment, it felt like you could still feel his arms around you.

But it wasn’t real.

You climbed into his bed, curling into his side of the bed, breathing in the remnants of him like they were oxygen.

And then it hit you.

All of it.

The crash.

The guilt.

The fact that Jiyong might never open his eyes again.

The fact that Seunghyun was done with you.

The fact that you may have lost everything.

A choking sob ripped from your throat as you curled into yourself, burying your face into his pillow.

Your body shook with quiet, helpless grief.

Tonight had changed everything.

And there was no going back.

-

The loud slam of the front door jolted you awake. Your entire body tensed, your heart hammering in your chest as your mind scrambled to make sense of where you were.

Then it hit you. Seunghyun’s house.

You sat up slowly, blinking through the haze of sleep. The room was dim, lit only by the morning sun peaking through the blinds, casting pale shadows across the walls. You strained to hear footsteps, movement — anything — but the house had gone quiet again.

It had to be him. He must’ve come home from the hospital.

You waited, every second dragging out painfully as dread curled in your stomach. You counted the minutes in your head, clinging to the silence like it might give you an answer.

After what felt like forever, you heard the soft creak of the bedroom door.

Seunghyun stepped in.

He barely looked at you.

His eyes skimmed over your presence in his bed like you were furniture, like you weren’t someone he had once called “baby,” someone he had once held so carefully. 

Without a word, he walked past you and shut the bathroom door behind him.

You sat frozen, still beneath the blankets, unsure what to do. Your skin pricked with nerves. Did he want you here? Did he even remember that he’d told you to come? Or had that been guilt talking?

The weight of your thoughts crushed you. You laid back down, curling onto your side, arms wrapped tightly around your core. Your heart felt like it might crack open. You whispered a quiet prayer into the silence, not for yourself, but for Jiyong.

Please let him be okay.

Fifteen agonizing minutes passed before the bathroom door opened again. You glanced over your shoulder as Seunghyun walked back into the room, dressed in nothing but his boxers. He climbed into bed beside you wordlessly and grabbed the remote, flicking on the TV. An old sitcom started to play — something bright, cheerful, completely out of place against the oppressive weight in the room.

You chewed your bottom lip, uncertain. The air between you was too thick with unspoken grief and regret. Still, you tried.

“Seunghyun…” you said softly.

No response.

He stared at the screen, his face expressionless.

You tried again, your voice cracking with hesitation. “Is… is there any update? On Ji?”

He took a slow breath through his nose. The pause before he answered made your chest tighten.

“He’s out of surgery,” he finally said. His voice was flat, tired. “Hasn’t woken up yet.”

You felt the sting of tears in your eyes again, but blinked them back quickly. You didn’t deserve to cry. Not after everything.

“Is he going to be okay?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

“I-I don’t know, Y/n,” he said, and for the first time since he got home, there was emotion behind his voice. Sadness. Defeat. “His family’s with him. They told us to go home…rest.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. A long silence passed before you worked up the nerve to ask, “D-Do you want me to leave?”

The question hung in the air like a loaded gun.

He was quiet for a long time, and just when you were sure he wasn’t going to answer, he whispered, “No.”

You were stunned.

You didn’t know what he meant. You didn’t know if it was love, or guilt, or just the unbearable weight of being alone right now. But you didn’t argue. You didn’t say another word.

You sat in silence beside him, the two of you watching the flicker of people laughing on a screen neither of you were really seeing.

Thirty minutes passed like that. Maybe longer.

Then, without warning, his hand moved. Slowly. Deliberately.

It slid across the bed and settled on your thigh. Warm. Heavy. Familiar yet foreign.

His fingers crept higher, brushing the edge of your panties, and your breath caught in your throat. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up — tension coiled in your belly, heat blooming where his fingers hovered.

You turned toward him instinctively, crawling over his hips, straddling him.

Your lips met in a rush of desperation and pain. He didn’t pull back. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, deeper. One slid down your back, gripping your ass roughly. His nails dug in. Then came the sharp crack of his palm landing on your cheek.

You whimpered into his mouth.

And that sound — that soft, broken sound — snapped something in him.

He flipped you beneath him with a strength that startled you, not even bothering to undress fully before pushing his boxers down just enough to free himself. He didn’t pause, didn’t ask, didn’t look at you. He pushed your panties to the side.

You didn’t even have time to prepare before he shoved into you.

You cried out, the stretch almost painful. Your nails dug into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, but he didn’t slow down. Didn’t soften.

He thrust into you hard, fast, his pace punishing. You felt the bed frame creak under the force of it, your breath catching as his hand wrapped around your throat.

“Seunghyun…” you whimpered, your voice strangled.

He leaned close, grunting in your ear, his fingers tightening.

You could feel it now — this wasn’t intimacy. This wasn’t love.

It was anger.

Grief.

Trauma.

“Was he better than me?” he whispered, his voice venomous, hips snapping forward harder.

You gasped at the sting, tears springing to your eyes.

“Who fucks you better, huh?”

“Seunghyun!” you screamed, shoving at his chest. “You’re hurting me!”

He froze for a split second.

You pushed again, harder this time, and he rolled off of you, chest heaving as the realization of what just happened hit him like a freight train.

He stared at you — really saw you now — your eyes red, your body trembling, clutching the sheets tightly around you like a shield.

The darkness in his eyes vanished, replaced by horror.

“Shit,” he whispered, sitting up and dragging both hands through his hair. “Shit, Y/n… I’m—I’m so sorry.”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him.

You choked back a sob, stumbling out of bed and rushing to the bathroom. You locked the door behind you, pressing your back to it, sliding to the cold tile floor.

And there, in the silence…you broke.

“Y/n, please…” Seunghyun’s voice came through the door, broken and muffled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear to god I didn’t…”

You sat on the cold tile floor, your knees hugged to your chest, arms trembling as your fingers dug into your skin. The sobs shook through you violently, unstoppable, as the night played over and over in your head like a film reel you couldn't turn off.

Everything was broken.

Jiyong. Seunghyun.You.

The man you loved had just used you as an outlet for his pain — not a partner, not someone to hold, but someone to unload on. You felt every thrust like an accusation. Every movement screamed at you: You did this. You destroyed us. You ruined everything.

But it wasn’t just anger. It was grief. It was guilt. It was heartbreak on both ends, a tangle of too many things neither of you had the tools to process.

“I’m sorry,” Seunghyun choked out again. You could hear the weight in his voice, the kind of sorrow that buckled you at the knees. “Please, can we just talk? I can’t breathe without knowing you’re okay…”

And still, even with how scared you were… your heart ached for him.

You loved him. So fucking much.

Maybe that was the worst part — that even after what had just happened, a part of you still wanted to comfort him. To reach for him. To fix what was already in ruins.

Maybe you deserved it.

Maybe you didn’t.

You shifted, hands trembling as you unlocked the bathroom door and slowly cracked it open.

He was sitting right outside, legs folded beneath him, arms resting on his knees. He looked… small. Tired. Wrecked. He’d changed into sweats and an old, worn t-shirt, the one he usually slept in when you stayed over. His eyes were red, tear tracks still glistening on his cheeks.

You tugged your borrowed shirt down, trying to cover yourself, suddenly painfully aware of your body. His gaze flicked to you and quickly away, like even he couldn’t look at what he’d done.

Without a word, he grabbed the blanket off the bed and handed it to you. You took it, wrapping it tightly around yourself, grateful for the shield between you.

You sat beside him, leaning back against the wall, your shoulders just barely brushing. The silence was suffocating, but you weren’t ready to break it.

“I’m really sorry, Y/n,” Seunghyun whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You swallowed, staring blankly at the floor. “Yeah. I did.”

“No.” His voice snapped sharper now, filled with conviction. “No, you didn’t.”

He turned to you then, really turned, his eyes bloodshot and wide. “I took everything I was feeling and dumped it on you. I used you. That’s not love. That’s not who I want to be. That’s not who I am.”

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

“I caused all of this,” you finally said, your voice so small it was barely audible.

He sighed and dropped his face into his hands. “I don’t even know how to start this conversation.”

“I don’t think it’s the time to have it,” you whispered.

He nodded slowly. “You’re right.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Wounded.

You stared ahead, unsure if you were waiting for something or if there was simply nothing left to say. Until finally…

“D-Did you tell everyone the whole story?” you asked, heart pounding in your chest.

He shook his head, slow and deliberate. “No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I want Jiyong to wake up first,” he said, his voice cracking at the name. “I want him to be okay. I just… I need him to be okay so bad, Y/n. He’s my best friend.”

And then he crumbled.

He collapsed into your lap and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as the sobs came. Violent. Uncontrolled.

You held him without thinking. Your hands tangled in his hair, your lips pressed to the crown of his head. And then you were crying too. The two of you sobbing into each other, curled up on the bedroom floor like children who had just lost their favorite toy.

You cried for Jiyong.

For yourselves.

For the pieces of this mess you didn’t know how to put back together.

-

An hour passed like that. Eventually, the tears dried, leaving nothing but swollen eyes and silent exhaustion.

“Seunghyun,” you whispered, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Have you slept?”

He sniffled and shook his head. “Not really.”

“You need rest,” you said gently.

He nodded, eyes fluttering. “Will you… rub my back?”

His voice cracked again, soft and wounded, like a little boy asking his mother for comfort. It nearly broke you all over again.

You smiled through the ache. Remembering the last few months how you coaxed him to sleep that way. “Yeah. I will.”

You helped him into bed, pulling the blankets over both of you as he curled onto his side. You slid in behind him, your fingers trailing lightly across his bare back. Drawing soft shapes like you used to. Slow, soothing motions to ease him into rest.

His breathing began to slow. His body finally relaxed.

And you stayed there, in the quiet, drawing circles into his skin and wondering if either of you would ever feel whole again.

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[gothamsfavorite]

After being voted Gotham’s hottest woman of the year, you were invited to go on The Gotham Talk - only the most famous talk show that only invites gotham’s elite. You, now among the top models of gotham are apparently referred to as one of gotham’s elite faces. 

You arrive at the studio where the talk show is being held, lifting your dress to avoid the puddles the harsh Gotham rain left behind as your driver opens the door for you. “Enjoy, I’ll be waiting when you come back outside.” He closes your door behind you, “Nonsense!” You exclaim, “My first talk show and you don't think I’d want you there?” You close your driver's door and grab his arm, “those people,” you point, “will help you find the guest entrance, see you after!” He smiles at you revealing his surprisingly straight teeth, and gives a shy wave. Your driver was never much of a chatty person, but he seemed to feel more comfortable around you; you are the prettiest face in Gotham after all.  

Jaci, the talk show host, grabs your hand and leads you to the beaming crowd in front of you. You blow kisses to the crowd, ignoring the way your ankle rolled because of your choice of footwear for the day. Jaci utters your name with a smile on her face, “So good to see you,” she beams, “here, sit, sit!” She helps you sit down and fixes your dress. You’ve been a big fan of Jaci ever since you could remember, so this is definitely one for the books - she just has an aura about her that you admire. She’s able to make all of her guests comfortable and ask them those iffy questions every celebrity dreads - you of course would be no different. 

“Introduce yourself, and your occupation.” Jaci orders, and you smile and nod as you tell her your name, “I’m a model as well - new to the business, but happy to be doing it.” Her face lights up as she reads one of the questions on the cards, “I’m sure you’re aware how my talk show works, I ask my guests a few icebreaker questions then turn up ‘the heat’ if you will.” You awkwardly smile, expecting this - she’ll definitely ask about things like the darker side of the modeling industry and things of that nature. “If you weren’t a model, what would your dream occupation be?” Jaci questions, luckily for her this wasn’t the first time a question like this has crossed your mind. “I love fashion,” you tell her, “and expressing myself, so probably a fashion designer to make others feel the same way.” 

After getting into a grove with Jaci, she asked rapid fire questions - although they were nothing out of the ordinary. Something settled over her face, and this meant trouble. “Gotham’s hottest guy? In your opinion, although it went to Bruce Wayne for the fifth time in the row.” You laugh at this, it does seem to go to Bruce Wayne every year  - he did have looks going for him, but the vote was most likely influenced by his generous donations to the city. “I say Jason Todd." Your statement makes Jaci freeze and give you an eye, “Have you seen his pictures at the Wayne Gala? Oh my gosh Jaci he’s gorgeous, if I saw him in the street there’s no way I could even formulate a sentence!” you pause to stop yourself from practically drooling, “The one commercial they got him to do? With the leather jacket?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dick Grayson was minding his business off duty in the manor, scrolling on his for you page as one does - until he heard your interview. The specific part where you called Jason Todd gorgeous. “Timothy! Bring everyone!” Dick screams, and suddenly - in front of him stands Damian, Stephanie, Duke, Cassandra, Barbara, and Tim. “Wow, okay, so you definitely did bring everyone.” He wastes no time and he plays the video for his siblings (and Barbara). Damian scoffs in disbelief, “and this is the same Todd we know that she’s claiming is gorgeous?” Timothy snorts, and Barbara swats his wrist. “Be nice you two.” She fixes her glasses, and sits next to Dick on his bed. “Why’d you hit me and not him?” Timothy screams, grabbing his arm. “Overreaction of the century, Drake.” Damian rolls his eyes, “Oh yeah? I’ll show you overreaction.” Duke stands between the two, “Guys, this is about Jason.” Duke scolds - Stephanie squeals in disbelief, “Who’s calling him to break the news?” Damian shakes his head, “ I for one am not, I still don't believe anyone would say that about him.” Cassandra throws her arms over Damian just for them to be removed, “Dami don't leave.” He ignores Cassandra and walks out. 

Meanwhile, Jason is at his apartment with Roy, and he gets a call from Damian. “Hold on Roy.” He grunts and leaves the room, “Todd, check your messages. Now.” Damian tells him to which Jason sighs and opens his texts, “What is this? Actually, who is this..” Damian can sense his lie from a mile away, “Don't act like you don't dream about her every night, just play it.” Jason hangs up the phone and plays the video, over and over, he walks over to Roy and shows him. “No way man! I mean, way! I’m not calling you ugly, that is just the hottest chick in Gotham.” He claps him on the back, “Text her! DM her, I know you’re following her.” Jason side eyes him, “You think I like her? She’s the one who technically made the first move.” Jason voiced, making Roy roll his eyes. “You would die before initiating contact with a woman.” Jason opens his mouth, “Don't say you already did, stop trying to be Mr. Funny guy and text the girl already. 

“I sent it,” Jason says, throwing his phone onto the other side of the couch, “Are you twelve? Man up.” Roy orders, slapping his thigh. “Says you.” Jason retorts - and to his surprise you answer quickly. He sent you a quick hey - not as extensive as Roy would prefer but still. You reply to him with the same energy, ‘hey so I guess you saw the interview?’ Jason smiles, he can’t believe you of all people are talking to

 him on a Tuesday night? Is it even Tuesday? Who cares, the hottest woman in Gotham finds him ‘gorgeous’.  

“Ask her out.” Roy says through gritted teeth, 

“All the girls on you and you still can’t take a hint.” Roy threw out. 

“All the girls? What girls?” Jason asks - and his friend scoots away from him.

 “Kori, Artemis.. Hm lets see, that girl in the bar I tried all night talking to?” Jason exhales at what Roy says, “Let it go dude, she came up to me.”  Your message lights up his screen, and he’s never entered his password faster. ‘I’ll make this easy for you,’ you tell him ‘you, me, gotham steakhouse at 9 tomorrow?’ Roy shoves Jason over to read the message, only to shake his head, at a loss for words. “You forced the poor girl to ask you out, what a woman.” Roy says, grinning and Jason swears he’s blushing. “Pick her up in a nice car, no motorcycle you hear?” Jason lies his head back on the couch, running his fingers through the silver streak in the front of his head. “Girls think motorcycles are hot, also where am I gonna get a nice car?” 

“You have the closest access to Bruce Wayne than any of us.” 

“Doesn’t mean I like asking.” 

“Do it.” 

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Jason’s in front of your apartment, he’s driving a sleek black porsche. He has flowers in the passenger seat, which he picks up as he rings the doorbell to the apartment building. Once let in, he goes to the room number you texted him, and knocks. He can’t remember the last time he went on a date and neither can you, makes it all the more fun. You open the door, and you’re wearing red - you knew what you were doing. You watched his cheeks turn maroon, the color danced all the way up to the tips of his ears. “You’re the closest thing to perfect I’ve witnessed.” He says, which makes your eyes go wide - he sees this and profusely apologizes. “No it’s not that, no one has ever said that to me before.” You take the flowers from his hands and tell him to hold the door while you find a cup of water for them. It takes everything in him not to look inside your apartment, to see the contents of your mind. “You can come in!” You scream from the kitchen, “It’ll take a second.” Your voice drifts over to him from under your cabinet. He walks in and his eyes fall upon a poster of a Red hood in your living room, and a Red hood blanket. “There’s the vase!” You say, popping your head up nearly hitting it. “Oh. I kinda have a thing for him.” You say, watching him stare at the poster, “But that won’t get between us - he’d never go for me anyways.” You say and Jason wishes he could prove you wrong then and there. 

[jeanbie]

BABY (YOU'RE MY LULLABY) PT.1 ★ masterlist.

pairing: jake x reader

warnings: na'vi!fem!reader, pregnancy, domestic fluff/bliss, tsu'tey lives because i said so, "jakesully" for a while, pre!atwow | wc: 7.4k | ♬

note: inspired by @fluloa's post on jake being the baby daddy with his unmated partner, and i kinda took a spin on that and created this -- not exactly the same as fluloa's post, but definitely inspired by it! i recommend <33 and i've felt super uninspired with smut lately, but i do plan for nsfw jake with this story, depending on overall reception :) lmk what u all think ^__^

⏤ part one | part two

⏤ One thing you love about Jakesully now that he's a part of your clan is that he does not ask difficult questions. He doesn't pry about who the hell knocked you up - he's just more than happy to step up and be the baby's father if it means making you happy.

When the Sky People left Pandora and Jakesully became one of the People, it was a while before you understood what everybody loved about him. 

The cost of the war between the Na’vi and the colonisers had been great, and as far as you were aware, he had been part of that problem once, part of the infection of humans spreading across the lands you called home. 

But Jakesully’s place among the People was not misguided — Eywa had made her call, and you had heard it. Eventually, the things she saw in him came to light, in ways you never imagined or ever expected, but manifesting into reality all the same.

In actual fact, you realised after many months of Jakesully being part of the clan, that you, too, loved many things about him. 

For one, he pulled his weight. He avoided being useless like the plague, taking on roles that other clan members turned their noses up at, and completed them all with no complaints. He was also a man of all trades, from fishing, to hunting, to building. Word had it that Jakesully was particularly talented with his fingers in the beading department, and even nimbler when crafting. 

But, one of Jakesully’s more loveable attributes was his kindness, his compassion. It was a tremendous compliment to be a ‘good’ man or woman, and Jakesully fit the bill with perfect accuracy. It had amazed you how loving he was, how genuine and thoughtful and loyal an outsider could be. His efforts in the war had earned him his place as an Omatikaya, but his strong heart was what won everyone’s favour, including your own.

One of the things you really loved about Jakesully in particular was that he did not always ask unnecessary questions. His days of clumsiness felt worlds apart from the man he had become after the war, and you found it suited him, that maturity, the self-awareness to know when to speak and when to be silent.

If Jakesully knew that asking a question would lead him to no answers, he simply did not ask. And today was one of those days.

For four weeks now, you have been filled with an uneasy weight of dread. There is no doubt in your mind, no degree of uncertainty: you know that you are pregnant. And you cannot believe how stupid you feel.

It is one thing to be unmated and pregnant; it happened occasionally in the village, but was never met with hostility. When the Omatikaya were so used to functioning as a family, the question of parents never felt like a problem, so long as the child was raised with love. A mated pair was not necessary for this, although encouraged. 

But it is another thing to be unmated and pregnant with the child of a much older clan member, a clan member who was well respected, held no interest in you, and had just mated without your knowledge with somebody else.

Glaring into the wading river, you sift your fingers through the current and work in silence, hoping that the monotonous routine of washing bowls will force your thoughts elsewhere. But they keep pulling back to the same pressing concern, the same overwhelming fear of what is growing inside of you. How are you ever going to explain this to the Tsahìk?

There was no option of telling the father. It would be a challenge in itself trying to convince him to even look at you — he hadn’t done so since the night you conceived the wonder inside your stomach, not since he stood up for the clan to hear a few days later and announced his union with a much prettier, much more suited clan member, Tsu’sley. 

And the Tsahìk is no idiot — the child has come from somewhere, so from where and whom?

The soft tread of footsteps behind you barely registers until they are directly behind, your tail whipping the ankles of the approaching Na’vi. You turn, startled, and see Jakesully drop into view on his haunches, a smile on his face.

He knows to find you here in the mornings, after months of figuring out where you’ll be. At first, you had been somewhat of an enigma to him. He hadn’t even known your name until Neytiri told him. 

From what Neytiri had said, you were a gentle thing, very loveable. Although he’d never personally met your family, Jakesully had heard through the grapevine that your father died when Kelutral, your Hometree, came down, and since then, your face became a stolen wonder in the village, your light extinguished and presence muted. 

His friendship had come as a surprise to you, considering there was nothing in his life gravitating him towards where you chose to work or lounge. But after showing his face once, you found it impossible to avoid him again. 

“Hey, you.” 

Like always, his foreign drawl makes you blink in surprise. Though Jakesully has become incredibly adept with speaking Na’vi, you supposed that what he liked about spending time with you was that he seldom needed to use it. You had been one of Grace’s more advanced students when her school was up and running — just another surprise for him to discover whilst trying to get to know you.

“Hello,” you mutter in reply, and almost immediately, Jakesully’s smile falls and his tail flicks from side to side uncertainly. Your eyes shift back to the water.

For a moment, he looks at you funny, his eyebrows pinched together. Then, he nudges his elbow against yours gently, the frown making his entire mouth slide down into a sad curve. 

“What’s up, sweet?” he asks. 

“I am fine,” you reply, voice low, hands tense beneath the water. Jakesully shifts on his feet slightly, as though trying to get a good look at your face, but you remain earnest in glaring at the river, hoping one of your problems might wash away with the grime on the bowls. “Do not stare at me.”

“…You’re being weird,” Jakesully observes, his voice seriously low and confused. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I am fine.”

“You sure?” He gently shifts his arm to yours and takes a hold of you. His grip is nowhere near firm enough to pull you away, but you look at him all the same, feeling your heart tug two ways.

The village loved Jakesully to no end — he was honest, he was kind, and he was a friend to many. And he was also your friend, and part of you knew that there was no way he would ever betray your trust. 

As you stare at him quietly, your eyes shift across his face, finding only his drawn expression of concern. His eyes are round and warm, all of his features noticeably upturned while he waits for your answer.

Jakesully is not an untrustworthy man. And more than anything, you want a friend you can rely on right now.

Still, you can’t will yourself to speak. Once you speak what you know into the world, it becomes real, and although you are fairly certain that you are pregnant, there is a small part of your heart that longs for it to not be true.

The wiry, thin lines of hair on Jakesully’s forehead rise to his hairline as you shift from his hands, glancing back at the current of the river. No part of you actually believes that he would tell people with malicious intent. You are confident that Jakesully has no malicious bones in his body, and yet, you just can’t take the risk.

First, before you tell anybody at all, you need to figure out what you’re going to do.

“I have much to do today,” you tell him, as his eyes run a risk assessment on your body as though he doesn’t believe you one bit. “I heard you are joining the tarpongu on a hunt today.” For a brief moment, you glance sideways to where Jakesully is still haunched, his expression pulled inwards with a thoughtful grimace. “You should not be late.”

“I’ve got time,” he replies.

It wasn’t the answer you were looking for, and the expectant widening of his eyes tells you that he knows it once you rise to your feet while scooping up the bowls.

“No time,” you tell him. He’s not stupid — you know that you should be trying harder to convince him that you’re fine, but even being near Jakesully right now, plagued by the overwhelming urge to confide in him, feels impossible. 

You slip past his arm as he stands to follow you, quick on your heels. “Go.”

“Look, I just wanna know that you’re okay—”

“Yes,” you hiss, turning to him sharply. He doesn’t blanch or flinch. He keeps his eyes firm on yours, desperately trying to figure you out before you vanish into the village. “Please. Go.”

Anything Jakesully might want to say to you is cut short with your quick strides out of the riverbank and back into the village. It is particularly buzzed today, flush full with villagers tending to their daily chores or readying for the upcoming hunt. Not only will the Olo’eyktan’s hunt grant you peace and quiet from Jakesully’s pestering concern, but it will also eliminate the possibility of Tsu’tey or Neytiri coaxing the truth out of you first. 

Your heart is hammering inside of your chest as you scurry past the growing party, their pa’li kicking their hooves across the dirt impatiently whilst the hunters prepare their gear. Passing by them without catching someone’s eye is the hardest part, but luckily, you evade notice and make your way back to your kelku, trying to keep your breathing in check as you go.

Then, as soon as the thick, waxy leaves surrounding your kelku from the clan fall into place and the chatter of outside muffles, you sink to the woven floor and bring your knees to your chest. Now, the panic can really begin to sink in.

Eywa has given you a gift, although it does not feel like it. Since the war, since so many lives were lost to the tawtute’s and their metal monsters, you are well aware of how valued a child is to the clan, how important it is to repopulate the Omatikaya. If it had been with anybody else, the child inside of your stomach would be cherished and loved without conditions, without fear. 

But to endure a nine month long suffering with a child you did not prepare for, alone, with no father to speak for them? Stupid is the only word to define how you feel. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The tarpongu come and go before night has settled, and beyond your kelku, the dazzling fire from dinner crackles with life, the ceremonious laughter of the villagers a wonderful tune to hear. And yet you remain camped in your kelku like a prisoner, feeling your stomach churning at the mere smell of meat over the flames. 

You can no longer bear it — this secret is consuming you. Just thinking about having to tell the Tsahìk and your Olo’eyktan fills you with a sizzling dread, and before you can even sit and think of a reasonable course of action, your feet are moving on their own outside of your kelku and out towards the tree line, whatever you have to throw up making its way from your stomach to your throat and to the floor.

It feels like the world is caving in on you as you empty your stomach, a high ringing in your ears dulling your senses. There is an ache rippling through your back as you hunch over on your knees, forced to stare down at the regret that has presented itself as a pile of bile-ish puke. 

How could you have let this happen? You’re nowhere near comfortable with finding your way in the village, have no idea where to put yourself and with who. As if it wasn’t humiliating enough, falling into bed with a much older, well respected, incredibly handsome clan member and being dumped indirectly; you just had to go and make it ten times worse by having his baby.

Thinking of him makes the tingling reemerge under your jaw and out you heave more pools of vomit. It’s a wonder that there’s anything to even bring up, considering you passed up on showing your face at dinner tonight.

By not doing so, you should have realistically expected somebody to come looking for you, but for some reason, it had been the very last thing on your mind. It is still of little significance even when you feel a hand settling down between your shoulder blades, another brushing back the braids of hair falling across your face as you bow your chest over the floor, coughing up the last chunks of bile and breakfast. 

“Uh-oh, there we go.”

Shuddering out a breath, you heave in a lungful of air and look to the right, catching sight of Jakesully’s eyes sweeping over your face and body, a look of sincerity like a mask over his features. Of course it’s him — who else would come looking for you?

“It’s okay, get it out,” Jakesully says, practically coos, as he rubs his hand down your spine like you’re a fragile thing. 

You’d be embarrassed to be throwing up in front of him if you weren’t by all miracles relieved that it’s him and nobody else. There’s no way anybody else would still be hunched by your side in a silence of solidarity. 

You go to say something to him, the words catching in your throat suddenly and coming out an incoherent babble. Jakesully’s eyebrows pinch together with worry.

“Hey, hey. Take it easy,” he murmurs, brushing his hand across your forehead while the other settles on your lower back. “Just breathe, alright?”

Everything inside of you wants to protest, but instead, you nod your head with a pitiful blubber. Jakesully has never seen you like this before, and you hate it. Showing him a moment of weakness is nothing short of humiliating, another thing to berate yourself over. 

Though, he looks far from put off. If anything, Jakesully looks frantic and anxious, which somehow makes you feel worse.

“Alright,” Jakesully says quietly, once you’ve managed to gather yourself again and are breathing normally. You fall back on your behind with a shaky sob, tail curled low on the floor, meanwhile Jakesully fidgets until he’s managed to successfully angle your body away from the vomit and towards him. 

He dips his head to find your eyes, locked firmly on the weedy grass between your bodies, and once he’s found you, he smooths his hands around your face in a cradle and frowns. 

“You sick, or somethin’?”

It would be a great lie. A natural lie, perfectly timed. But you shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand as you desperately try to keep a cry stored in there. It’s bad enough that Jakesully has seen all that he has — the very least your body could do is grant you a second of grace.

“Maybe you ate something bad,” he suggests, mostly thinking out loud. “You okay, honey?”

Your head continues to shake, so much so that Jakesully assumes you’re tapping out of the conversation to cry again, but his ears prick as you sniffle and dig the heels of your palms into your eyes, shutting the image of him out entirely.

“I am scared, Jakesully,” you confess. Once the words leave your mouth, a weight eases off your shoulders.

He cocks his head questioningly, hands falling to your wrists to free your eyes. 

“Why?” he asks, voice so quiet it tells you he’s doing his best to keep this private. Dinner should be ending soon with the way the noise has become more scattered, and you’re grateful of Jakesully’s loyalty more than ever in that moment.

You steady your breathing and peer at him. Telling him would be so easy, so freeing. His face has hardened into a look of intense worry — you haven’t seen him look so on edge since Tsu’tey’s awakening after the war. 

Dropping your gaze to his hands, you take a breath and take the risk. Sooner or later, someone will have to know. Why not tell someone you like and trust first?

“I am with child, Jakesully,” you tell him very slowly. “It is very bad.”

His thumbs cease in their little circular movements on your wrists and you watch his body stiffen immediately. 

Well. At least it’s out.

“You’re pregnant?” he whispers, shocked in a way you did not expect. For some reason, perhaps morbid curiosity, you look up at his face and refrain from sobbing at the look you see on it — a look of pure, blatant surprise. 

Of course he’s surprised. Who wouldn’t be? You are an unmated, single woman in the clan, and Jakesully spends a more than fair chunk of his time following your shadow around. It had been a literal miracle that you had even found the time to be alone with someone without Jakesully finding out about it.

Until now, in the wake of his confusion, it hadn’t felt personal. The look on his eyes, however, tells you that he might be thinking differently.

For a while, Jakesully says nothing, and neither do you. The intensity of his gaze eventually becomes too much and you look away, feeling the tears lining your eyes with a belittling sting, but just as you try to pull your hands free from his, Jakesully’s hands tighten around yours and all at once, you’re looking back into his eyes.

“…Are you seeing someone?” is what he decides to ask. He frowns when you shake your head. “Did somebody hurt you?” His hands tighten, and you wince slightly.

“No, Jakesully.”

He deflates with a sigh of relief. “Okay.” 

You wonder what he might be thinking as he assesses you, his eyes helplessly flicking down to your stomach. To any ordinary person, you look fine. Healthy, if he had to be extremely analytical about it. Of course, the first person to notice any real difference was you, the curve of your tummy barely visible, but noticeable all the same.

“Well…” Jakesully starts cautiously, thinking, and you grimace back with shock when he smiles genuinely and says in a breathlessly affectionate tone, “well, that’s great news, sweetheart.”

“No, Jakesully,” you tell him, shaking your head so violently he’s worried you might end up puking again. “This child has no father to speak for them. This is terrible news.”

Suddenly, his eyes narrow into slits. “The father has refused you both?”

“He does not know,” you breathe, feeling your lungs tighten, “and he never will.”

To be honest, you were expecting Jakesully to say something regarding that, but nothing comes. Instead, he opts for staring at you thoughtfully, his grip loosening around your wrists once he remembers how hard he’s holding onto you. 

Giving it some thought, you have to suspect that Jakesully probably doesn’t know what to say. As far as you’re aware, he’s never had children of his own, never made plans for a family. He probably doesn’t know what to say to make you feel better, which is why he’s so silent.

“Have you told anyone?” Jakesully asks after a while.

“No. Only you, Jakesully.”

He frowns. “You don’t have to call me that, you know. Just Jake is fine.”

“...You cannot tell anyone about this,” you blurt, frantic now what he’s asked has sunk in. 

He moves, bristles slightly as he weighs his options. His eyes flicker as you reach for him by his forearms.

“Please, Jake!”

“Well, we gotta make sure you’re all good in there,” he explains. He seems to have perked from the graduation from Jakesully to Jake in your vocabulary, but there’s little time to broach the subject, not when he can think of so many other things that take precedence. “Mo’at will need to check you over. And your chores have gotta change, too, eventually, and you’ll need—”

“It is my choice, Jake,” you urge, so frantic your fingers are pressing deeply into his arms, the dark shade of his blue skin going milky white. His frown deepens. “Please. Please, say nothing. I need to think.”

It is painfully obvious how difficult Jake finds agreeing to what you’re asking of him. His brows curve inwards as he stares at you, and you feel your heart clenching with fear when he bows his head and sighs, mostly to himself, and gently squeezes his hands around your arms.

“Okay,” he mutters, with reluctance. You know his reluctance comes from a place of concern rather than spite, but the fact that he’s promised his silence is all that matters, and you instantly relax. 

Jake was right, in a way. Eventually, there would be no question of having to tell people. The bump would give it away before you did, and accommodations would need to be made. But, before any of that can happen, you at least want to feel prepared for it.

You send Jake off to his own kelku before it gets too late, and miraculously, what worries you as he trudges away is not the possibility of him sharing your secret. Instead, it is the fear of Jake changing how he feels about it. 

He has seen you so openly, so transparently, and for the first time since you met him, you feel the panicked rush of fear for losing him. Your only true friend, your single ally.

A few days pass from that moment spent hurling up your worries into the mud, and your run-ins with your People have become sparing.

The village moves on with a pulse of energy, the villagers preparing for the upcoming Weytelempongu of this eclipse cycle in a few weeks time; the hunters gather and gallop across the forests every other day, and the weavers and crafters sit on their mats making beaded wraps and necklaces, trinkets for the festivities — all while you remain at home, trying to come up with a plan.

Across your four days of self-imposed exile, there have been curious visitors. First, your mother, anxious in your absence and overbearingly fussy. Then, Neytiri, frowning for your uselessness as of late, though those weren’t her exact words. Then, your close friends from the water banks, the elderly healer who shadowed Mo’at assessing your paled form with beady eyes, before finally, the person you’ve been most anxious and desperate to see stumbles through your kelku with an armful of cloths, and an arrangement of moss and vines tangled over his shoulder.

“Hey,” Jake says quietly, dropping the gifts he’s brought with him to the floor with an ungracious thud. You curl your legs up to your chest as the moss untangles by your feet, and Jake crouches to pile it all together as he continues with, “how’re you feeling today?”

Since making Jake promise not to tell anybody about your recent…affliction, he has met your face with a strain. You almost felt guilty about it at one point, the drawn look of worry on his face so deep and strong that it had been the single cause of another cough of vomit. He’d schooled his features into relaxing, muttering something about straining your stomach with retching, before he patted your shoulders and sighed. 

What’s important, though, is that he has kept his promise. Courageously, too, because you know that after being accepted by the village for the second time after the war, lying became a rejected habit of Jake’s. 

“Better,” you tell him honestly. “I have not had sickness today.”

“That’s good,” Jake replies, smiling instantly. “Real good. I brought you some stuff — we gotta baby-proof this place.”

“Baby-proof?” you frown.

Jake unravels the cloths and steps around you, setting them down on the small ditch you’ve made your bed. It is already comfortable for you, smothered in woven blankets and carpets of moss, but you have to admit that once Jake has arranged the new cloths and moss around your mattress of comforts, it does look more inviting.

“I see,” you say, admiring his handiwork, “thank you, Jake.”

Jake’s smile widens. “No problem.” Then, he begins to fidget. It is so oddly reminiscent of the first time you met Jake that you have to blink back the fond memories just to make sense of it. He looks suddenly awkward. 

“Listen,” he begins, falling to his knees before your curled body, “I won’t ask you any questions. I don’t wanna cause you any stress or discomfort. But I wanna help you through this. You don’t need to ask for anything in return, and I’m not doing it to offend you or upset you.” 

Jake’s hands twitch until he finds the confidence to grab your hands. He’s done this before many times, but now, the touch of his skin sends a jolt through your body like a fork of lightning. On his face is the most serious expression you’ve seen him wear since he stood in front of the Vitraya Ramunong and declared war. 

“You’re my strongest friend,” Jake says, his eyes boring into yours. You fight the urge to squirm from the intensity of it. “My best friend. And watching you suffer is literally so painful for me. I don’t care what you need or what you ask, I’ll do anything. Just, please, don’t shut me out. Let me help you.”

You’re not quite sure if the tears springing to your eyes are because of Jake or the pent-up feelings brewing inside of you, but regardless, the pearls of tears tumble from your eyes without warning, and before Jake can even try to reach to wipe them away, you surge forward and throw your arms around his neck, pressing your face deep. 

Jake smells like the forest — an almost sickening concoction of ferns and berries and salted butter from his morning bathe. The powders on his skin are chalky against your cheek, but you inhale his scent, his assurance of safety, and warm when he slides his arms around your waist and holds you tight against his body. 

“Are you—are you crying?” he asks, bewildered.

You sniffle, “No.”

Beneath your chest, you feel his body bouncing with quiet laughter, but you can’t will yourself to chide his teasing. After all, you’re so hopelessly happy that Jake is here, that he’s so kind and caring and open to guiding you through what you think might be the worst thing to happen to you since your father died.

“I am happy,” you mutter against him, hoping to reassure him. 

“That’s what I was hoping,” he replies, his lips brushing over your shoulder sweetly. 

Jake holds you there for as long as you want him to, which happens to be a while. The village vibrates with noise outside of your kelku; the Weytelempongu is weeks away, but there is still much to be done in preparation for it. 

When Jake finally feels you stirring and loosens his hold to look at your face, he keeps his smile level as he watches every twitch or fall on your face.

“Jake,” you start, and his attention piques. “I would like to ask you something.”

His eyes widen in acknowledgment, his smile lifting. “Anything you want.”

Asking feels so frightening — it means putting your reality into motion, letting the world know your hardest secret to keep. You look at Jake thoughtfully for a second, heart hammering so loudly in your chest you have to glance down to see that it’s not pressing against your body, trying to break free.

“I would like to visit the Tsahìk,” you tell him. He relaxes. It’s not such a hard request, he’d barely have to do anything to make it happen, either. Then you add, “And I would like it if you came with me to see her, Jake.”

You can’t speak on his behalf, but the air around you goes so still that you hold your breath anxiously. 

There’s nothing inherently wrong with Jake going with you to see the Tsahìk; for one, it would put you at ease knowing you are not alone, that a friend isn’t far away. But on top of that, he can be someone to come to your defence, should the Tsahìk feel a certain way about your unexpected pregnancy. Which you’re honestly expecting.

Fortunately, Jake barely flinches. He blinks, as if processing your request, before curling his lip in that boyish way he does and says, “Sure thing, sweetheart. Wanna go now, or later?”

You catch your jaw before it can fall to the ground. His reply came so easily that it surprises you. Even more surprising is the eagerness in his eyes — you might’ve once thought of Jake’s strange interest in your pregnancy to be bothersome. You certainly didn’t feel eager to watch your stomach bulge and ankles swell. But now, it’s as if a foggy haze has cleared and you can see him clearer than you ever have before.

Jake is worried for you. Worried for his friend — and another wave of guilt hits you. Before you is a man who wants the best for you, and you’ve been busy trying to pick apart his concern and twist it into something awful.

“Now,” you suggest meekly. “Only if you are not busy.”

Jake’s already pulling at your hands to stand. “This is way more important than anything else I could be doing, trust me.”

You ought to remind Jake that his daily routine as of late has been built according to the urgency of each task, but you keep your lips sealed tight as he pretty much pulls you from your kelku and, with grace and care, leads you like a bodyguard across the village and towards the Tsahìk’s Hut.

Fragrant oils fill the air warding the Tsahìk’s Hut from the main pavilion of the village; aromas heavy with salt and spices, cinnamon and burnt barks fill your nose, and squeezing Jake’s hand is the only thing keeping you from reeling with nausea. Jake’s fingers tighten around yours slightly, his voice tight yet kind as he greets passing villagers.

Eyes are pointed on you from every direction. Most likely because Jakesully is leading the village’s enigma to the Tsahìk’s Hut by her hand. The grass flattens with a yellow tinge the closer you get to the hut, and a grey billow of smoke pours from the doorway menacingly.

You’ve never enjoyed coming here, even when you were a child. Mo’at’s tent was a dark wonder of smells and sights, scary incantations and prayers that felt nightmarish at a time. Even now, Mo’at’s incoherent mumbling sends chills up your arms as the doorway widens into view.

Jake stands in the middle, his gaze fixing inside the hut, where more than Mo’at can be seen. Framing the Tsahìk is her daughter, Neytiri, her gaze low on a bowl of red powder, and, perhaps the biggest surprise of all, Tsu’tey. His head is between his shoulders, lulled back, while Mo’at mutters and presses into his muscles with her long fingers. He hisses in pain, the muscles swollen and hard, and Jake gives you a silent glance over your shoulder.

Before you can even do anything, Neytiri’s eyes flicker up to where Jake is standing and her hands pause. The Tsahìk stops, her eyes shifting to her daughter before swiftly sweeping to the door. She bristles, looks at Jake in confusion, and silently stares as you shuffle behind his wide back and into view, a cautious hand on his waist.

“Jakesully,” she calls. She looks at you closely, says your name like a prophecy, and moves her hands from Tsu’tey’s sore joints. The Olo’eyktan looks up, too, his gaze drawn to your name. “What brings you to me?”

Jake drops your hand quietly. “Tsahìk. Olo’eyktan. Neytiri. Forgive us, I didn’t know you had company.”

Mo’at raises her hand weakly, “It is forgiven, Jakesully. Now tell me.”

The party make room for you and Jake to usher inside; Tsu’tey clears the floor by standing, his body tense as he looms over his place, meanwhile Neytiri shifts the bowls and stands by his side, gently touching his back with her hand.

Jake offers you an encouraging glance and says, in Na’vi as if to please Mo’at further, “I am not here for me, Tsahìk.” Once Mo’at is made clear that you are her intended patient, her eyes turn scrutinising as she looks you up and down, “She is…sick, Tsahìk.”

“Yes,” she replies bluntly, beckoning you forward. “Come to me, child. Come.” Her waving becomes bossy, and you silently step in front of her and feel Jake’s hand brush past your kuru warmly.

Mo’at has been a friend of your family since before you were even born, a fact known by all in the village. There is nothing she hasn’t seen with you, no grievance or illness uncured.

You had almost died once when the unknown illness spread and ravaged the villagers, and Mo’at had gone to great lengths to nurse you back to health. So, it is safe to say that she misses nothing when you appear before her in the sunlight beaming down from the roof.

Her gaze is so heavy and probing that you know with complete certainty that she already knows. Still, Mo’at looks at you with her typical unimpressed expression and demands to know what is wrong.

You glance nervously to the left. Both your Olo’eyktan and his wife are standing close by. You’ve been dreading telling each person in this tent other than Jake about your pregnancy — having all three present at once feels like both a blessing and a curse.

“…I am…” you start, feeling your chest constrict nervously. The nerves are powerfully overwhelming, and you stumble, lightheaded, and catch yourself on your knees before your Tsahìk. She drops, too, to meet your gaze, and out the corner of your eye you see Neytiri and Tsu’tey creeping closer in worry on their haunches.

“It is okay, child. Speak with me.”

You inhale. Feel your lungs fill with air tightly. Think about Jake standing behind you so loyally, so fiercely. Exhale, and then tell her in the simplest way you can, “I am with child, Tsahìk.”

There is a beat of silence before Neytiri gasps in shock. Tsu’tey’s head jerks back with surprise, his eyes wide and braids clinking together, but your gaze is held low on the space between you and Mo’at. She simply hums in a low tone.

“I thought so,” she says after a moment, sounding incredibly unaffected. 

There is a lump so big in your throat that it’s difficult to swallow back your tears. The mat beneath your feet turns blurry as your eyes fill, though they only fall once you feel Jake’s hand falling on the space between your shoulder blades, his body crouching next to you.

“Tsmuke…” Neytiri starts, but the words trail off. 

“Yes. It is true,” Mo’at affirms after a few seconds of examining your stomach and fondling the slight swell of your breasts. After a minute, however, she sighs. “Oh, ‘itesyìp... Who is the father?”

That’s when you pause. The noise in the tent rushes out like the ocean calling back the waves, a silence ringing loudly in your ears. They might be talking around you, but you can’t be sure. All you can focus on is how the world feels like it’s rolling over, and you’re about to slide off into the endless void around it.

The image of him conjures in your mind. A man so strong, so commanding, so respected; a man who did nothing but disrespect you, a man who has ruined your life and broken your heart.

The lump worsens in your throat, and like breaking free from the waves, the noise rises into recognition around you in time for you to hear Jake say three words that will change your life:

“I am, Tsahìk.”

Your head whirls to stare at him in shock. As does Moat’s, Neytiri’s, and Tsu’tey’s, each with varying degrees of expression. 

“You are?” Mo’at repeats, looking at you imploringly. “Is it true?”

Saying yes will ruin Jake’s life — you know it. To claim a child that is not yours for a woman you do not love? To condemn yourself to a life you never intended to live? All for what, the sake of a friend in need? Your heart squeezes painfully.

On the other hand, saying no will lead to even more chaos, even more unnecessary agony. It would mean being honest; exposing the man who lay you down by the lake, exposing Jake as a liar…

Jake’s face is hard and sure when you look at him, hoping he might do something to spare you the decision. When he looks at you and says nothing, you fear your heart might speed up too fast and simply give up beating.

“…Yes, Tsahìk,” you manage out eventually. “It is true.”

She barely misses a beat, “And so, this union has been made before Eywa herself?”

You suck in a deep breath at that. She’s gone and done it — mentioned Eywa knowing you are forbidden from lying about her or to her.

“It has not, Tsahìk,” Jake says quietly. His eyes shift to Mo’at’s face for a second, and when you join him, you immediately wish you hadn’t.

You’ve never seen Mo’at look so affronted, so lost for words. You wonder what is shocking her more: the fact that you are pregnant or that Jakesully is saying he is the father. 

Jakesully, once an outsider, a Dreamwalker, an enemy, going around and knocking up the daughter of a loved and missed clan member without Eywa’s blessing. If she weren’t Tsahìk, she’d need a seat to process the information.

Across the hut, Neytiri’s face twists angrily. Her whole body drops to a crouch, surging forward to hiss in Jake’s face, her arm in front of you protectively. The whole ordeal is simply astonishing, but Jake barely flinches, just blinks and looks at her blankly.

“You skxawng!” she practically screams, her eyes full of golden fire. “Stupid, stupid! I told you to leave her alone! You…” Neytiri trails off, breathless and infuriated. 

Tsu’tey reaches for her shoulder and reigns her back in with a gentle grunt. Though she looks far from finished; her chest rises and falls with a degree of rage you’ve never seen on her before, not even when you watched the village strap Jake and Grace to a pole before Hometree came crashing down.

Helplessly, you look at Jake. He looks completely normal, unbothered, taking Neytiri’s words with stride. You feel endlessly guilty. None of this is his fault, all of it is yours. 

Without thinking, you reach for Jake’s hand and clamp yours around it, gaze sliding away when his eyes jump towards you.

He has sacrificed his life to be here with you, for you. The very least you could do is show him just how grateful you are for it.

“It is done,” you say quietly. “Jakesully is not at fault, tsmuke. He is a good man. He will be a great father. I know this.”

She growls again, like an angry animal. Mo’at raises her hand flatly to silence her.

“Lucky, your Olo’eyktan is here,” Mo’at says after a tense pause. “You may ask his blessing.”

Yes — blessings. In your mind, there have been a lack of them as of late, though, your chest tightens with another bout of anxiety when you peer over in Tsu’tey’s direction. 

Like always, his expression is unreadable, tight and flat. After Jake’s selfless efforts in the war, Tsu’tey has learned to love Jake like any other villager, but even he turns to Jake with a soured look of disappointment over his features. 

Tsu’tey sighs heavily. “Jakesully, you are a strong warrior. And you led the People to a great victory against the Sky People. This, I cannot ignore.” His eyes study Jake intently, occasionally bouncing in your direction as a frown deepens over his lips. “There are no rules in this clan against unmated families. But, your chosen woman is special to these People.”

Though you’re inclined to believe that Tsu’tey might be overselling you, you have to wince and admit that he’s right, in a way. The wound created by losing your father in the fall of Hometree has festered and become an ugly sore, a grief that Neytiri and Mo’at feel like their own. Many innocent lives were lost — losing so many elders, so many leaders… 

Your family have been one of the hands holding up the Omatikaya for years. Though reluctant to admit it, Tsu’tey is far from wrong — the Omatikaya people look to you for an example. And what a poor job you’re currently doing.

Jake doesn’t even falter; he blinks at Tsu’tey and nods firmly. “I understand, brother. And I agree.”

“Then you must understand to treat her well,” Tsu’tey finishes without missing a beat, looking so serious that if it weren’t for the heavy tension in the hut, you might’ve laughed. “Better than any other woman. And…your family becomes your fortress. I do not understand Sky People’s indifference to family—” This he delivers with a bristle; the story he heard from Jake about families torn apart, mothers and fathers separated, children without parents, they were unfathomable and simply unheard of for the Omatikaya, “—and it is not our way. Do not forget this. Jakesully, tsmuke…” 

Tsu’tey sighs again,  “You have my blessing.”

It takes everything not to go limp at Tsu’tey’s feet and sob; you keep your eyes firmly pinned to Tsu’tey’s feet, trying to keep your tears from surfacing, your hand tightening around Jake’s like a vice. His thumb brushes over your knuckles softly, but he remains looking at Tsu’tey determinedly. 

After a while of fussing from Mo’at and conspiratory whispering from Neytiri, you shuffle to your feet with Jake in tow — Neytiri’s heart is in the right place, of course; although she trusts Jake, you know that her protectiveness comes from a good place. After Sylwanin’s death, you suppose you fell into place in Neytiri’s family, becoming the sister she missed, becoming the person she needed to pretend was her older sister, her rock.

The air clears immediately once you step free from Mo’at’s hut, and after a few steps down the trodden path and towards the village, you let out a ginormous breath and let your eyes flutter closed. The world is spinning beneath your feet rapidly, the surrounding forest spiralling. Your hand immediately grabs Jake’s arm for support, and he stops, his gaze heavy on your face.

When you open your eyes and the world shifts back into focus, you find his look of concern and feel your bottom lip curl into a pout. In a way, you cannot believe it took getting pregnant to realise just how insanely perfect Jake really is. The memory of him coming to your side, holding your body whilst claiming the child you thought would be born unwanted is enough to make your eyes water again. You’re content in blaming your hormones for the amount of times you’ve cried in front of Jake lately, too.

Stepping into his arms is the easiest thing in the world, and he welcomes you instantly, curling his hands around your back and letting you rest your forehead against his shoulder. His heart is thumping out of place in his chest — you can feel it pulsing through his entire body in a rush.

“Thank you,” you mumble. “I owe you a great—”

“You owe me nothing,” Jake interrupts firmly, his voice still low and deep above the shell of your ear. “Nothing at all. M’kay?”

“But… What you have done for me today, I—”

Jake pushes you away slightly, creating a gap wide enough for him to look at you with a disapproving frown. “Hey. I’d do anything if it would make your life easier. You’re not gonna do this alone, I swear.”

Nodding, you stare at his face, half-expecting him to crack into a smile and claim it all a huge hoax. But he doesn’t, of course. All Jake does is smile and brush a thumb over your cheek as a tear slips from your eye.

“What now?” Jake asks quietly. You pause — what now, indeed?

Mulling the question over in your head, you stand in front of him for a second and think. Then, it’s as if someone is setting stones down in your stomach, a new wave of nausea rising.

“Now…” you start. Shudder. Grimace. Jake’s head leans back in alarm when you toss Jake a very unhappy look and say, “We must prepare to have a baby.”

Oh. Yes.

Jake blinks. Nods. Blinks.

Shit.

[crowttore]

Notes: Anaxagoras drabble pre-release because I simply can't resist a blasphemous scholar. Steal this and you're getting every airborne pathogen I know. Tags: Anaxagoras x reader, implied friends to .... well, sfw, 800 words Minors DNI

The forces governing all phenomena must operate based on universal fact. An all-encompassing set of 'laws' when explained through our language. But how do we even begin to comprehend what we cannot perceive, and by what means do we discover the blind spots?

Anaxagoras had always been fascinated by that which he could not explain, a trait coveted by adults when you were both children. The pace with which his knowledge expanded had been nearly frightening, swallowing it up as though a vortex existed in his midst.

"Truth," he continued, one hand covering an eye as he peered into the starlit night, "is what we make of it, what each of us can perceive and prophecy the bridge between what we know and what we see."

A soft hum left your lips, merely signaling that your attention was still on him. The two of you had been friends for far longer than a decade, so used to the ideas spurred on by his now scorned curiosity that nothing he said could rattle you. Not even the idea of prophecies being lies.

"But there must be something, somewhere, that perceives all, possibly even orchestrating it."

Your hand left the cold rock that you were both resting atop, reaching towards the stars alongside his. Blots of ink and faint red lines from where paper had cut his skin stained the delicate hands that had wiped countless tears from your cheeks.

His monologue halted for a moment when your fingers laced with his, guiding his hand back down to place a kiss in his palm. The content sigh he let out made you smile, knowing you'd once more halted his detachment from the ground. If not for the fragility of the physical body, surely his spirit would've long since taken a seat among the stars.

"I propose the existence of a 'mind' governing and ordering everything. If all is made from the same base components, it must be given shape to create all that we see," his voice had softened to an almost melancholic tone, "I will not pretend to know the laws that govern all, but this must be part of the truth as I view it. I've termed it 'Nous', the cosmic mind ordering homogenous chaos into this-"

A white flower was placed in your hand, the rarity of the gesture translating to something foreboding as you completed his sentence, "orderly chaos, but chaos nonetheless."

Worse still was the feeling when he moved your hand to rest atop his heartbeat. "I'm almost led to believe you pay attention to my words." Even with the lightness of his words, nothing in their meaning lessened the weight settling on your soul.

Still, it would be cruel to let it show, instead responding in a way he knew, nudging his shoulder gently. "I always do."

Satisfied, Anaxagoras saw fit to continue, "This Nous, of course, implies the existence of not only life beyond what we know, but also of forces mightier than our Titans."

"Have you heard what they're calling you?"

He turned his head, bright eyes piercing both the darkness and your heart, "A fool? I-"

"Some of them take it further than that, calling you a blasphemer," truly, you had no desire to oppose the man beside you, the regret no doubt seeping into your words, "maybe exercising some restraint in public would do you good?"

It was unreasonable for him to cup your cheek at a time like this, your throat tightening in anticipation of the gentle press of lips against your own.

"Only those with something to hide are angered by questions," his words were almost lost to the ringing in your ears, "the truth I've suggested challenges the validity of their prophesies, should it not then be their honor to disprove me instead of lashing out like cornered beasts?"

You let him guide you closer by the back of your neck, foreheads touching when the words you'd been dreaded were spoken into existence. "I'm leaving."

"I know," your voice trembled far more than you would've liked, his attempts at gently rubbing your skin all but soothing this time. You'd always known this day would come, his bearing in itself enough to know that his path would be a lonely one.

"I'll present my ideas at the Grove of Epiphany, blind faith in the Chrysos Heirs and a prophecy alone cannot be the only way forward. I will force their eyes closed if I must to let them glimpse reality beyond what they see."

You inhaled his scent, fresh and crisp like a cold morning in the sun, determined to commit it to memory, so engrossed that you barely heard the whispered apology and a confession better lost to the breeze.

Hsr masterlist

[loredrinker]

Could Solas Kill Inky in Place of Varric?

I saw a poll making the rounds days ago asking the age-old question: could Solas have killed the Inquisitor if they, rather than Varric, had approached him during the ritual? I voted no - and now I’m driven to explain why.

I’m not claiming any kind of authority here. Fandom discourse can be sensitive (especially around headcanons), so let’s just agree this is one interpretation among many. And no, this isn’t denial or wishful thinking (though I’m sure some will roll their eyes). I’ve tried to keep this grounded in what the games present and build a case based on narrative structure, context and character logic.

I’m also not saying Solas couldn’t ever harm the Inquisitor. Under the right conditions, it’s possible. But the question is would he have done so in that moment - at the ritual site, in Varric’s place? And for me, the answer is no. Based on where Solas is emotionally and narratively at that point, I don’t believe that outcome fits. 

This post focuses on a Friend and Romanced Inquisitor - those the story frames as emotionally significant to Solas. (I’ll address the low-approval path at the end.)

For this, I want to start with the progression of Solas’ relationship with the Inquisitor as shaped by the events of the games and supporting material. (And of course, the prerequisite disclaimer: these are just my thoughts and interpretations.)

Apologies, it's a bit long.

Emotional Bonds: Solas’ Relationship with the Inquisitor

In Inquisition, Trespasser and Veilguard, we see Solas emotionally compromised by his bond with the Inquisitor - whether friend or lover - through a series of consistent narrative beats.

With a high-approval friend Inquisitor, the connection is built on deep respect. Solas says, “You show a wisdom I have not seen since… since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade,” and adds, “It means that I respect you deeply, Inquisitor.” That word - deeply - is important. Solas doesn’t offer praise lightly, and considering what we know of his guarded nature and history, that line should be read as significant.

After Trespasser, he refers to revealing his plans as a “moment of weakness” (The Dread Wolf Take You), yet chooses to confess anyway because part of him wants the Inquisitor to know. When he meets with Charter, it's because he's learned the Inquisition is involved and knowingly risks exposure by appearing in person. And his message: "Tell the Inquisitor I’m sorry" in a faltering voice further underscores that the Inquisitor has a sort of hold on him.

He admits to Rook that during his rebellion, it took him centuries to build bonds with others - but within the Inquisition, he formed bonds within a year. This is yet another beat that tells us that what happened during the Inquisition was exceptional to Solas - it had immediacy, intimacy, and impact.

Strong evidence of the unique role of the Inquisitor comes from the romance path. Solas prepares to reveal everything but retreats in fear. Yet even after ending the relationship, the connection lingers through multiple narrative beats: dream visits, refers to never forgetting her, his letter, cherishing their time more than his victories. The Crestwood scene is most telling: “You are unique... I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined.” For Solas, the Fade is his sanctuary - where he finds clarity, control, and truth. That a romanced Inquisitor could pull his focus from it is the narrative explicitly telling the player they disorient him. Their emotional gravity is strong enough to draw him away from the only place he’s ever truly longed for. That’s why he runs. So when players ask whether he would have reacted the same way to a romanced Inquisitor at the ritual site as he did to Varric, I feel that dialogue reveals a lot. If they could pull his attention away from the Fade, then it stands to reason they could break his focus mid-ritual. Their appearance could have destabilized him again, just as it did before.

But perhaps what I find to be one of the most compelling pieces is what Veilguard itself tells the player: “The Dread Wolf could not foresee what it would mean to fall in love.” Note the use “the Dread Wolf” here - not Solas. The Dread Wolf is the myth, the feared manipulator. He is supposed to be above mortal emotion, detached and resolute. And yet, the Dread Wolf - not the man beneath the name - is the one undone by love. (How interesting the cut dialogue from Morrigan aligns with this: “And so the Dread Wolf is stopped by, of all things, love.”)

Solas’s Actions Toward Varric Were Not Premeditated 

When Varric approaches Solas at the ritual, Solas doesn’t strike him. He disables Bianca, which Varric has pointed at him - choosing non-lethal intervention - and turns back to his ritual. He speaks to Varric, is composed, focused. There’s no bloodlust or intent to kill. It’s only after Rook topples the statue and Varric lunges at him that Solas stabs him. It’s fast, instinctive, defensive - his control breaking in the middle of a complex, high-stakes spell. And while it’s clear Solas was prepared to incapacitate Varric if necessary, I don’t believe his intention was to kill him (if he truly wanted a fatal outcome for Varric, he would have turned him to stone). I interpret his expression afterward as much: he tilts his head down, his eyes/face fall. This wasn’t premeditated or cold-blooded - it was a response to immediate, physical interference in a moment where precision and focus were everything. Unfortunately, his aim was fatal.

The Inquisitor Would Not Approach the Way Varric Did 

Okay, maybe this part is more subjective, I can admit that - but do many players believe their Friend/Lover Inquisitor would have charged Solas the way Varric did? The Inquisitor is not Varric. Across the games and extended media, they’re portrayed as strategic, influential, and focused on the long game (as I write about here). Varric made an impulsive choice - physically lunging at Solas in the middle of an intense, years-in-the-making ritual. His reaction triggered a defensive response. That’s who Varric is: brave, loyal, emotional - but not really all that strategic. 

By contrast, a friend/lover Inquisitor would most likely approach differently. Look at the atonement ending in Veilguard: they approach slowly, hands out, knowing exactly how dangerous the situation is, yet still choosing to reach him emotionally, rather than physically. Wouldn’t it be reasonable to assume that the same Inquisitor, placed at the ritual site, would do the same? 

And really, we only have one canonical example of an Inquisitor confronting Solas directly: Trespasser. Just the two of them. And even when the Inquisitor is angry or feeling betrayed - not even a low-approval one is harmed. What that shows me is simple: when the Inquisitor is the one standing in front of him, Solas responds differently.

Solas Had Already Changed His Strategy Since Trespasser 

By the time of Veilguard, Solas is no longer fully committed to the most absolute, destructive version of his plan as originally told to the Inquisitor. In The Missing, he tells Varric in a note that “what must be done, will be done cautiously, and I will limit the damage as best I can,” At the ritual site, he again tells Varric that he has taken precautions to minimize the damage, In the Fade prison, he confirms to Rook that he had a host of spirits ready to help minimize loss of life. And while some players may dismiss this as manipulation or self-delusion, it’s worth noting that Emmrich affirms the spirits still think highly of Solas and continue to support him - suggesting he hasn’t lost their trust. Taken together, these are not throwaway lines. They form a consistent pattern.

This isn’t about excusing Solas - it’s about acknowledging the material the game presents. Across multiple sources, the narrative signals that Solas’ internal direction has shifted. He’s no longer blindly pursuing a path of total destruction. Since Trespasser, he’s made a conscious decision (however flawed) to try to control the outcome - to do less harm. Whether or not he’s lying to himself is a valid question, but the story shows that he believes he’s acting with restraint. That belief defines the version of Solas we meet at the ritual site: conflicted, calculating, and trying - however imperfectly - not to repeat past catastrophes.

The Killing of Felassan Is Not a Useful Comparison 

Some players point to Felassan’s death as precedent for the idea that Solas could kill the Inquisitor - but in my view, the circumstances are entirely different. At the assumed time of Felassan’s death, Solas is either still in Uthenera or has recently awakened from it into a world made tranquil by the Veil. He was still reeling from Mythal’s murder and the consequences of his own actions. His psychological and emotional state was unstable to say the least, shaped by disorientation, grief, and urgency. Felassan, by contrast, had centuries to adapt to this changed world, to mourn Mythal, and to forge new connections. Solas had not.

If we look at Solas’s perspective, Felassan didn’t just disagree - he disobeyed a direct order at a critical time, likely seen as a betrayal not only of Solas’ plan, but also of Mythal’s memory. I also don’t believe Felassan’s death was premeditated, it fits a pattern of how Solas reacts when he’s desperate and his control is slipping. (And don't take this as me agreeing with Solas, I'm simply attempting to provide context.)

I think it's worth noting that Felassan’s death may have changed Solas. One of the regrets Rook confronts in the Crossroads is The Betrayal of Felassan, suggesting the moment haunts Solas. It was a personal failure that may have contributed to the caution and restraint we see from him later.

The Flemeth/Mythal Scene 

Some players also cite the end of Inquisition - when Solas absorbs Mythal’s fragment from Flemeth - as proof that he’d kill the Inquisitor, because he kills Mythal. But that reading feels overly simplistic and overlooks what the scene actually depicts, both in Inquisition and its altered version in Veilguard. And maybe this is where I’ll get the most eye rolls, but here it is: Flemeth is not Mythal - she carries only a fragment of her. And in both versions, the visual and narrative cues strongly suggest she anticipated this outcome.

Yes, it does seem cold that Solas has to kill Flemeth to gain Mythal’s power - taking the life of this powerful woman who has influenced and shaped Thedas. But that’s precisely what makes her lack of resistance so fascinating. She doesn’t fight or flee. She reaches out to Solas, touches his face, and calls him “old friend.” So I have to ask - why? If Flemeth or Mythal truly objected, would someone of Flemeth’s immense power (especially when Solas is still regaining his strength) have allowed it? The most reasonable answer is that she didn’t make this decision alone. As the vessel of Mythal’s fragment, it’s entirely plausible that Mythal’s will/memories/essence - her understanding of what must happen - guided the moment. That doesn’t make it easy, or even ethically clean, but it reframes the act as one of grim necessity, not aggression as it wasn’t positioned as theft, but a sorrowful transfer of power.

And we see this tension captured in a single line of dialogue from Mythal: “While the prison is important, it is not the only goal you seek.” She doesn’t reject Solas’ reasoning - she acknowledges the prison’s importance, and by extension, his need for power to do it. But she also makes sure to take this moment to challenge him. She allows the transfer, as she calls him out about why he wants it. Again, Flemeth’s death doesn’t serve as precedent for Solas using violence against the Inquisitor.

The Atonement Ending Reaffirms the Inquisitor’s Unique Emotional Bond

By placing the Inquisitor alongside Mythal in Solas’s path to atonement at the end of Veilguard, it felts like the writers made a deliberate narrative choice. Mythal - the immortal who shaped Solas and his ideology - and the Inquisitor - the mortal who affected his heart - stand together because both are essential to who he’s become. This pairing is symbolic in my eyes as the Inquisitor is framed as Mythal’s equal in emotional and narrative influence over Solas’s fate. They speak before and after her, effectively bookending the moment that changes everything.

A character granted that level of symbolic and emotional influence in Solas’ arc is not someone I feel Solas would plausibly kill at the ritual site.  

Conclusion 

All of this has been my attempt to lay the groundwork - to trace the story’s emotional and narrative architecture - behind why I believe Solas couldn’t have killed the Inquisitor at the ritual site at the beginning of Veilguard. Could he hurt them later, in a moment of desperation or collapse? Yes, there is the possibility, but I don't think intentionally, likely through an accident scenario. But in that moment at the ritual site? I don’t believe he’s in that place yet.

And there’s also this: Solas never kills Rook. Even when he manipulates them in the Fade and tries to use them to take his place, he doesn't physically harm them. At the end, he tells Rook he doesn’t want to fight them and only attacks when Rook strikes first. So to suggest he would kill a high-approval/love Inquisitor - someone he has a deeper, longer, and more emotionally complex bond with - while sparing Rook doesn’t hold up, narratively or thematically in my mind.

Call it delusional or coping - but nothing I’ve presented here is headcanon (if anyone feels it is, please point it out, happy to expand!). I’ve done my best to stay rooted in the material the games and extended lore provide. And as always, I’m open to counterpoints, things I've not considered and happy to keep the conversation going!

..........

Low Approval Inquisitor

Ok so what about a low-approval Inquisitor? The one who rarely brought Solas into the field, frequently antagonized him, or made decisions he fundamentally disagreed with? That doesn’t mean they were a bad leader necessarily. In fact, it’s entirely possible this Inquisitor maintained high approval with other companions and made principled choices. But from Solas’ perspective, that relationship never deepened into an emotional relationship. In Veilguard, he remarks that such an Inquisitor was "useful" - a cold assessment - before shifting focus to bonds that mattered to him, like his friendship with Cole.

Without shared understanding or personal rapport, this Inquisitor might register to Solas as someone capable of interfering, but not capable of reaching him. If they had approached him at the ritual in a moment of volatility - the outcome could have been very different. I can’t speak broadly, as I’ve only played a low-approval Inquisitor once, and even then it was more of an across-the-board low approval run. But I do think it’s more plausible that this Inquisitor would have been at far greater risk of sharing Varric’s fate.

That said, there’s a counterpoint worth considering. By the time of Veilguard, Solas has made efforts to minimize harm - he even helps to stop the Qunari invasion in Trespasser to preserve some peace in Thedas till the veil comes down. In that light, killing the Inquisitor might risk triggering unrest, something he seemed to want to avoid until his ritual. Whether that restraint would hold in the heat of the ritual is debatable - but it’s a possibility. I’d love to hear other perspectives on this as I know I'll think on this one further.

[rennalaqotfm]

𖤓 DRAGONSPEAR | J.V (PART V)

Pairing: Prince Jacaerys Velaryon x Martell Princess! Reader

Synopsys: Upon discovering Aemond Targaryen's alliance with the Triarchy, the Blacks are pushed to the point of desperation. With the war looming over the horizon, they have no choice but to turn to an unlikely ally: House Martell.

Content Warning: Sexual content but no smut (MDNI 18+ just to be safe), angst, mild knifeplay, alcohol consumption, toxic dynamics, swearing, themes of prejudice and misogynism, and a lot of 'fucking politicking,' as King Viserys said, (not proofread).

WC: 5.1k

Series Masterlist

(A/N and taglist at the end of the chapter)

Days passed slowly as the Sun melted into the golden dunes, the once-lively festivities fading into hushed negotiations behind closed doors. In these meetings, father and daughter meticulously settled the terms with the rest of the Dornish Houses; the Princess made the decisions, and the Prince sealed them with his ink and his word.

Seated around the golden table were the heads of House Martell, House Dayne, House Yronwood, House Jordayne, House Uller, and House Santagar. Some faces remained impassive, while others betrayed unease, dread creeping into their eyes as Prince Qoren signed his name onto the last parchment, concluding the fateful meeting between the greatest Dornish Houses. 

“It’s been quite the evening,” Prince Qoren announced, his voice cutting through the silence. A murmur of agreement rippled through the room. “My daughter and I are pleased that we have all come to an agreement.”

Chairs scraped against the marble floor as the lords began to rise, eager to take their leave. But just as the tension began to ease, Lord Ander cleared his throat.

“My Prince,” Lord Ander Jordayne began, his words measured yet tinged with hesitation. “I do not mean to question your judgment, nor the Princess’… but the Targaryens—” 

“What of them?” Prince Qoren’s patience, already worn thin by restless nights and ceaseless negotiations, finally frayed. He crossed his arms, hoping the meeting could finally come to an end.

“I cannot deny that we stand to gain more than we ever dared bargain for… but what if the Blacks fail? What if the Velaryon boy falls in battle? Would the rest of Westeros still acknowledge Princess Y/n as their future Queen?”

A flicker of unease passed between Prince Qoren and his daughter. Y/n cleared her throat, her lips curling upward ever so slightly. 

“It won’t come to that, Lord Ander.”

“With all due respect, my Princess. If the Blacks lose the war, my house will lose everything. We command the largest fleet in Dorne, but…”

A wave of apprehension spread among the gathered lords. Lord Lysander Dayne shifted in his seat, his fingers tapping against the table in quiet contemplation. He had carefully weighed the losses should the Greens win the war, but the fear of losing an entire army at sea troubled him. The Daynes were more than proud to have raised the finest army in Dorne, but the Dornish were strongest in the sand against men, and this fight involved dragons. 

“Are you afraid of losing a handful of boats, my Lord?” Y/n asked, her nose twitching into a sneer. 

“O- of course not, my Princess, but–”

“I’ve said it before, and I will repeat it again,” she spoke slowly, her gaze piercing through each man in the room. “This war is inevitable. If we don’t choose to fight alongside the Blacks now, we will have to face the Greens later. Alone. Now, tell me. What chance have we got against their dragons? Siding with the Blacks is not a concession, it will simply strengthen our position. It’s better to wage a war at sea than to let it unfold in our lands. No more people should suffer in the name of the Targaryens.”

“That is easy for you to say, my Princess,” Lord Lysander Dayne pushed himself to his feet, his fist crashing against the golden table with a force that sent the wine glasses rattling. “While my men and I risk our lives at sea, beneath the fire of those beasts, where will you be?”

“Do not mistake me for a craven, Lord Lysander,” she stood up as she grabbed the edges of the table. “I will be fighting alongside my people.”

“Your courage is admirable, my Princess, but a serpent is of little use at sea,” Lord Lysander said. “Should the Gods decide you die in this war, how will we be compensated for our losses?”

“Then you had best pray, my Lord. Pray that your men can withstand the fury of the Seven Seas and the fire that awaits them,” her dark eyes narrowed into slits, making the man shake his head. “You have all sworn yourselves to this war. Should any of you waver now, it will be deemed as treason.”

The head of House Dayne clenched his teeth as he stormed out of the Council Chamber, silently followed by the rest of the lords, who dared not voice their disapproval. Yet their slouched shoulders and lowered gazes betrayed their agreement with Lord Lysander’s sentiment.

Once the Council Chamber’s doors were carefully shut by Casymir, Y/n let out a heavy sigh before pouring herself whatever was left in the jug and swigging the wine in one swift motion. She took the rolls of parchment where her brothers' fates were sealed with her father’s signature. They felt heavy in her hands, guilt gnawing at the pit of her stomach. 

“I should’ve killed the Velaryon boy,” Y/n muttered, her gaze fixed on the scrolls in her hands. “But I thought of Rhaenyra, of how she wouldn’t hesitate to burn us the moment I pressed my dagger to her son’s throat. I saw it in her eyes, Father. Her fury, her grief. Or mayhaps I only imagined it. Mayhaps I’m just making excuses to… to soothe my own conscience for making the wrong choice by siding with the Blacks.”

Prince Qoren studied his daughter in silence before reaching forward, gently prying the parchments from her grasp. 

“Your mercy is what has kept us alive until now,” he said, setting them aside. “I know you have taken lives, my dear daughter. I won’t claim you were always justified. And I’m not one to judge… I have done the same,” he exhaled, his voice quieter now. “But not knowing when to show mercy is a weakness we Martells have always carried. The hatred for the Targaryens runs in our blood. It’s in your nature to have wanted to kill the Velaryon boy.”

“And yet, despite that hatred, here I stand, bound to him in duty,” she lowered her head. “I… I keep thinking of just killing him, Father,” she admitted, the words bitter in her tongue. “I keep thinking of ways to rid myself of this fate. So tell me, did I show mercy? Or did I just simply surrender?”

“You showed mercy,” Qoren said firmly, his dark eyes steady as they met his daughter’s. “I won’t pretend that those dragonlords deserve it, but killing the Velaryon boy would've been too... simple. Yes, it would free you, but not for long. There is always a time and a place for defiance, but we are in times of war. For the first time in centuries, the Targaryen have come to us with open hands. Never in a lifetime would I have imagined those dragonlords begging for our help. 

“And now you’re plotting their war. A war that is not ours, yet one we will win. Not because of their dragons but because of our people. Our people, who stand with you.”

“It’s not as though they have much of a choice, Father.” 

“Neither did you,” he smiled sadly, placing both of his hands on her shoulders and pulling her for a hug. “Give them some time. Those lords will come to realise that what you’re doing is for the best of our people.”

“Thank you, Father,” she mumbled in defeat, too tired to argue back. 

Prince Qoren let out a dry chuckle, though it was tinged with sorrow.

“I can scarcely believe it,” he whispered, resting his chin atop her head. “My daughter is finally a woman grown.” 

He held her close, allowing themselves a moment of silence. He could only whisper an apology for the burden his daughter had been forced to bear.

It was the hour of the wolf, and the once-bustling corridors of the palace lay silent, emptied of guests, save for the weary guards struggling to keep their eyes open in the dead of night.

As Y/n left the Council Chamber, followed by her shadow, Casymir, she allowed herself to become more at ease as she found solace in the darkness. 

“My dear sister!” 

Elyas’ voice bounced on the walls, making the Princess flinch. He sauntered towards her, his steps unsteady, but she kept walking, refusing to face him.

“Busy coming back from seeing your whores?” Y/n asked, her tone sharp, wanting to put an end to the futile conversation and retreat to her chambers.

“Jealous, sister?” He grinned, staring at her with droopy eyes. “I know you never liked me seeing other women, but since you've been so occupied with your dear husband… so preoccupied you haven’t even spared me a glance… what was I meant to do with myself?” He slurred, struggling to find his balance as Leoran held him upright.

She turned away and continued down the corridor, Casymir silent at her side.

“I’m talking to you!” Elyas snarled, grabbing her arm and forcing her to face him.

Casymir’s grip tightened around his spear, his knuckles white, but Leoran subtly shook his head.

“Oh, look at you,” Elyas sneered, his breath reeking of wine. “What? You think you’re better than me?” His words were slurred, but his voice dripped with resentment. “You and Father are always looking down on me—both of you! You could've included me in your meetings. I could’ve helped you. But no! What am I even here for?” He suddenly began to laugh, though his brown eyes held nothing more than the growing hatred he began to feel towards his sister.

“You want to know what we discussed? Fine,” Y/n exhaled, pushing him away with both hands. “I know you won’t like this, but… you are to be betrothed to Lord Thaddeus’ daughter, Hylda Yronwood,” she took a cautious step back, bracing herself for his inevitable outburst. “I made sure to find you the most suitable match among the lords' daughters. Hylda is a beautiful, kind soul, and she—”

Her words faltered as Elyas’ expression twisted, his lips trembling. His drunken haze gave way to something far more fragile. His knees buckled, and before she could react, he collapsed at her feet, his body wracked with broken sobs.

“No,” he wailed, his voice echoing in the empty halls of the palace. “You can’t do this to me!” He looked up at her from the cold marble floor, his brown eyes glimmering in despair. “Whose idea was it?” He seethed. “Whose idea was it to trade me off like some slave?” 

Y/n shifted uncomfortably, unable to meet his gaze.

“Of course, it was you,” he spat, his breath ragged. “Father would never conjure up something so heinous,” he clenched his fist and slammed it against the ground. “If you want me to suffer so badly, why not just kill me here and be done with it?”

“It’s not just you,” she said quietly. “Farien as well.”

“All of this… for what? So you can sit on that throne? So you can wear a crown and call yourself Queen?” His voice wavered as he shook his head in disbelief. “And Farien… he is but a boy. How could you drag him into this? You... you have no right!”

“Every decision I made was for the best,” she countered, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them. “House Yronwood is the second strongest in Dorne, and this alliance will secure your future. And, Elyas… you’re of age. The time has come for you to take a wife. It will be good for you… to have someone, to love—”

She faltered, not believing the words spilling from her own lips.

“You think that matters to me?” His hands shot out, gripping the ends of her skirts in desperation. His eyes, red and pleading, searched hers for mercy. “You swore it to me,” he whispered. “You swore that I would be your betrothed. That we would rule Dorne together.”

“I never swore such a thing,” she shot back.

An oppressive silence stretched between them as Elyas wiped his tears and buried his face in the crumpled drapes of her dress. 

“In my dreams, you did.”

Y/n’s breath caught in her throat.

Elyas’ words hung heavy in the air.

For a moment, she saw him not as the drunken, foolish brother before her, but as the boy he had once been. The boy who had idolised her, who had believed in a world where they could stand side by side, ruling Dorne together. Oh, how tightly did Elyas cling to that promise that never left her lips?

“Elyas, listen to me,” she began, her voice strained. “Whatever foolish fantasies you’ve thought of…” She swallowed hard, her throat tight with remorse. Elyas was insufferable, selfish, cruel… but so was she. And still, it hurt to see him in that state. “You have to stop clinging to them. Once I am Queen—”

“No!” he growled, his fingers twisting into the fabric of her dress, his body trembling with denial.

“Once I am Queen,” she continued, forcing herself to stay composed, “you will be the one to rule here,” she inhaled sharply, steadying herself. “Father and I are ensuring everything is in place for you to take your rightful position as the Prince of Dorne.”

“No, no, no…” Elyas shook his head violently, his pleas turned into screams, enveloped with both fury and grief.

Y/n took a step back, tugging her dress free from his grasp. Straightening her posture, she smoothed the fabric and exhaled slowly, pushing down whatever remnants of guilt threatened to rise.

“Leoran,” she said, softly. “Escort my brother back to his chambers.”

Elyas’ breath hitched as he lifted his head, watching her turn away.

“You dare turn your back on your own brother?” He shouted, blinded by pain.

She hesitated but did not look back.

“Just so you know,” he called after her, his voice laced with anguish. “It's you. It has always been you. And it will always be you.”

Daemon Targaryen lingered in the shadows, his presence barely visible under the dim torchlights, lilac eyes tracking every movement between the Martell siblings. 

The Princess had melted into the darkness, vanishing as if she had never been there at all, closely followed by her sworn protector. Elyas on the other hand, writhed on the ground, as Leoran struggled to bring him back to his feet.

A slow smirk tugged at Daemon’s lips. How pathetic, he thought, as Elyas clutched his stomach and fell on his knees once again, staining the marble floors with his vomit.

The real threat was the Princess. She was far too dangerous for his liking, not because she was strong, but because she understood how to wield control, even over the ones she loved the most. 

Yes. There was something here. Something worth unearthing. 

With a final glance at the broken boy on the floor, he disappeared into the shadows, saving what he had learned for when the time was right.

Jacaerys Velaryon stood stiffly as the seamstress took his measurements. His garments grew more intricate with each passing day, slowly leading up to his wedding. Yet, despite the lavish drapes adorning his shoulders, they did nothing more than weigh him down.

Neither he nor his family had been involved in the negotiations between the Dornish lords; they had been cast aside, their presence tolerated but never truly acknowledged. The lords of Dorne had pledged themselves not to the Targaryens, but to Prince Qoren and Princess Y/n.

More than once, Rhaenyra and Daemon had debated returning to Dragonstone. Were it not for the impending wedding, they might have done so, already tired of bending to every demand the Martells had placed before them, no matter how absurd.

“You look lovely, Jace,” Rhaenyra said, offering him a small, bittersweet smile. Her gaze was proud, and she felt the quiet sorrow of a mother watching her son become a man grown. “Had things been different, then mayhaps we might have enjoyed these celebrations.”

Jacaerys exhaled sharply, his hands balling into fists. He tried to ignore the memories clawing their way to the forefront of his mind: Y/n, straddling him, her breath hot against his ear as his fingers curled around her waist.

Foolishly, he had believed that moment had meant something. That she had seen him, not just as a filthy Targaryen, but as a man. Yet since that night, she had remained as distant as ever, her gaze filled with nothing but cold disdain.

It was absurd, childish, even, to dwell on it. And yet his mind wandered, time and time again, to the thought of what might have been.

If she had kept going that night, there was no doubt she would’ve stayed in control. Jacaerys could only imagine how he would remove her dress, his finger hooking and pulling down on the strap to reveal her chest as she continued grinding her core against his hardened cock, at her own pace, slowly and torturously.  

Then he would’ve tried to cup her breasts and feel the warmth of her flesh on his palms, only for her to slap his hands away, draw a dagger and press it to his throat in silent warning, should he dare take more than what she was willing to grant.

Jacaerys cursed himself every time his mind strayed to such thoughts. They were in the midst of a war and he had duties far greater than satisfying his carnal needs.

“Had things been different, there would be something worth celebrating. But these feasts are nothing but a waste of our time. Besides, you have seen how she behaves, Mother,” Jacaerys scoffed, lifting his arms as the seamstress continued her work around his torso. “She indulges in men and wine, and holds the values of a Street of Silk whore. Westeros will crumble as quickly as this marriage.”

Rhaenyra exhaled sharply, but it was Daemon who spoke first.

“But have you seen what she has accomplished in such a short time, Jacaerys?” He countered, watching the boy with an amused glint in his eye. “She convinced the greatest Dornish lords to stand with us. That is no small feat.”

“Do not be mistaken. They are loyal to her and her father, not to my mother. They know that once Y/n becomes Queen, they will remain in good standing. That is all.”

“And yet,” Rhaenyra said, “persuading men who would rather see us flayed and left for the scorpions is not easy. You see how they treat us here, Jace.”

Rhaenyra sat with her hands folded in her lap, her gaze steady on her son. She had seen the work Princess Y/n had done, how she pulled the strings during the celebrations. Not Prince Qoren. Not the Dornish lords. It was Y/n. If not for her, Rhaenyra wouldn’t stand a chance against the Greens. And yet Jacaerys, blinded by his disdain, refused to acknowledge her political prowess.

“Do not act as if she has done something extraordinary,” he muttered, irritated. “She acted in her own interest, as she always does. The Princess does not shy from showing her ambitions.”

“And yet those ambitions,” Rhaenyra said sharply, “have gained us more allies than we ever hoped for, Jacaerys.”

“At least you’ll be pleased to know that her brother is not so happy with his situation. I recently found out the Princess has arranged a betrothal between Elyas and Hylda Yronwood, and the little one to Freya Dayne,” Daemon smirked.

“I see she has no qualms about selling off her loved ones like cattle either,” Jacaerys scoffed.

At that, Rhaenyra shifted, discomfort settling in her chest as she thought of Y/n, and for the first time, she wondered just how alike they truly were.

“Mayhaps that is what she wants us to think…” Daemon mused, swirling the crimson liquid in his cup. “From what I heard last night, the Princess seemed to be quite fond of her brother Elyas, far more than she would like to admit,” he paused, a smirk ghosting lips. “And not just her brother. People talk, Jace. The servants whisper of the little adventures both siblings have with their sworn protectors and how they have been… caught plenty of times.”

“With their sworn protectors?” Jacaerys shook his head in disbelief.

“Casymir and Leoran Sand. Two of the few bastards Prince Qoren has sired,” Daemon added. 

“This is exactly what I was fearing,” he burst out. “The future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a lecherous whore. I bet Westeros would love to have someone like that as their queen,” he scoffed. “And the future King? A bastard. How would we be any better than Aemond? At this point, the smallfolk would have him sit on the Throne instead.”

Rhaenyra looked away, stung by her son's words, knowing all too well that his judgment extended to her too, for the choices she had made, for the men she had taken while still bound to Laenor in the past.

“Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra rose to her feet, her blood simmering. “Aemond is a murderer. Do not confuse a woman’s promiscuity for evil.”

“Oh, Mother… you make the Princess sound as if she has never stained her hands with blood,” he spat back. “She is a murderer. She has killed men, innocent men who sought her hand. I could have been one of them had she not chosen to strip us to the bone with her endless demands.”

“I will not justify that, Jace. I do not know the Princess well enough to excuse her actions,” she met his gaze. “But I will say this: despite being a woman grown, she was not ready to wed. I have told you before, Jace, of the things I did to postpone the marriage your grandsire pushed upon me,” she glanced at Daemon. “Mayhaps she was only trying to escape her duty. But this time, she has chosen to fulfil it.”

Suddenly, their conversation was interrupted by three sharp knocks. Ser Domeric Uller opened the door and cleared his throat, his expression unreadable as he scanned the room and set his eyes on Jacaerys.

“Prince Jacaerys,” he spoke. “Your presence has been requested by Princess Y/n.”

Jacaerys climbed up the stairs as he adjusted his garments, a guard trailing beside him as he made his way to the Solar. The Princess had summoned him, having supposedly settled all negotiations. As they got closer, he braced himself for whatever terms she had arranged on their behalf.

The guard pushed the door open, revealing Y/n amid laughter with a cup of wine in hand. Across from her, her sworn protector, Casymir, lounged comfortably, amusement glimmering in his blue eyes.

The sound of her laughter died the moment she caught sight of Jacaerys. Casymir, slowly and deliberately, straightened himself and moved towards the door, though he didn't leave.

Jacaerys shot him a glare. 

“My Prince,” Y/n raised her cup in a mock toast and gestured for him to sit.

Jacaerys took a seat across from her, his gaze fixed on the horizon. Silence lingered between the three of them, but his thoughts stirred, still plagued by Daemon’s words from earlier.

“My Princess,” Jacaerys finally greeted, not hiding the displeasure in his voice.

“I wished to inform you of what my father and I have discussed with the other lords,” Y/n began. “As you may already know, I have secured the loyalty of Houses Dayne, Yronwood, Jordayne, Uller, and Santagar. What you must provide is a small price to pay compared to the concessions my brothers have been forced to make,” she idly traced the rim of her cup with a fingertip.

“The Queen and the King Consort should be present. As should Prince Qoren,” Jacaerys’ eyes flickered around the room.

“What for?” Y/n bit back a laugh. “There is nothing left to discuss. Everything has been settled. Besides, this marriage is between us, and we’ve scarcely had time together. I deemed it appropriate that you, my betrothed, should know first.”

“Oh, how thoughtful of you.” Jacaerys leaned back in his seat as he feigned disinterest. “Please, do enlighten me, what have you offered these lords on behalf of my house?”

“I told you. A small price to pay,” Y/n swirled the wine in her cup. “Vynce Santagar, Lord Karl’s son, and Rykard Uller, Lord Yorick’s son, wish to join the Kingsguard. They said a lonely serpent may never lie safe in a house of dragons.”

“They are not wrong.” Jacaerys scoffed. “The Red Keep will turn against you before you even set foot inside. They will not accept someone like you as their Queen.”

“Rather,” Y/n mused, her lips curving into a smirk, “they wouldn't want a bastard for their King.”

Jacaerys inhaled, fighting to keep his composure, yet his hands balled into fists. From the corner of his eye, he saw Casymir leaning against the wall, grinning.

“Bastard, bastard, bastard,” Y/n chanted. She rose from her seat and sauntered around the room, the delicate silk of her dress trailing behind her like ghosts. When she reached Jacaerys, she leaned down, her breath warm against the back of his neck. “Why are you so upset, my Prince?” 

Jacaerys exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. Then, suddenly, he jabbed his leg with a clenched fist.

“Because you are right!” He admitted through gritted teeth. The Princess bit back a smirk, watching him unravel before her once again. “I am a bastard,” he spat. “My only assurance to the throne is that I am a dragonrider, yet even that claim weakens by the day. Those mongrels have already claimed the last three dragons, and I thought if I wed my half-sister Baela, then mayhaps I could still hold onto what little claim I had left. But my mother refuses to see the problem.

“This war will not end once my mother sits on the throne. The moment she dies, one of those Targaryen bastards will come crawling back, claiming they have more rights than I do. I— I see it in their eyes. For all I know, Aegon is still out there, waiting for the right moment to return to King's Landing. Then those silver-haired bastards with more Targaryen blood in their veins will follow. The usurping will never end… and this foolish notion of uniting the Seven Kingdoms?” He scoffed bitterly. “The smallfolk will spit us out before we are even crowned.”

A thick, suffocating silence preceded his outburst, making him realise that, in the midst of his anger, he had just revealed his deepest insecurities to Y/n, someone who could easily exploit them.

But Y/n simply laughed.

It was not the soft laugh of a lady, but the amusement of someone indulging a fool, filled with something that unsettled him to his core. Without warning, she dropped onto the seat beside him, draping her legs over his lap. Her foot traced the length of his thigh in a lazy, teasing motion.

Jacaerys stiffened, his pulse hammering against his chest. He should’ve shoved her off. He should’ve demanded she behave. And yet, he didn’t. He sat there, caught between conflicting emotions, unable to decide whether her touch was a provocation or a twisted form of comfort.

“The Bastard and the Whore,” the Princess mused. “The King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. It’s rather poetic, don’t you think? That the fate of the realm rests in the hands of the very people Westeros despises most.”

“If only my mother had not bedded the first man she laid eyes upon, then I would not have been born this way,” he muttered through his teeth.

“Then you would not have been born at all,” she corrected, her playful demeanor vanishing in an instant. A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes, displeasure, mayhaps even disappointment. “Bastards are born of passion, are they not?” She asked. “We don’t despise them in Dorne.”

She leaned back, resting her weight on her elbows, and gave Casymir a knowing smile.

“I must have thousands of siblings. That’s why we love our people like they’re our own.”

“How tolerant of you,” Jacaerys scoffed. 

“I will never understand why the rest of Westeros look down upon us. This war your family has started? It’s the smallfolk who suffer for it. Why must your mother fight so hard for the Throne? Why is it that, the moment a woman is destined to sit on it, men claw and tear at her claim? First, it was Rhaenys Targaryen, The Queen Who Never Was, and now, your mother?”

Jacaerys wanted to talk back, yet no matter where he looked, he couldn’t find an answer that would satisfy her. 

“Look at me,” she said, and he obeyed without a second thought. “I am to become the Princess of Dorne. No one has dared to challenge my father’s succession. Not Elyas. Not my half-brothers. This war of yours would’ve never happened here.”

“Try telling that to the rest of Westerosi lords,” he argued. “They would sooner tear the realm apart than see their traditions undone. That is simply not the way of things beyond Dorne.”

“But why?” She pressed. “Why must all of you follow those rules so blindly?” 

“I–”

“Fear,” she simply said. “Fear of change. Fear of losing control. Westerosi lords don't cling to their traditions because they are right or just… they cling to them because they're afraid. Afraid that if they yield, even once, everything they own will crumble.

“I won’t claim Dorne is perfect. No kingdom is. But here, I can rule. I can lead armies and speak without being silenced. My voice is followed, not cast aside. I know the privileges I hold as the Princess, privileges ladies elsewhere can only dream of. Had you been born a woman, then mayhaps you would be grateful to be here in Dorne.”

Jacaerys’ lips parted slightly, as though to respond, but no words came.

His gaze flickered to Casymir, who now wore a small, genuine smile. And then to Y/n, who, for the first time, spoke to him without hidden pretenses.

For the first time, she wasn't trying to provoke him.

For the first time, she simply spoke.

A/N: hello hello, belated merry xmas and happy new year to you! i'm finally back after the long hiatus, but a lot happened. (warning, a bit long)

as some of you might know, i graduated last july, and ever since i've been struggling to find a job, so i had to make that my priority. job hunting sucked the life out of me. for a bit of context, i went to one of the top unis in the uk and graduated with a first. i thought that alone would get me a job (spoiler alert: it didn't). most of my mates were all doing a panic masters while others got lucky and landed a graduate job.

i considered doing a masters, but i coulnd't afford it, and i truly think that having one would not improve my chances of landing a job in the field i want.

i applied to multiple firms, only to get endlessly rejected by them. in the meantime, i tried applying for any part-time job in my town: pret, nero cafe, starbucks, etc. only to be rejected. this was extremely demoralising.

by that point, i was growing desperate and kept applying for jobs where i was overqualified and that weren't even related to my degree, just so i could get out of this rut.

well, the good news is that i finally managed to land a job as cabin crew for one of the biggest airlines in the uk. is it my dream job? no. is it related to my degree? no. but it's what i have for now, and it's not too bad, i guess?

anyway, before i went on my unannounced hiatus, this chapter was already 75% finished. i had so much fun writing the angsty dialogues between the siblings and finally having y/n and jace have a normal-ish conversation for once.

i hope you all have been well, and i want to thank you for your continued support of this story. i might take long to update, but i know exactly where this fic is going and i won't stop until i finish it. i haven't been able to read or respond to any of your messages yet, but i will get into that soon.

happy reading, my loves!

Taglist: @happinessinthebeing @deltamoon666 @dark1paradise @elz-zalarrr @v0dka4a (continued in comments)

[entishramblings]

Watcher of Wanderers [Legolas/F!Reader]

A.N: this was intended just to be a mini one-shot to get back into writing. although, I will admit I got carried away. oops. heh.

Pairing: Legolas X F!Reader

Song Inspo: Mountain Meditation by Chantress Seba

🌬️ I highly recommend listening while reading

Summary: Legolas senses a presence following the fellowship on their journey and it seems to be particularly fond of him.

Disclaimer: all mythology related to the reader was made up for plot purposes lol. not canon.

Word count: 5.6k (once again, idk why I’m like this)

Warnings: comfort, fluff, loneliness, flirting, suggested sexual innuendos, stalking sort of (yes, again, I know. you’re just gonna have to read it I can’t explain it)

Additional Content: moodboard linked here

MASTERLIST | AO3 | WATTPAD

When you are nothing but a breeze that passes through the travelers’ bending hair. When you are nothing but a tickle that brushes upon the vagabonds’ breaking skin. When you are nothing but a whisper that hisses upon the wanders’ deaf ear. When you are nothing but alone, you too are a voyager.

That’s what (Y/N) was, wasn’t she?

She sailed through the years, watching every war and every battle. She observed every lover as she observed every enemy. She attended to them all, from their start and to their end. She perceived them hunt—first for food and drink, the simplest things, then for more. She witnessed them build—smaller creations in the beginning, then large structures that reached deep into her sky. She gazed at them as they grew, in mind and body. They began as little screaming balls of flesh, then sprouted into large beings that walked and talked. They produced more of themselves. They multiplied. Families, they had called it. She saw each one of them go by, twisting with desire as they did with age. Each was sneaking to find something—riches, power, hope, love, safety—but it didn’t really matter. She just bore witness. She bore witness to the happiness and to the dread. Yet, even when it was dark and desperate, she did nothing. She was silent—as she was meant to be.

Cursed to ride the winds for all of her immortal years.

Cursed to guide them and bend them.

Cursed to behold them.

Cursed to be them.

Alone.

A Watcher of Wanderers.

She was unescorted, unattended, and unchaperoned. She was unaccompanied as she wove through the desolate lands of Arda. Through the oceans, through the deserts, through the mountains, she bent and bellowed. But (Y/N) didn’t need anyone to accompany her, for she simply didn’t exist—at least not in the way one would think.

But after so long in solidarity, watching and observing, (Y/N) wondered what it would feel like to be more than what she was. She wondered what it was to taste and touch, to smell and see, to live and breath.

She thought how pain must feel. How did it bring red to the surface of their skin? How did it bring tears to their eyes? How did it bring screams to their throats?

Still, she wandered more.

She thought how laughter must feel. How did it bubble in their chests? How did it bring water to their faces? How did it bring glee from their mouths?

Still, she wandered more.

She thought about how love must feel. How did it soften their gazes? How did it bring drops upon their cheeks? How did it bring proclamations to their lips? How did it feel to welcome in another soul? Was it safe—not that she would know what safety felt like.

Still, she wandered more.

As each day passed and each traveler followed, she continued to question, guess, inquire.

Some of these creatures were more in tune with the natural currents of the word. It was the immortal beings, distinguished by the pointy ears that lent them an air of otherworldly grace and their lightning-quick reflexes. They were not just any immortals, but those whose lineages stretched back to ancestors who had walked among the Valar themselves. At times, (Y/N) entertained the fantasizing notion that they possessed the rare ability to hear her, though she recognized that this belief was nothing more than wishful thinking. As a watcher of wanderers, she liked these ones best.

Yet that did not mean that others did not catch her eye, for she was curious of anything unusual from the regular patterns of life. And when nine—born of various blood—walked together, her curiosity peaked.

So, she followed them.

One was a Maiar, but not like her. He shared the same celestial origin, shaped as one of the spirits meant to aid the Valar in their worldbuilding endeavors. However, his form differed greatly from hers—a form (Y/N) yearned for. She had seen him many times before, puffing his pipe. He had many names, but most knew him as Gandalf.

Two more figures accompanied him, mortal beings aging like the rolling seasons. Burling and tumbling they went, with their countless heavy weapons. One emanated kindness, his heart a wellspring of warmth. She had seen him before too. But the other, he was….troubled.

Another was one of the immortal, graceful, pointy-eared race—elves, she recalled. He was fluid and elegantant. He was observant and evaluating. He was tranquil yet vigorous. (Y/N) liked this one. She always had liked the elves.

From the mountainous regions of unyielding stone came another companion—a burly and gruff figure. His anger resonated in the sharpness of his words and the boastry of his laughter. (Y/N) could feel his temperament through the earth's vibrations. It wasn't always pleasant

Next, matched four more. They were stompers and stumblers, in a clumsy sort of way; yet, it was evident that they held no desire to ravage the earth. If anything, they seemed to harbor deep affection for it. The sad one broke her heart, the kind one warmed her soul, and the last two made her giggle….and sometimes she thought the elf could hear it.

See that was the thing.

Initially, her fascination led her to accompany them, drawn by their sheer otherness—such a strange assembly of beings walking in unison. But as she ventured alongside them, she felt connected to them. She got to know them, and one seemed to know her….sorta.

The first time she noticed such a thing was when a sound of joy escaped her being.

The two silly ones, which she found out to be named Merry and Pippin, were cracking jokes at one another and performing a game of riddles. As they did so, they ended up breaking into an argument. The most ridiculous words they called each other: mushroom murderer, squash squisher, beet beater…..

She couldn’t help but release a whisper of amusement, and when she did, the elf—Legolas—abruptly halted. His eyes brimmed with uncertainty, and he swiveled his head, as though searching for someone.

But he couldn’t….

No…

He couldn’t have heard her….could he?

Of course, occasionally, all could hear her. In moments of anger, she would unleash her fury with deafening howls and piercing screams, causing gusts to bellow and trees to tremble. Her yell created a hollow sound as it funneled through the rest of the world—echoing upon mountains, bouncing off houses, riding along hills, drifting through the farmer’s mills. It took much frustration to create such a ruckus of vibrations. However, just a faint breath of joy? There was no way the elf could hear that….right?

…..

The second time that a strange encounter occurred was when the group stopped by a deep river. Legolas had wandered a little way away from the group where the trees were denser and the light was less, and oh of course (Y/N) followed.

There, the elf stripped off his clothing, letting the moonlight bend and dip upon his muscled form. The cool night air played gently against his bare skin as he ventured into the water, welcoming the invigorating sensation. With his hands, he meticulously scrubbed away any lingering grime, running his palms across his arms and fingers through his damp hair until no trace of dirt remained.

Gently, he laid upon his back, floating at the surface of the smooth river.

(Y/N) watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply and repeatedly. Meditation, she recalled the elvish creatures of the world calling it.

Eager to draw nearer, (Y/N) gracefully glided closer, brushing ever so lightly upon the surface of the ripples. She circled him, her gaze drinking in every detail of his form slightly obstructed by the water—his elegant facial features, his sleek hair, his sculpted biceps, his toned abs, the sharp v-line of his lower abdomen, and, she couldn't help but notice his rather large…

A soft giggle escaped her lips, her warm breath brushing against his cheek.

Instantly, Legolas sprang upright, his feet finding a place upon the rocks beneath the now turbulent ripples. He swiftly pivoted, calling out, “Who’s there?!”

(Y/N) was still, shock and uncertainty shrouding her.

Legolas' cerulean eyes darted anxiously from side to side, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He moved with haste, continually spinning around in search of…..something.

“You…you can hear me?” (Y/N) whispered.

He did not respond and his state did not change. There was not an ounce of any recognition across his features.

…..

The third time that Legolas was startled by the curious enigma that appeared to be haunting him was when the fellowship had set up camp for the night.

Gandalf and Legolas were on watch, their attentive gazes shifting from the crackling fire to the perimeters of their camp. Mithanduil contentedly puffed on his pipe, releasing wisps of smoke that ascended into the night sky. Legolas was methodically sharpening the tips of his arrows, preparing for the inevitable fight. The ambiance was strangely peaceful, with the imminent dangers appearing to be held at bay, at least for the moment, even in the face of the dread.

However, this serene atmosphere suffered a sudden intrusion, initiated by (Y/N)'s ever-present curiosity.

She loved watching the creatures of Arda. It was her favorite pastime over the eons. Well, her only pastime. After all, she was a watcher of wanderers. For, as her shapeless form, there was nothing more she could do with her existence.

Therefore, when the elf began to draw whetstone upon the tops of his arrows, (Y/N) wanted to observe. She crept closer to him, becoming entranced by the rhythmic and tranquil nature of his movements. Drawn into the spectacle, she leaned in further and further until, unintentionally, she brushed lightly against his form.

His hand instinctively reached for his shoulder as his wide cerulean blues initiated their frequent and fervent scanning of the dim surroundings—a routine that seemed to be occurring with increasing regularity nowadays.

Gandalf’s gray eyes drifted upon the elf curiously, his bushy brows lifting in questions.

“I swore…” Legolas began, still peering about the campsite. “I swore I felt…something.”

The wizard’s inquiring gaze only deepened, imploring the elf to add more to his rather empty statement.

Noticing Gandalf's unspoken request for more information, Legolas continued, "My apologies, Mithranduil. Lately, I've been sensing a presence. Yet, when I search for it, I'm met with nothing but emptiness and confusion."

Gandalf huffed before pressing his lips to his pipe again, his gaze drifting away in a dismissal of danger. “It is probably just (Y/N).”

“(Y/N)?” He questioned, still puzzled.

Gandalf glanced at Legolas, and with a nonchalant hum, he spoke again. “The spirit of the wind. A Maiar with a form that knows no shape.” He rolled his eyes as he gruffed out an additional mumbling sentence. “She has a particular fondness for elves.”

Legolas, still flushed with adrenaline, only stared at him. “I—I do not understand.”

The wizard’s gray gaze drifted back to the elf, who was clearly seeking answers. “(Y/N) is one of the Maiar, tasked many ages ago by Manwë to help shape Arda. She still lingers in this realm, often stirring up her usual mischief as she follows wanderers on their adventures."

Legolas frowned. “If she wanders this earth, why can I see her not?”

Gandalf drew another puff from his pipe before responding, "She was cursed to be without form, unlike myself."

“Cursed? But why?”

The wizard raised his bushy brows once more. “Her mischief irked many—especially Manwë.”

“What sorts of mischief do you speak of?”

Gandalf shrugged. “Inconsequential pranks and harmless tricks. Quite frankly, an annoyance to us all, but not dangerous.”

At that very moment, a gust of wind swept in rather forcefully, causing the wizard's beard to billow and lifting his hat into the air, sending it spiraling down to land by his feet.

Legolas's lips parted in surprise as the wind subsided, and Gandalf let out a string of curses and grumbles.

"I believe you might have offended her," Legolas remarked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

The wizard snorted, his irritation obvious, as he picked his hat up and placed it atop his head once more.

….

As the weeks continued on, Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s subtle presence.

It seemed she was indeed traveling with them. On scorching hot days, a refreshing breeze would rise and caress them gently, offering some much-needed relief. As the autumn months settled in, that coolness transformed into a warm breath flowing through the air, comforting them. When they kindled fires, little gusts rushed forward, providing oxygen and nurturing the flames. If an item of clothing or a parcel were dropped, it would be delicately carried toward a hand ready to collect. It was as if the wind—(Y/N)—was assisting them along their quest.

It was particularly noticeable to Legolas that she often lingered in close proximity to him. Her presence seemed to envelop him frequently, becoming unmistakable and distinct.

When Legolas would be tasked to collect firewood, a gentle breeze would follow him. It would brush leaves out of the way to reveal dry wood and small sticks, perfect for kindling. The wind murmured songs among the soil, almost as if it were beckoning him to dance.

When Legolas would be hunting for food, a calm drift would search alongside him. It would twist through the brush, startling small prey to reveal them to him. The wind breathed wordless encouragement to him, as if challenging him to impress her.

When Legolas would be walking upon hard terrain, a playful gust would walk with him. It would blow his hair away from his face to reveal his features. The wind sent flirtatious laughter upon his elvish ear, chasing shivers along his nerves.

When Legolas would be changing out of mud or blood covered clothes, a devious wisk would linger behind him. It would push his tunic and undershirt upwards to reveal his muscled form then make his extra clothing scatter. The wind whispered sultry glee to him, teasing him in efforts to show more.

This mischievous presence that shrouded him seemed to flirt with him—challenge, play, and engage. Of course, Legolas recalled Gandalf's earlier assertion that the wind spirit held a particular fondness for elves, but the true depth of this fondness had only become apparent as her companionship persisted. He couldn't deny that their ongoing interaction held a certain allure, for he would be lying if he said their little game did not entertain him.

When the fellowship was in Moria, however, silence reigned. The usual gusts and breezes that had accompanied them were absent. It was as if the very air mourned with them. Yet, as soon as they exited, with grief heavy upon their soul, a quick adrenalized wind came to find them. It seemed to brush around the rocks, taking in the pain of the travelers and trying to process what it meant. Though, as the wind noticed one was no longer there, she took to sending warmth their way in hopes to soften the sorrow—shrouding Legolas for just a moment longer than the others.

When the fellowship was in Lothlorien, (Y/N) came too. Rustling up trouble among the elves with flirtatious gusts, lifting skirts and sweeping away cloaks, fostering much annoyance and embarrassment among the immortal elven folk. However, those brushes of wind often struck Legolas more than any other.

When the fellowship—or rather the three that remained—took to sprinting across Arda, the wind ran alongside them. It pushed them forward with encouragement, almost too eagerly and too persistent. It was as if she was whispering ‘hurry hurry’ in their ears—as if she possessed knowledge they did not. Though Legolas suspected neither Gimli nor Aragorn noticed the subtle guidance of the wind.

A watcher of wanderers indeed.

As the group arrived in Rohan, their hearts brimmed with renewed hope, for they had gained the knowledge of Merry and Pippin’s life and the presence of Gandalf.

Following Mithranduil's expulsion of the sorcery that had ensnared King Théoden, the weary travelers were ushered to various chambers where they could refresh themselves and find much-needed rest.

Legolas opted to bathe immediately, determined to liberate himself from the accumulated dirt and grime that had clung to his body through the arduous months of travel. He eased into the in-ground basin, the soothing warmth and enveloping steam creating a cocoon of comfort. He tended to his skin and hair with meticulous care until he finally felt rejuvenated. Elves did not like to linger in grime.

Emerging from the bath, he stepped into the adjacent bedroom, where his gaze was drawn to the open windows, allowing the cool breeze to waft in. The wind seemed to recognize him instantly, rushing forth with an almost mischievous enthusiasm. It nearly yanked his towel from his waist! It was only through his quick reflexes that he narrowly avoided a less than modest reveal.

Legolas ground his teeth. “(Y/N),” he mumbled in a chastising tone.

In response, the wind seemed to giggle, as if playfully toying with him.

He rewrapped the towel and hastened to close the windows, yearning for a night of undisturbed peace. Normally, he would tolerate (Y/N)'s whimsical outbursts, but on this night, his weary body and mind craved respite and tranquility.

Legolas changed into more comfortable attire and settled into his bed. He allowed his heavy eyelids to drift shut, for he craved sleep. But after a brief moment, they snapped open.

He watched as the curtains shifted ever so slightly, followed by the tapestry on the wall and the drapes above his bed. The blanket beside him rustled gently, and then, there was no movement in the room.

She hadn't left when he closed the windows.

She was still here.

Though he couldn't see her, he was acutely aware of her presence…right beside him.

The elf couldn't help but blush, a warm crimson hue creeping up upon his ears and cheeks. Oh, if his Ada knew he was flirting with the wind….

In an effort to divert his thoughts from such matters and avoid giving (Y/N) any indication that he was dwelling on them, the elf shifted onto his side, turning away from the playful Spirit whose home was the sky.

…..

Legolas took notice of (Y/N)’s presence among the battles at Helms Deep and the Fields of Pelennor; although it wasn't until the latter that he knew for sure she was actively fighting alongside him.

Amidst the relentless chaos, the elf wielded his two silver blades, using them with deadly precision to cut the throat of one orc and immediately behead another. He swiftly pressed on, eliminating as many of the enemy forces as he could.

The men around him were growing weary, their energy dwindling, but Legolas continued to stand firm, even though he too felt the drain on his strength.It seemed the dark forces had taken notice of the relentless devastation he was causing among their ranks, as they began to single him out. Hordes of orcs began converging on him, and Sauron's archers took aim. However, the arrows meant for him didn't find their mark. They veered off course, curving with an unexpected gust of wind, plunging directly into three orcs nearby.

Legolas whipped his head around in astonishment, but it took only a moment for him to grasp the source of this unexpected intervention: (Y/N).

As he continued to take down orc after orc, she remained by his side, using her ethereal presence to force the creatures back into one another, granting Legolas a distinct advantage and a brief moment to catch his breath. She deflected arrows aimed at him and extended her helping hand when he faced the Oliphaunt. She even lifted him up with a gentle drift when his footing faltered. (Y/N) followed Legolas throughout the battlefield, her commitment unwavering, even after the war had drawn to a close.

Exhausted and burdened by grief and relief, the mortal, battle-weary soldiers sought solace and took to rest, heal, and eat.

Legolas volunteered to wander the battlefield in search of any survivors.

He tread carefully, his feet moving softly over the blood-soaked and red-stained earth. The ground seemed to bear witness to the agony, uncertainty, and hope that had marked their strenuous journey. Legolas had never anticipated surviving the trials that had befallen him, yet here he stood, alive and persevering against all odds.

With a heavy heart and the absence of survivors to be found, Legolas, fatigued and drained, decided to make his way back to his comrades who were attending to the wounded and offering peace to those in need.

In a sudden fierce gust of wind, Legolas found himself surrounded by an unexpected swirl. Swiftly, he whirled around, his keen elven senses alert, just in time to witness an orc raising an axe menacingly above his head, poised to strike.

However, Legolas was not met with such a gruesome fate. The wind seemed to rise against the approaching beast, as though an invisible force hindered its advance. However, that force began to no longer be invisible. A strange, translucent figure began to materialize into the opaque form of a woman. She stood, her back pressed against his chest and her front pushing firmly against the would-be assailant. With her arms raised high, she held the axe at bay, preventing the deadly blow from falling upon the elf.

Legolas' lips parted in astonishment, his eyes widening as he struggled to comprehend the event unfolding before him. But everything transpired too swiftly for him to intervene. The figure solidified, to the point that he could feel her against him, and the axe came down at an unusual angle, slicing into the woman's side.

A cry escaped her throat, and she collapsed to the ground, her pain echoing through the air.

Suddenly thrust back into the harsh reality of battle, Legolas swiftly grasped the knife strapped to his belt. In one fluid motion, he drove the blade into the orc's heart. The creature gurgled for a moment, blood pooling from its mouth, before finally collapsing lifeless.

Without hesitation, Legolas fell to the unconscious woman crumpled at his feet. His heart clenched with dread as he noticed the crimson stains spreading across the delicate, iridescent fabric that cloaked his form.

"No, no, no," he murmured, his hands pressing against the wound in a frantic attempt to stop the bleeding. Panic tinged his voice as he glanced at her face, his voice rising in desperation, " (Y/N), you foolish Maiar. Why did you intervene? Why did you put yourself in harm's way?" His bloodied hand gently cupped her cheek. "Wake up. Come on, wake up!"

She remained unresponsive.

Swiftly, Legolas gathered her into his arms, keeping one hand pressed against the bleeding wound, and hurried towards the makeshift infirmary.

Pushing the doors open, he called out in a voice laced with fear, "Aragorn!"

Immediately, the urgent tone drew the attention of those nearby, even in the midst of the ongoing chaos of the healing ward. The Ranger, alerted by the distress in his friend's voice, swiftly moved past the curious onlookers, with Gimli at his side and Gandalf following not too far behind.

“A-an ax to the side. She’s bleeding heavily,” he sputtered out. “Please.”

Pointing to a makeshift bed, Aragorn commanded. ‘Get her on that cot! Quickly now.”

Gimili, entirely bewildered by the unfolding events and his friend’s frantic behavior, called out, “Laddie, who is that?!”

Legolas, gently placing her form on the cot, didn't even bother to look at his dwarf companion as he replied. “(Y/N).”

The dwarf shook his head and raised his hands in confusion. “Who the fuck is (Y/N)?!”

The elf sent Gimli a quick, almost exasperated glance. "The wind!" he snapped back, a bit too sharply.

Gimli’s eyes drifted around the room, his confusion turning into concern for his friend’s well being. “The wind?” he questioned. “Did ya happen to get knocked in the head, tree boy?”

It was Gandalf that chimed in. “(Y/N), a Maiar, the spirit of the wind. She has been with us throughout our journey.”

Aragorn shot the wizard a brief look as he swiftly cut away the mysterious, translucent fabric cloaking the woman and began tending to the deep, bleeding wound.

“With us the entire time?!” Gimli bellowed. “Then why haven't I seen her once?"

Gandalf peered over Aragorn’s shoulder. “She doesn't have a corporal form. At least, she didn’t. I’m afraid this is the first time any of us are seeing her.”

Legolas ran his bloodied hands through his hair, his fingers trembling with anxiety as he stepped back. His chest felt constricted with worry while his eyes remained fixated on the woman as Aragorn worked. “Can you do it, Aragorn? Can you save her?” he implored, his voice quivering with a mixture of desperation and hope.

The man met Legolas' gaze. His determination to save her was unwavering, even in the face of this strange reveal of a profound connection between a force he didn't know existed and his dear friend. Seeing Legolas’ pain, he responded firmly, "I will try."

Gimli, moving to stand beside the wizard, watched the scene with a mixture of concern and curiosity. He couldn't help but murmur, "I've never seen him so frazzled before." His words were filled with a deep sense of empathy for his elven friend, for this had clearly shaken Legolas to his core.

Gandalf let his gaze shift from the elf to Gimli, offering the dwarf a knowing look in response.

The watcher of wanderers had now become a wonder to the wanderers themselves.

……

Legolas sat in a chair beside (Y/N). He was quiet and still as he watched her chest rise and fall steadily. Aragorn had successfully treated her wound, preventing infection, though she remained unconscious. She rested soundlessly, her expression peaceful—despite Legolas’ bloody handprint, now brown, dried, and cracking, that lingered upon her cheek. Her features were graceful and elegant. Each curve and bend of her face accentuated her beauty. He wasn't sure what he had expected her to look like, though how she appeared made sense with her temperament. He could see her flirtatious streak, her mischievous tone, and her protective aurora. She was exactly what wind would be: strong yet gentle, fierce yet calm, emotional yet stern.

He watched over her, just as she had watched over him. So intently, that he didn't notice one behind him until a hand pressed firmly upon his shoulder.

"Legolas," Aragorn began, his expression filled with gentle concern as he inquired, "How do you know this woman?"

Legolas sighed, keeping his gaze on her. "She has been traveling with us," he explained.

The sound of wood scraping against stone told the elf that the Ranger pulled a nearby chair over to sit next to him.

“So Gandalf said. Though I do not understand,” Aragorn admitted.

Legolas shifted. “I started to notice strange occurrences—unexplained events.”

Aragorn raised a brow, “Strange occurrences?”

Legolas felt his cheeks heat as he cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, but more importantly, I noticed something helping us. Consistently.” He paused, “I asked Mithranduil about it and he told me of her.” He shook his head. “He said she was cursed to watch us—us inhabitants of Arda—and not be able to walk among us.”

“Then how is she here now before us, like this.”

Legolas glanced at his hands, a hint of nervousness in his expression. “I asked Mithranduil that too,” he admitted. “He said her sacrifice must have ended her limbo.” He then let his eyes land on his friend and he spoke once more, his tone almost fearful and definitely shy—something Aragorn had never seen from the elf. “If she doesn't survive, because of me, will Arda have wind no longer? I haven't felt a single breeze since she fell.”

Aragorn sighed. “I do not know, my friend. I do not know.” He reached forward and placed his hand upon his shoulder. “Please go clean up and rest. You are no good to her like this. I will take care of her, I promise.”

Legolas hesitated, “But what if she wakes?”

The Ranger sighed again, “If she wakes, I will send someone to—”

He was interrupted by a soft groan escaping from the lips of the Wind Spirit.

Instantly, both Legolas and Aragorn turned to look at the woman.

Her eyelids lazily blinked open, and she gradually became aware of her surroundings. A frown creased her face as she emitted another groan. Her hand moved slowly, making its way down to her bandaged side.

"What... what is this feeling?" she murmured to herself, puzzled by the sensations.

To her astonishment, Legolas responded, “Pain.”

She scrambled to sit upright in bed, the pain surging through her body but the sheer force of adrenaline propelled her actions. “You–you can hear me?” she whispered, eyes wide.

Legolas moved closer, taking a seat on the edge of the cot. In a gentle tone, he answered, "I can hear you. I can see you." He tenderly raised his hand to her cheek, resting it on the dried bloody mark already there. "And I can feel you."

A hushed gasp escaped her lips as she reached up to touch his hand. "It's... it's warm," she remarked, her voice filled with surprise. "I didn't expect it to be warm."

The elf smiled gently in response.

A mischievous smirk then graced her lips, and her gaze, rather unmistakably, wandered down his figure and briefly settled upon his pants. “Is everything this warm?” she inquired with a teasing tone.

Taken aback by her words and her brazen gaze, he cleared his throat. A noticeable flush crept across his cheeks and ears as he broke eye contact. With that, Legolas turned to face Aragorn, who stood behind him with raised eyebrows and a playful grin forming at the corner of his mouth. “My apologies, Aragorn.” He glanced back at the Wind Spirit. “(Y/N), this is—”

She interrupted him, her eyes on the other man. “I know who he is,” she said with confidence. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn the second, also called Strider or Wingfoot, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, and the Uncrowned King of Gondor.”

The expressions on both men's faces contorted, morphing to sheer astonishment—how did she know all that?

(Y/N) grinned sheepishly. "I am the wind," she confessed. "I see and hear a great deal."

…..

The Minas Tirith Castle was cloaked in the deep shroud of a late moonlit night as Legolas walked through its ancient halls. The soft flickering of torchlight painted wavering shadows on the weathered stone walls, lending an atmosphere that resonated with the weight of its history. His footsteps were silent as he moved, and his thoughts followed suit, meandering through the corridors of his mind.

However, up ahead, a figure bathed in a gentle glow caused Legolas to abruptly halt in his tracks, his thoughts instantly converging on the woman.

“(Y/N),” he called out, approaching her. “What are you doing away from the House of Healing? You shouldn't be out of bed. You should be resting!”

She let out an exasperated sigh, not appreciating his chastising tone. "I am a watcher of wanderers, Legolas. Therefore, I too am a voyager. It is not in my nature to stay still."

Legolas released a heated breath through his nose. “That may be true, but you now have a corporal form. No longer are you just a breeze.”

She rolled her eyes, shifting her feet to hide the persistent pain emanating from her side. “I may not be a breeze any longer, but I still control all the winds of Arda. I could knock you on your ass in seconds, injured or not.”

Legolas chuckled lightly. “I never would have gotten involved with the wind if I knew she was so temperamental,” he teased.

(Y/N), suppressing a grin, responded with a snarky retort. “Oh, so we are involved, are we?”

The elf sent her a look, trying to hide his expression of amusement. “I would be naive to think that all the times the wind flirted with me, it was just a ploy.”

“Maybe I enjoy a ploy from century to century, Legolas,” she replied.

He laughed lightly at her jest, then took a step closer, his demeanor shifting to one of seriousness. Gently, he pressed his hand to her bandaged side. “(Y/N),” he began softly. “Why did you do it? Why did you get in between that orc and I?”

She looked up at him, her eyes gleaming with sincerity. “You know why.”

“Say it,” he commanded.

“Because,” she began, her tone becoming shy and soft. “Because, I—I love you.”

Instantly, Legolas wrapped his arm around her back, pulling her close to him. He pressed his lips fervently against hers. As their mouths met with equal intensity, he tasted the essence of the wind. And oh, it tasted of adventure, suffering, and joy. It tasted of warm bread from the north, bitter nuts from the east, clear water from the south, and fresh fruit from the west. It tasted of eons and eons of wandering, yet still, she tasted of home. Her hands found their way into his golden locks of hair, twisting and tugging it lightly. He allowed her to siphon off his heat, for the wind was often cold and bellowing. Though, he could tell she was taking more than just his warmth—she was taking his love; and oh, he gladly gave it to her.

…..

Everything Taglist: @lea----b @aredhel-of-gondolin @princecami @the-fandoms-georgie @jazziwritestolkienprimary @swimming-in-stardust @elvish-sky @red-riding @brun-lieve @hey-its-nonny @mirclealignr @sydney-1209 @laneynoir @straysugzhpe @runningfeather @finallyforgotten @kaiawrites @commanderawkward @xxbluestrifexx @slytherinambitious @redbirdbluebird333-blog @desert-fern @skairipakomtrikru @genderfluid-anime-goth @skairipakomtrikru @hemera1227 @sotwk @sirenofavalon @hobbitsesoftheshire @asianbutnotjapanese @mgchaser @heavenshumour @mgchaser @heavenshumour @casuallyeating-blog @cheari

Everything But Spice Tag: @goldfearless @cauliflowertree @heranintomyknife23times @mxmia @unethicallypleistocene @amessofmultifandom

Legolas tag: @dark-angel-is-back @mylittle-escapingdreams @abandoncloud9 @aphroditesmoon @carojasmin2204 @high-sea-husbands @aheadfullofsteverogers

add yourself to my taglist

[auren-zagarra]

Can I please request Jamil having Jealousy sex with Female reader 💜

nuper mea

Content Warning: Jamil x F!Reader, sex, rough sex, jelous sex, jelous behavior, MDNI

Characters Count: 5521

It’s truly a sorrowful thing when the world lacks the decency to understand the importance of respect - that silent, unspoken understanding that we must never take what does not belong to others. It’s in the small things, really. A pencil from a classmate’s desk, a snack shared among friends or even the very space someone else occupies in the world. Jamil was particularly sensitive to this. He would instinctively look away whenever someone encroached too close to you, his gaze darting nervously, as though to shield you from the weight of their attention. It was as if he could feel the very currents of their intent, the way their eyes drank in your every movement, your every breath, with a hunger that had nothing to do with nourishment. How could you not see the way they circled, like beasts driven by instinct, drawn to the warmth of your heart? 

Viper could feel his own heart tighten with each painful glimpse of such a scene. It was as though the very sight of it caused a sharp sting deep within his chest, a fear that gripped him - an irrational dread of losing you to someone else. Each time his eyes met those of another man lingering too close to you, his thoughts would race with a dark, possessive ache. He had already given up so much in life, sacrificed pieces of himself along the way, but to lose you - no, that was simply out of the question. The idea of you with a man who thought himself superior due to his noble blood or his aristocratic privileges stung like poison in his veins. How could someone like that understand your worth? How could a man, so detached from the common world, truly appreciate the radiance you brought into it? You, my dear, were far too loved and cherished to be anyone’s possession but his. But, in truth, it was just one of Jamil’s fears: a fleeting, momentary anxiety that had no place in the reality of your love. He knew, deep down, that no man could ever take you from him. No stranger, no prince with his hollow titles or aristocrat lost in his ivory tower could ever hope to have what Jamil held so dear. For, after all, he alone had been blessed with the privilege of feeling your presence: the warmth of your naked body pressed against his and your legs wrapped around his waist, as you sought solace and peace in the embrace only he could give you.

The rhythm of his movements was urgent, each motion driven by need, as if his very soul depended on holding you so close. Little did you know, but this urgency was partly a quiet response to the discomfort of seeing you near those pompous men, whose very presence seemed to gnaw at him. You could never fully understand how much he adored seeing you like this - lost in the moment, calling out his name amidst the soft whispers of your breath and the loud vocal moans. The room seemed to echo with the sound of two hearts colliding in a dance that was uniquely theirs. Every subtle expression, every flicker of emotion across your face, was something he held close, knowing with a quiet certainty that no one else would ever see you in this way, would never be privileged to witness the depth of what you shared. Bringing one of your chests to his mouth, he savoured you - feeling like he was reaching his climax.

A wave of warmth rushed through you, leaving your body tingling with the lingering traces of euphoria. You could hardly breathe, still caught in the aftermath of it all - your limbs trembling, your heart fluttering. Smiling up at him, you moved to rise, intending to slip away and clean yourself while he prepared a delicious home cooked meal for the two of you. But before you could leave his side, his hand strongly caught your arm, pulling you back with an unmistakable intent. You blinked, confused for a moment, until he guided you facedown against the soft sheets, his grip still firm. Before words could even form on your lips, he resumed his rhythm, this time with a renewed energy that startled you. There was something in his touch almost desperate, as though he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the moment you had just shared. A moan escaped from your soft lips, raw and unfiltered, as the sensitivity still thrumming through your body met his unrelenting passion.

Your nails dug into the soft linen of the bed, your breath catching as the intensity surged through you. Instinctively, you buried your face into the pillow, trying to quiet the sounds that spilled from your lips, but Jamil wouldn’t have it - his hand found your hair and insistently, pulled you back. He wanted to hear you. Needed to. Your voice unfiltered, was a melody only he had earned the right to hear. Your legs trembled beneath you, struggling to stay grounded beneath the weight of everything he was giving you. It was overwhelming, the way he moved, the way he seemed to speak a language only your body could understand - like some kind of ancient spell crafted by the magicians of the past. Outside this room, men might stare, speak sweet words, even dare to dream - but only him knew how to please you. Only Jamil knew how to reach the deepest parts of you, stimulate the right areas. Only he was allowed to taste the wild beauty that bloomed behind your every defense. And no matter how many eyes followed you, no matter how many hands might brush against you in passing, he would make sure of one thing: when they looked at you, when they stood close, all they would feel was the echo of him.

His scent. His touch. The invisible thread tying your heart to his - tightly, permanently, without question.

[notapradagurl7]

Thank you for being the only one to quench my Joey badass thirst. I’d love more stories🤲🏾

Obsessed.

Black Fem! ReaderPolice Officer x Kadeem “Unique” Mathis from Raising Kanan.

A/N: You’re so very welcome lovely anon, 😌❤️ and here is another story for him since this little idea just recently popped in my head, hope you enjoy! ❤️ don’t forget to reblog, comment and like to support, remember don’t be afraid to send in a request they’re always open. 🫡

WC: 4,925k

Summary: It was one thing to become Unique’s enemy, but to also become his obsession was much worst, after your investigation on him for the past week, questioning him, left with no clues, but ended up with the loss of your partner, Unique begins to enter his way into your life.

Warnings: praise, obsession, heavy dirty talk, pet names, delusion, mention of murder, cursing, slight degradation, creampie, loss, overstimulation, biting, choking kink, mean!Unique, teasing, dominance, dumbification, corruption play, submission, crying, use of the n-word, crazy angst.

Taglist: @megamindsecretlair @satoruya @planetblaque

@playgurlxoxo @dabratzchronicles

@becauseimswagman1

@naj-ay444 @caashmoneynae @beenathembo @brattyfics

@hxneyclouds @yassbishimvintage

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaesworld @ovohanna24

@novahreign @writingsbytee @avoidthings @kimuzostar @slippinninque @keyera-jackson @theblacklewinsky

@euphorichappiness10 @life-in-the-slut-house @secret89sblog @ranikyani

@uniqueoutlierblog @mama-2001

@fakxmbj @kaylalb @theereina @uzumaki-rebellion @blyffe @kumkaniudaku @luckydaye777 @that-one-anxious-mango @rose-bliss @kindofaintrovert

————

Southside Jamaica, Queens 1993.

It was a frigid fall evening in the bustling streets of New York City in 1993. The city was stagnant with the weight of crime and drugs, creeping into every corner, remaining a vice grip its citizens.

You were seated in the spacious office of the police department, the rhythmic click-clack of keyboards melded with the incessant ringing of phones, underscored by the low hum of indistinct conversations among officers engrossed in their work.

A rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, mingling with a hint of vanilla, offering a strange comfort amidst the chaos.

“Work, and home. In that order.” You mumbled to yourself, your eyes fixed on the computer.

Being a detective, however, was no easy task. While law enforcement was somewhat fulfilling their duties, you harbored a gnawing suspicion that all this turmoil could be traced back to a single man—Kadeem “Unique” Mathis.

He was the most formidable and feared drug kingpin from Southside Jamaica, Queens, a name that evoked dread and respect in equal measure.

You were sent to do an investigation on Unique, questioning, and talking, too much damn sweet talking from him as always. So far, you have been left with nothing, except that he gave you condolences on Cairo.

Your brown eyes shifted from the flickering computer screen to the picture frame that held a captured moment between you and Cairo Lewis, your partner in the department.

The image of you two hugging each other, side by side, was a reminder of laughter and camaraderie, a snapshot of two young cops in their early twenties, who had met at the academy and formed an unbreakable bond.

You remembered the warmth of those days—a whirlwind of playful banter, quick-witted sarcasm, and the almost noticeable love that lingered between you, hinting at a deeper connection.

You weren't just colleagues; you were thick as thieves, navigating the complexities of work and emotions together.

It was clear that Cairo held a special place in your heart, and it seemed he felt the same way about you. You swore not to fall in love after that, not after losing him.

But now, that connection felt like a choking vine wrapped around your heart, squeezing tighter with every memory. The thought of Unique nagged at your mind, planting seeds of suspicion that perhaps he was involved in Cairo’s tragic death.

“Another day without you, Cai. If only you could see me now,” you whispered, your voice quivering with unresolved grief. As the words escaped your lips, you reached for a tissue from the nearby box, desperate to wipe away the tears that threatened to spill, blurring your vision of the world without him.

Unique had a chilling reputation, especially after his mysterious return from the dead, an event cloaked in gossip and speculation. But for you, he was more than just a name; he was an ex-lover from your high school days.

You hoped he would change his life for the better after your breakup, but what you saw now was a man transformed—irritable and resistant to reason.

A distinctive scar on the right side of his otherwise handsome face hinted at a life filled with violence and turmoil. Behind his stylish clothing, dazzling gold chains, and that devilish smirk lay a man you hardly recognized.

Today seemed like an ordinary day until your boss contacted you regarding the investigation they assigned to you.

“L/N, could you come to my office for a moment?” Police Chief Jennings called out, her voice cutting through the ambient sounds of the precinct.

She leaned slightly out from the door of her office, a confident figure framed by the polished wood and stark white walls.

You felt a jolt of surprise, your fingers froze above the keyboard as her soft yet authoritative voice reached your ears.

Police Chief April Cole; her brown skin glows under the fluorescent lights, and her brown tresses was pulled back into a sleek bun. Dressed in a crisp police uniform that fit her like a second skin, she held your gaze with her warm yet intense brown eyes.

Damnit, it was the wrong time to be called in by your boss, but still, work had to be done regardless.

You rose from your chair, the soft creak of the wood beneath you almost echoing in the noisy room. With fast strides, you made your way through the hall, each step. Stepped through the door to the spacious office of the police chief, you were met with a commanding presence.

She gestured for you to sit, her hand slicing through with an authority that demanded attention. "Have a seat," she instructed, her voice steady yet laced with urgency. "I need to discuss something damn important with you." Her expression was grave, devoid of the usual pleasantries.

As you settled into the wooden chair, the surface cool against your skin, you felt the plush light green cushion offer some comfort against the tension. You crossed your legs, an instinctive gesture meant to steady yourself, while your gaze locked onto hers, seeking answers.

"Yes?" you responded, your tone mirroring the seriousness of the moment, hanging in the air like an unsolved mystery.

“Your investigation into Unique has been very impressive; I must say, that history you have with him adds quite a depth to your work. So far, it seems that case is closed,” April Cole said with a sharp nod. Her expression remained tight-lipped and unreadable, making it difficult to discern her thoughts.

“Yes, I’m fully aware of that, and I have no doubt that I was mostly to assist in gathering information. However, as I’ve conveyed to everyone—yourself included—I didn’t manage to uncover anything substantial. What I did lose, though, was my partner, Detective Cairo Jones,” you replied, locking your gaze onto hers, wanting her to grasp the gravity of your loss and the toll it took on you personally.

She paused for a moment, allowing the weight of her statement to settle before her features softened just a bit as she turned her attention to you.

Everyone in the department knew that it was difficult for you to resume the investigation, just be a pawn in this dangerous game, all you wanted was justice for your best friend. You couldn't get any clarity, but his family took it so much harder. They were able to have a funeral for Cairo, and you attended.

“Despite the investigation being closed, there was no evidence connecting Unique to Cairo’s death,” April responded firmly, her voice laced with conviction.

You weren't convinced by her statement at all, by what you felt in your intuition, and what you heard from Unique, was he trying to send a message to you? Trying to provoke you?

"I'm deeply sorry for your loss, and I know that both of you meant a lot to each other,” she added, her tone shifting gently, conveying the sincerity of her condolences.

Even though there are only a handful of black women in the police department, they certainly require a scapegoat, a diversity hire, or someone to take the fall.

"I've had enough of your fucking condolences, flowers, cards and all of it. I've grieved enough, but I know that nigga is responsible, I..” You trailed off with a gulp, trying to fight those tears again.

April shook her head, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, her head dipping to meet your gaze, and you stood up from the chair. You took a deep breath and chair, you didn’t want to face her about this again, not anymore.

“I know what that feels like, to lose someone you care about, but why don't you go home and sort out your feelings for Unique? I—” April spoke up until you held up your hand to cut her off, why would say that?

She was trying to make you approach your breaking point, and you couldn’t do it right now, all you wanted to do was go home. “Don’t go there, not here, not now, not ever. You hear me, Chief?” You shot back, your icy gaze struck at her.

April flinched from your gaze, holding her hands up in defense, “I‘m sorry—-,” But you interrupted rather quickly.

“No, you're not, you've wasted my time, and my friend didn't get any justice at all,” You exclaimed, shaking your head from side to side.

With a shot of adrenaline, you stormed out of the office, grabbing your brown trench coat and briefcase as you left the police department. The double doors slammed shut behind you.

Your eyes darted across the busy street filled with passing police cars and pedestrians as you hurried down the concrete stairs and turned right toward the parking lot.

Unbeknownst to you, one of Unique’s henchmen, Xavier, posed as a police officer, watching you from his vehicle. Dressed in a uniform, he followed your every move as you entered your sleek black Nissan and sped off with a screech.

April's claims about your feelings for Cairo or Unique felt misguided; this entire case felt like the police were using you as bait to get closer to Unique, leaving you with nothing.

You couldn't help but wonder, “Why did I become a cop in the first place?” as you stuffed your hands into your pockets.

You reflected on the question, a wave of frustration washed over you; all you wanted was to make a difference in the lives of others.

Yet, deep down, you understood that the world was riddled with the same issues—corruption, misconduct, and a law enforcement system that felt like a farce.

With a curt nod, he maneuvered away from the bustling streets, deftly paged Unique using the number he had saved for you. He needed to relay the message that you were on the move.

He quickly provided Unique with vital information, unaware that you weren’t the only one delving into a investigation. As Unique prepared to approach, hinting at the unexpected visit that were about to unfold.

———-

As you pulled into the driveway of your charming one-story house, painted in a soft shade of light green, a sense of relief washed over you as you stepped out of the car.

The door slammed shut behind you, punctuating your return home. Your all-black heels clicked rhythmically against the concrete as you made your way toward the front door.

You fished your keys out of the deep pocket of your trench coat, pausing for a moment to take in the sprawling neighborhood around you, with its neatly manicured lawns and trees swaying gently in the evening breeze.

With a heart full of comfort, you carefully turned the doorknob and nudged the door open, stepping into the inviting embrace of your cozy living room. The familiar scent enveloped you as you closed the door securely behind you, locking the world outside away.

Standing in the center of the living room, you closed your eyes for a brief moment, allowing the tranquility of home to settle in.

After that, you opened them again, you slipped off your trench coat, the fabric whispering against your skin, and kicked off your shoes, feeling the coolness of the hardwood floor beneath your socks.

You hung the coat in the closet, inhaling deeply the delightful blend of pumpkin spice and cinnamon that filled the air, undercut by a hint of citrus and the deep notes of a dark cherry cologne that felt hauntingly familiar and comforting.

Wait a minute, you didn’t wear that cologne at all. The only person you knew that wore it was, Unique. He couldn’t have broken into your house now, did he?

“How’s that investigation goin’ on so far, Detective?” Unique drawled out, his voice laced with flirtation and malice.

You swiftly pivoted on your heel, fingers deftly gripping the cold metal of your gun nestled in your black belt. With precision, you aimed it directly at Unique, who lounged on your chocolate brown couch.

Unique was sprawled out, sat man spread on the couch, arms resting across the armrests. Clad in a snug-fitting black tee, he wore a few gold chains that glinted in the light, a single gold hoop earring hanging from his right ear.

The black leather jacket he sported, embellished with black along the sleeves, combined with matching black pants, made him a striking figure. A devilish smirk played on his lips, heightening the tension in the air.

“The investigation is closed, thanks to you and the police department wasting my fucking time. I never expected company, but somehow, you always manage to barge back into my life, Kadeem. Why?” you demanded, your voice trembling slightly, betraying your attempt to sound strong.

A dark chuckle escaped Unique’s lips, rich and rumbling, sending a rush of heat through your core. He rose from the couch with an effortless grace, towering over you as he approached.

His commanding presence overwhelmed you, and as you felt your back gently press against the smooth wooden door, his eyes close to yours.

The barrel of the gun pressed against his clothed chest, a reminder of the precarious situation. With deliberate slowness, he reached out, his hand guiding your gun aside, yet you still clutched it tightly, the weapon resting resolutely at your side.

“Don’t act like you ain’t happy to see me, baby. You know a nigga can’t forgot his first and only love, right?” Unique cooed with a grin, his eyes locked with yours crazy in love.

“Cut the sweet talk, ‘Nique. I’m not happy to see you. And why the hell did you get my house?” You asked in a clam tone, your voice was still serious.

You wanted to pistol whip him in the face, but kept the gun at your side, you shakily exhaled from the way he looked at you so twistedly in love, guess that love he had for you was always there, never fading.

You wanted to raise the cold barrel of the gun and strike him across the face. But instead, you held the weapon steadfastly at your side, your hand trembling ever so slightly.

“Why you lyin’ to me? I wanted to pay my favorite detective a visit, see how your fine ass was doin’ lately, that's all,” Unique promised, smirking evilly.

You released a shaky breath, grappling with the intensity of his gaze—a look that was simultaneously twisted and passionate.

“Do you still think that you mean something to me?” You shot back, your head shook at him.

It struck you with a jolt; the love he harbored for you was there, like a force that had never dimmed or waned. You could see it in his eyes, that deep, unwavering affection that lingered through all the chaos between you two.

“We’ve always meant somethin’ to each other, you know that?” Unique provoked, his voice was warm yet still cold.

You planted your gun back onto your belt, and walked away from him, your shoulder bumping into his, causing him to stumble back. “That's some bullshit, and you know it, Nique.” you shot back, your eyes rolling at him.

He spun around to face you, following right behind you as you strode through the hallways, and you halted near your threshold of the bedroom.

“What is this unhealthy obsession with me, you’ve got the streets, the money and the power. What more do you want, Unique?” You inquired, shrugging your shoulders.

“It’s simple, Y/N. All I wanted was my girl back, that’s all. And I won't let anyone or anythin’ get in the way between us,” Unique shot back, his voice was slightly raspy, with a hint of iciness.

Your brown eyes locked on his deep brown ones, biting your lips to keep it from trembling. You knew who he was talking about, Cairo. You had to confront him about this, you had to be right. You felt it in your gut.

“You mean Cairo, don't you? I know you killed him—why did you do it?!” You yelled back, your voice broke with emotion, hands clutched the sleeves of his jacket, slipping the fabric off his arms. Falling to the hardwood floors.

His face transformed as he gazed at you, the warmth of his feelings evident in the way his face softened. Your solitary tear cascaded down, landing on his t-shirt, betraying the deep impact your gaze had on him.

Yet, in an instant, his mood shifted, his eyes narrowing into a soft, icy glare—a blend of affection and unrest, snapping his fingers once he heard his name again.

"Ah, your nigga—well, your friend, I guess—he tried to put up a fight, but in the end, he folded like a cheap deck of fuckin’ cards. Last I checked, aren’t you still mine? I noticed the way he looked at you, just like I used to," Unique retorted, his tone carrying a gentle undertone.

Your heart raced at his words, and you felt anger and hurt surge within you. “You think that gives you the right to take his life? You think that makes you the better man?!” You shot back, your voice rising with each word, the emotions you had pent up boiling to the surface.

Unique stepped closer, invading your personal space, his eyes darkening with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "You don’t get it, do you? It’s about what you mean to me. I’d do anythin’ to protect what’s mine. I saw you in my mind when I almost fuckin’ died, still smellin’ your perfume from that night we kissed," he whispered, his voice low and raspy.

“That's what you think love is? Possession?” you challenged, your voice trembling as you tried to maintain your composure.

You hurriedly retreated into your bedroom, the soft moonlight filtering through the curtains. As you stumbled onto your bed, the faint squeak of the mattress echoed, eliciting a smile from him that felt both inviting and foreboding. It was as if he were harboring some deeper intention, just waiting for the right moment.

Unique entered the room, shaking his head slowly in disapproval, a soft tsk escaping his lips. His deep brown eyes locked onto you, intense and piercing, igniting a flicker of unease that made you instinctively flinch under his gaze.

For the first time, you were almost scared.

“It’s not possession, baby girl. It's passion, it’s fire that keeps on burnin’ for you, it’s everythin’ you and I used to have, and I need you in my life,” Unique replied back, his voice laced with a softness yet firmness.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding in your chest. The way he looked at you—intense, hungry—made it hard to breathe, let alone think straight.

“So you try to waltz back into my life, and expect everythin’ to be the same, you can't be serious Kadeem, killin’ Cairo just to get me?” You shot back, your voice filled with unease.

“Yes, but I understood that things change, we change but my love for you ain't changin’ beautiful, and I know that I'm right about what I feel about you. Nobody can separate us, right?” Unique asked again, tilting his head to the side.

What love meant to Unique meant so much more, Some might see it as delusion, but for him, it was real, what he felt for you, he ached for you, and died, literally came back from the dead for you.

Just to kiss you, feel your touch. He knew that it would be worth it to be in your arms again.

“Of course I see it, we have something but Cai—-” You spoke up, but he held your gaze ever intensely, you stopped speaking after that. Knowing that he would be frustrated if you kept saying that name.

“Don’t say his name; instead say mine, Y/N.” Unique's voice dripped with a teasing intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Does he know how to love you the way I do? How to handle you—manhandle you that is—how to fuck you like a nigga who truly hates you?” His words were sharp, a mix of challenge and allure, echoing with a hint of possessiveness.

You felt your fingers clench the blankets tightly, your heart racing as you pushed yourself up from the bed. His smirk was infuriatingly magnetic, and you found yourself leaning closer, the desire to wipe that arrogant grin off his face battling with the undeniable truth of his words.

“What makes you think that's true, Kadeem?” you shot back, trying to inject some defiance into your voice. But your body betrayed you; you could feel your thighs tighten, and your breath hitched under his unwavering gaze.

Unique’s smirk deepened, “Yeah, just like that…” he praised, his eyes on you, revealing the glint of his gold fronts as he held your stare with an intensity that felt both loving and crazy.

His tongue flicked out to glide over his plump lips, almost as if he were savoring the very essence of your uncertainty. “C’mon now, you know I'm right..” he teased again.

He stepped closer, circling you with the confidence of a predator playing with its prey, holding your gaze captive. “If only you could see yourself right now, I bet that you're wet too, just from a nigga speakin’ to you like this, I know you and your body, Y/N.” He shot back, biting his lip.

You could feel your skin prickling in response to his words, the heat radiating through you even without a single touch. Your panties were soaked, and it was infuriating, and yet, you loathed the way he ignited a fire within you that you couldn’t extinguish.

“Y/N..You ain't told me to leave, when you had so many fuckin’ chances, from the way your thighs clenched—I don’t touch you. But you really want a nigga get mean with’chu, that's why. Look me in the face, and tell me that you don't miss me, that you don't want me..” Unique concluded with a firm yet soft undertone.

“Kadeem—-” You breathed with a shaky exhale, as if you were able to get some oxygen in your lungs.

He circled around before stopping in front of you, he was in desperate need to see your reaction, your face softened but yet arousal washed over him, raising his brow suggestively. “Still don't think it's true? Can't even admit damn yourself..” He leaned in closer.

“Fine! Maybe I did miss you, but I'm not scared,” You shot back, your gaze softened at him, written with unspoken desire.

Unique’s head snapped at you, his face twisted with frustration and amusement, “See? Was that so hard? You scared of what I’ll make you feel?” He teased you again, as if you were a nerd and he was your bully on Monday morning.

You scoffed at him with a eye roll, but you shot back with firey venom. “I'm not scared of you, Unique.”

“Prove it to me then, baby,” Unique fired back, his breath warm against your ear.

————-

You lie naked on the soft mattress of your creaking bed with him, moaning softly as you deepen the kiss, tilting your head. Unique hovers above you, his hand sliding up your neck, squeezing gently. A loud moan escapes your lips, breaking the kiss. He pulls back slightly, still gripping your neck, observing as your hips squirm against him, seeking more friction. Your wet walls tighten around him, and he groans, “You’re so fuckin’ nasty girl—damn,” before thrusting into you with a teasing, deliberate rhythm.

By the way your body was responding to him he could tell from every kiss, thrust, every touch that felt so good for you, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, the way he held you down with a possessive grip, fucking you faster, as rolling his hips, elicting desperate moans from you, “Kadeemmm..Fuckkk—I missed you!” Waves of pleasure consumed your entire being, you were a wet, babbling mess underneath him, it became too embarrassing for how good it felt.

Before you could hide your face in embarrassment, he tilted your head to face him, gripping your jaw tightly. Unique gave your ass a harsh smack, making you hiss in reply, “I missed you more, but I want to see you take it good, just like you’re supposed to.” His words made your face warm as you kissed him, but he held you close. “This pretty pathetic face is just for me,” he said, planting a sweet kiss on your lips while pushing deeper, watching glossy tears fall down your face as he kissed your cervix with his tip.

Your heart raced as you locked eyes with him, that familiar spark igniting. “Kadeem, please…” you gasped sharply, you wanted him to stop or keep going. “You just don’t listen, Y/N. Why?” Unique teased, tilting his head as his hands found your breasts, pinching your nipples hard. You let out choked sobs, pleading, “M-Moree, please…” The wet slapping sounds of his thrusts filled the air, each one deep and relentless, as if he wanted to stay buried inside you forever.

Unique slowly pulled out, a teasing grin on his face as he locked eyes with your tear-streaked cheeks. You whimpered, “N-noooo, don’t stop..baby,” but he did, enjoying your frustration. Your nails dug into his arms and back, only fueling his desire as he throbbed inside you. “You need to be good for me first,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, before kissing you sweetly.

Leaning against the bed frame, he held your thighs while you clung to his shoulders, your nails digging in and making him hiss. “Think you can take it? Ready?” he asked, a wicked smile on his lips. You nodded and replied, “Yes.” With that, he gently pulled you down onto him, stretching you inch by inch. Both of you gasped softly as his tip hit your spot, filling you completely. “Take it then,” he grinned, watching you with sheer delight.

With your hips moving in a wild rhythm on his lap, Unique couldn’t take his eyes off you. Making you his, as he noticed the glistening mess around his dick as you moved, breathlessly confessing, “Just the way—fuckkk, I love you… such a beautiful sight and a fuckin’ mess.” He paused, panting, feeling the familiar tightness. Pulling you down to press your chest against his, he whispered, “I love you… desperate..and…all mine.” He maintained that pace, nearing his climax, gripping your hips tightly, leaving marks before delivering a playful smack.

“I… gotta… c—” you whined, but before you could finish, Unique changed his pace, halting your climax instantly. “W-wait for me, cum with me first…” he urged, his hand on your back and neck as he thrust into you with relentless force. Your legs wobbling between him as damp tears, twinking stars blurred your vision, and you whimpered in his ear. “Awww, you’re cryin’ don't worry, we can come together now...”

Moments later, his face twisted up in pleasure as he groaned, releasing every drops inside you just as you came undone around him. “That’s my girl… fuck,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder and then your lips softly.

Both of you collapsing onto each other’s bodies as he pulled out, taking in the reality of the situation and closing your eyelids from utter exhaustion, unable to speak, and drifting off to sleep in his arms, as he pulled you close to him, kissing your forehead. “I love you so fuckin’ much,” he whispered, his voice a soothing balm in the moment.

You nestled into his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. "I love you too, Nique," you whispered, sighing in bliss, that heartbeat of his was a strange blend of comfort and danger, that you once fought for, Gratefully, you had been using birth control, but now he had reentered your life, and you needed to decide on your next steps.

For the moment, though, you just wanted to relax in his embrace and drift off, which you did. The quiet and darkness of the room helped you both to sleep peacefully.

—————

[sunny-day-jack-official]

Dear Fans of SnaccPop Studios,

We recognize that many of you have questions about SnaccPop Studios and recent events. We want to provide clarity, particularly in relation to personal relationships among colleagues, our fans, workplace ethics and defamation.

First, we need to clear up allegations about our team's payments. Previous leadership had poor communication and time management skills, which caused contractor payments to be delayed. Inadequate management prompted us to make managerial changes over the summer. Under new management, recent delays occurred because we needed to wait for state and federal approvals, transfer managerial revenue, and draft new contracts which team members were made aware of. Additionally, we faced defamatory accusations regarding two team members crowdfunding efforts for housing and cancer treatment. These accusations falsely implied that we had not paid them, which led some individuals to demand that we use our Patreon and Kickstarter funds to cover their expenses in full. SnaccPop Studios operates as a zero-profit entity and cannot cover anything beyond production costs.

Some team members shared partial work-related information with their friends and associates. These friends and associates, without having the full context and knowledge, made incorrect assumptions and drew premature conclusions about our workplace practices. Certain individuals spread misinformation and lies in private group chats and servers based on what our team members said to them in confidence. Some of these individuals in these group chats and servers were also mutual friends of JambeeBot. These individuals believed that defamation, humiliation, and isolation were justifiable punishments for JambeeBot, and by extension SnaccPop Studios, for not releasing Something's Wrong with Sunny Day Jack on its intended release date. Ultimately, these actions led to JambeeBot posting a mental health crisis note on Twitter (X). These events have left our team members feeling demoralized, dehumanized, betrayed, and deeply hurt. We ask those reading this not to seek out these individuals. If they reveal themselves and publicly apologize, we urge you not to respond with harassment or threats.

The actions of these individuals have caused our team members to feel anxious, fearful, and saddened around our projects. Some team members have even considered leaving SnaccPop Studios and creative work altogether. It is deeply disheartening to see the extent to which some individuals have gone to hurt others over a game. No project, media, franchise, or character should be so central to someone's identity, self-worth, or emotional stability that it justifies harming others. Creative projects are meant to bring joy, entertainment, and connection—these individuals tainted that by turning a source of delight and fun into anguish and dread. Their actions have undermined the creative spirit that fuels these projects, making it harder for us to feel safe, inspired, and excited to continue the work we love.

We urge everyone to reflect on how they engage with creators, projects, and fandom spaces. Respect, empathy, and understanding are essential to maintaining a supportive and collaborative environment. Our team members should not fear humiliation, isolation, and defamation due to release delays, creative directions, or unforeseen production challenges. We ask for your understanding and respect as we work to maintain our boundaries and focus on moving forward.

Finally, we want to kindly inform our audience that the absence of a production update simply means there are no new or significant developments to report currently. Rest assured; we will communicate any important updates as soon as they become available. Speculation and rumors during periods of silence add unnecessary stress and hinder our ability to focus on creating content. We respectfully ask that you refrain from making potentially defamatory assumptions when updates are delayed.

Sincerely,

The SnaccPop Studios Team

[mariacallous]

A protest can be a fine way to get people’s attention—particularly the attention of those in positions of power. But one of the most important, and most overlooked, functions of protest is to prevent the dreaded “spiral of silence,” which can begin when people wrongly believe that their own point of view is not widely shared.

When political speech is considered socially sensitive or politically dangerous, people are more likely to sit out protests, mute themselves online, and keep quiet in everyday conversation. These small acts of silencing may seem merely polite or indifferent, but they can easily spiral.

People sometimes take as many cues from silence as they do from noise. And because people interpret silence to mean quiet acceptance or approval of the status quo, they use it to inform their own decisions about whether to speak out. Silence begets silence, which begets further misunderstanding about what a society actually collectively believes or wants.

Political and psychological scientists like me who study this phenomenon have found that a “spiral of silence” is one way that unpopular policies and regimes persist. One major reason is a muted, acquiescent public—the proverbial people watching the naked emperor’s parade.

Recent psychological research on public opinion regarding climate change has shown how wrong Americans can be about one another’s beliefs. For example: What percentage of Americans is at least somewhat concerned about climate change? Recently, a representative group of more than 6,000 Americans answered this question. On average, they guessed that less than half of Americans—only 43 percent—worry about climate change. In their eyes, a clear majority of Americans is unconcerned. This is not true, however. In actuality, 66 percent of Americans report worrying about climate change.

This massive underestimate also extends to Americans’ perceptions of support for various climate policies aimed at slowing climate change. The survey, fielded by an interuniversity team of psychologists led by the psychologist Gregg Sparkman, asked people to estimate the amount of support among Americans for a carbon tax, mandates that electricity be generated by renewable energy, wind and solar infrastructure on public lands, and support for the Green New Deal. Average guesses for support of these policies ranged from 37 to 43 percent. In reality, 66 to 80 percent of Americans support these policies. The researchers noted in their findings that supporters of climate policies “outnumber opponents two to one, while Americans falsely perceive nearly the opposite to be true.” Americans are living in a “false social reality,” they concluded, when it comes to climate-change opinions.

By now, we all know something about reality’s tenuousness—we’re bombarded with information but very frequently left grasping to figure out what is actually true. Layer on uncertainty about what others believe, and you’ll find yourself in a “false social reality” where you conclude that you are in the minority of people who care about a given issue. Such a misperception can make you lose hope for solutions, or discourage you from speaking up or acting. In the case of climate change, Americans also lose hope because they believe that opposition to climate policy is based on hostile partisan polarization. But hostile partisan polarization on this issue also turns out to be larger in perception than in reality.

In another study, this one by the psychologists David Sherman and Leaf Van Boven, participants guessed that Americans would support two climate policies—cap-and-trade and revenue-neutral carbon policy—if their own party proposed them, but not if they were proposed by the other party. This is a reasonable assumption in a highly polarized society. But for Democrats, this was incorrect—Democratic participants reported support for the climate policies whether they were proposed by a Democratic or a Republican lawmaker. Republican participants were unsupportive of climate policies if they were proposed by a Democrat, but Democratic participants overestimated their opposition, which was closer to “no support” than “active opposition.”

The fact that organized protest can break the spiral of silence, and correct our impressions of what other Americans think, is one of the most immediate and important values of protesting in the first place. My own research and the research of other social scientists have repeatedly documented instances from recent American history in which protest updated our impressions of what other citizens believe.

For example, about three years ago, on June 24, 2022, protests broke out after the Supreme Court ruled, in Dobbs v. Jackson, that the federal government should not guarantee a right to legal access to abortion, overturning the precedent set by Roe v. Wade 50 years prior. A group of my colleagues and I, led by Chelsey Clark, had already been surveying Americans regarding their personal beliefs about abortion (Do you support legal access to abortion?) and other Americans’ beliefs (How many Americans do you think support access to abortion?). We found that following the Supreme Court decision, Americans’ beliefs about abortion barely budged, but their perceptions of other Americans’ beliefs were different. Despite the fact that the Court had just ruled against legal access to abortion, Americans were more likely to perceive that other Americans supported legal access.

What caused people to update their impressions of what Americans believe? In my research, we connected this change to their exposure to protest and dissent. Social media and traditional media were filled with images of people marching against the ruling. Analyzing millions of Twitter impressions and tweets, we found that the sentiment of tweets about the ruling were much more negative than positive. It also helped that more than 4 million of the tweets shared links to polling data indicating that a majority of Americans supported legalized abortion access, a fact that journalistic institutions also reported widely at the time.

Scholars of the Supreme Court have theorized that Court rulings can change public opinion, and even our impressions of what other Americans think. In fact, in our own prior work, led by Margaret Tankard, we studied the public-opinion impact of the Supreme Court’s Obergefell v. Hodges ruling, which legalized same-sex marriage. Across the partisan divide and among older and younger men and women, our survey respondents did not change their own beliefs about same-sex marriage. However, their perceptions of other Americans’ beliefs changed: In the days and months following the ruling, they perceived that other Americans had increased their approval of same-sex marriage. This shift in their perception of other Americans was big—as big as the actual shift in personal opinions approving of same-sex marriage over the past 15 years among Baby Boomers.

You might recall that in the days following the ruling, there was another kind of American demonstration. Or, at least, you might remember the rainbows. Americans’ social-media feeds lit up in rainbows; Google posted a rainbow banner across its search page; and at night, the White House was bathed in rainbow lights. There was a great deal of media coverage of weddings (which also featured rainbows). Long-time couples rushed to courthouses and city halls, and local news was full of videos and pictures of happy couples crying and holding hands. The celebrations were hard to miss.

In both cases, Americans heard about the Supreme Court ruling, and then looked around at the people in the streets, on their televisions, and on social media. After Obergefell v. Hodges, people observed the immediate, widespread celebrations and perceived more support for same-sex marriage than they had before the ruling. After Dobbs v. Jackson, Americans again looked around at their social world and inferred from the widespread protest, discontent, and polling evidence shared on Twitter that Americans were more supportive of legal access to abortion than they’d previously thought.

Neither of these studies assessed whether Americans’ perception had updated to a perfectly accurate view of public opinion—we did not ask participants to estimate the percentage of supporters for either issue. Rather, these studies imply that Americans’ perceptions of public opinion changed in the direction of the public demonstrations, not in the direction of the Court rulings. Another recent data collection—by me and my colleagues—reinforces this point. After the Supreme Court ruled in two cases—Students for Fair Admissions v. Harvard and Students for Fair Admissions v. University of North Carolina—against the use of race-based affirmative action in higher education, there was very little public protest. We found that survey participants again updated their perceptions of what Americans think about affirmative action—immediately after the ruling, they thought that Americans supported it less. In this case, the Court ruling was accompanied by relative silence. People take cues from silence.

Michael Suk-Young Chwe is a political scientist who studies how public rallies, demonstrations, and parades can all be used to build “common knowledge”—not just a shared understanding of what is true but an awareness of both other people’s opinions and the fact that those people know our opinions. Because rallies and demonstrations are a form of “symbolic resistance,” they can be underestimated, Chwe acknowledges. But they build our common knowledge, because we are all observing one another watch the spectacle.

There is a class of people who do not underestimate symbolic gatherings in public: those who wish to seize and retain power. Evidence for this point stretches back to the Tudor kings and queens of 16th-century England, who paraded to various locations outside their court to be seen by their subjects. Although anthropologists have analyzed these local processions (or “progresses,” to use the term favored by historians) as direct acts of power in which monarchs such as Queen Elizabeth I marked each outlying territory as belonging to the Crown. Chwe points out that the underappreciated value of these parades were the “crowds of astonished peasants.” The audiences that gathered were not just watching the Queen—they were watching other people watch the Queen.

American leaders also believe in common knowledge. Many Americans can still recall President Richard Nixon’s famous 1969 speech asserting that a “silent majority” supported his Vietnam War policy, in contrast to the loud minority showing up to anti-war protests. President Barack Obama, in his 2009 speech presenting his health-care plan to a joint session of Congress, reminded the public that “a strong majority of Americans still favor a public insurance option.” Today, President Donald Trump reflexively advertises and exaggerates the size of the crowds at his rallies and inaugurations, and introduces rumors with the phrase many people are saying.  In advance of his Washington, D.C., military parade, which coincided with the nationwide “No Kings Day” protests, Trump claimed that he “hadn’t heard of any protests,” but threatened a “very heavy response” to any protesters at his parade.

Of course, not all types of protests cause the public to update their impressions of public opinion in the direction of their cause. Violent protests, or media coverage that falsely frames protests as violent when they are not, can lead the public to view protesters as representatives of fringe or extremist viewpoints. As the political scientist Omar Wasow finds in the context of the civil-rights movement, protester-initiated violence can backfire in subsequent elections. It is for this reason that elites who are being challenged through protest often seek to frame protesters as violent or, Nixon-like, as part of a “vocal minority.” The challenge for protest organizers is to present a large, peaceful show of opinion that is not easily reframed or misrepresented by elites or by the echo chambers of social and partisan mass media.

In his book Rational Ritual: Culture, Coordination, and Common Knowledge, Chwe quotes the renowned social theorist Jürgen Habermas: “The fundamental phenomenon of power is not the instrumentalization of another’s will, but the formation of a common will.” What do other Americans believe? To know, we look around for a public signal.

Politics is a challenge for human coordination. People want to participate in political action only if others do as well. Those who believe in self-governance must signal to other people that they wish to participate, that they believe in one form of politics or another. We must watch one another—not just through social media or a news channel—to learn what we believe. And we must be willing to speak up ourselves. This is the way to form common knowledge about what other Americans truly think and want. And this is the underappreciated value of protests. To paraphrase the political scientist Diana Mutz: they don’t tell us what to think, but they tell us what other people think.

[odinsblog]

Since 2014, millions of Uyghurs, Kazakhs and other minorities have been locked up in China and subjected to torture and forced labour. Some of those freed talk about trying to rebuild their lives in neighbouring Kazakhstan.

Photography by Robin Tutenges

A Chinese course book

Saliman Yesbolat used to live in Ghulja county, Xinjiang. After she refused to denounce her Uyghur neighbours to the police, she was forced to perform the raising of the Chinese flag every Monday at dawn, and to attend Chinese lessons twice a week in the basement of her building, where she would learn the Chinese language, patriotic songs and Xi Jinping's discourses by heart. This is her exercise book.

Forced to leave China

At 65, Imam Madi Toleukhan is one of the oldest refugees in Bekbolat, Kazakhstan, where more than 100 families took shelter after fleeing the Chinese regime. 'We were richer back there. I owned a herd, but I was too afraid for my sons, my grandchildren and their future: I came to Kazakhstan to save them. I didn't want them to be the fourth generation to suffer at the hands of the Chinese government, he says.

Remembering Uyghur culture in exile

Two members of the Dolan Ensemble, a Uyghur dance troupe based in Kazakhstan, get ready before performing a traditional dance to mark 40 days since the birth of a baby. Founded in 2016, the troupe performs at festivals or private events that bring together members of the Uyghur community, some of whom have had to leave Xinjiang.

Torture, infertility and damaged genitalia

In Kazakhstan, medical care for camp survivors is poor. Most victims can barely afford to see a family doctor. Anara*, an endocrinologist in a Kazakh hospital who has examined about 50 camp survivors since 2020, noticed recurrent infertility problems among her patients. 'Men or women, many have damaged genitalia. Some told me they'd been given drugs, others said they'd been raped. As they didn't come to us right after being released from the camps, it's impossible to know what kind of drugs they were administered in Xinjiang, she says. *Not her real name

The tiger chair

Ospan* spent a year in a re-education camp. He says his mind and body were crushed by the tortures he experienced in a tiger chair - a steel apparatus with handcuffs that restrains the body in painful positions. Aged about 50, this former shepherd, who took refuge with his family in eastern Kazakhstan, is no longer fit for work. Physically wrecked and prone to headaches, he mourns the loss of his memory above all. 'I used to know a lot of songs and I loved to sing; I also knew poems by heart ... Now, I can't sing any more, I can't remember the words,' he says. *Not his real name

Broken families and imprisonment

Aikamal Rashibek saw the dreadful efficiency of the CCP's brainwashing on her husband, Kerimbek Bakytali, after he was released from a Chinese psychiatric hospital. 'He disappeared for a year. When he came back, he didn't tell me anything about what happened to him. He was highly unhinged, always nervous, and got angry whenever I asked questions. He couldn't stop repeating that he hated Kazakhstan now, and that he wanted to go back to China with the kids to give them a Chinese education, says Aikamal. They are now separated.

Missing loved ones in China’s camps

In March 2017, Miyessar Muhedamu, left, a Uyghur woman, was arrested in Xinjiang under the pretext that she had studied Arabic in Egypt when she was young. Her husband, Sadirzhan Ayupov, right, and her three children have not seen her since. Now that Miyessar has left the camp, Sadirzhan receives a short call every few months. He suspects she might have suffered abuse, yet Miyessar can’t speak freely. ‘She told me she’d been in a re-education camp, and that she’d been released. When I ask her what she went through there, she doesn’t answer,’ says Sadirzhan.

Life after fleeing China

Sent to a re-education camp in 2018 at the age of 64, Yerke* saw her health quickly deteriorate. Locked a tiny cell with dozens of other women, she almost lost the use of her legs due to the cold floor she had to lie on. She was in the camp when she learned of her son’s death: pressured by the Chinese authorities, he took his own life. After her release, Yerke fled to Kazakhstan with some family members, but two of her children remain in China. *Not her real name

Forced labour and confessions

Dina Nurdybay, 32, was arrested in Nilka county, Xinjiang, because her traditional Kazakh clothing business made her a separatist, according to the Chinese authorities. She spent 11 months between two re-education camps, a CCP school and a forced-labour sewing factory. After proving she was capable of being ‘well behaved’ and having performed a self-criticism in front of the whole village, Dina was released and managed to escape when she obtained a week’s leave to visit her ailing father in Kazakhstan.

Cultural genocide

China’s repression of ethnic minorities also involves cultural genocide. As Muslim rituals are forbidden in Xinjiang, people are trying to keep their traditions alive across borders. Here, a family is praying together in Kazakhstan after the death of one of their relatives in Xinjiang. They could not repatriate the body because the border between the two countries was closed at the time.

(continue reading)

[merbear25]

For Kinktober, can I please request Sensual Massage with Sanji?

Hey! Hope you've been well. I think I got a bit carried away with this 🤭 Hope you like it 💜🧡

You’d been working yourself to the bone for what felt like forever. It’d been a while since you did anything for yourself. Among some of your female coworkers, there was word buzzing of a spa that could offer more than just the typical services.

CW: NSFW, MDNI, fem!reader, some fluff, vaginal fingering, sex work

Tender hands (Sanji)

Rubbing your neck, you lingered over by the water cooler ideally. With your boss piling heaps of assignments on you, the stress of responsibility was affecting you physically.

“Feeling alright?” Your coworker chirped.

You glanced over at her and gave her a reassuring smile. “Yeah, just a bit overwhelmed if I’m being honest.”

The older woman nodded. She showed some hesitation to continue, deciding to take a quick look around to avoid any of your nosey colleagues.

“Between you and me,” she leaned in. “I was feeling the same as you not too long ago. But then, I discovered this spa and let me tell you, those masseuses certainly have magic fingers.”

The implications had you nervously fidgeting. “Oh, yeah?” You smiled politely.

She reached into her purse and pulled out a card. “Here, darling,” she soothed your nerves. “You go here and tell them you want this special. They’ll take good care of you.” She grinned at you before shuffling away to her cubicle.

Glancing at the card, you saw that the phrase ‘Sundae’ was scribbled on the back. You promptly shoved it into your pocket before continuing the workday—the business card seemingly burning for you to give into your curiosity.

Staying behind the others to finish the last bit of paperwork you’d been given. The heavy footsteps of your boss was the most dreaded sound imaginable.

“Just got these in. I’ll need these by the end of next week.” The way he smiled came off as if he thought he was doing you a favor by extending the due date. He patted the stack before excusing himself for the evening. He called back a ‘see you tomorrow’ with his back turned to you, waving lazily.

Rubbing your eyes from exhaustion, you could hear the strange offer from earlier calling out to you. As you stared at the card, you felt yourself being pulled more and more into temptation. It was such a bizarre recommendation, one which your curiosity couldn’t resist seeing through.

Upon arriving at the location, the dim lights made you second guess the hours. No, it should still be open. The door wasn’t locked but the lights were kept suspiciously low.

You tapped on the service bell and anxiously waited for someone. No more than a few moments must have passed before your nerves started getting the best of you. Wondering what on earth you were doing there, you slowly turned towards the door.

“Sorry to keep you waiting!” You heard a friendly voice call out.

“Oh! No, it’s fine… I-I don’t really know if I’ve got the right place actually.”

“What is it that you’re looking for?” The blonde man’s face made him appear kind and his voice was rather comforting.

You peeked down at the card and said in an almost mousey tone, “A sundae?” What a ridiculous code name… you thought to yourself.

His eyes lit up. “Ohh, okay,” he let out a good-natured chuckle. “First time?” The rhetorical question made you stumble over your words.

“Don’t worry. There’s no judgment here and everything will be kept confidential.” 

As he talked you through the basics, wanting to be sure this was something you were fully aware of and consented to, you were so flustered that you nodded and agreed to nearly everything he said.

“You can say ‘no’ if this isn’t for you, you know.” It came from a place of concern due to your unnatural eagerness.

“N-no! I…I want to do this. I’ve just never done anything like it before,” you admitted.

“In that case, I can assure you that you won’t regret it.”

He led you towards one of the massage rooms in the back. He informed you that he needed to prepare some of the oils and that you should go ahead and undress and lay down on the table. Giving you a warm smile, he left you momentarily.

Looking around the room, the candles gently placed throughout were not yet lit and the colors were an earthy tone, which did well to set a calming atmosphere.

Laying down on the table, you buried your face into the headrest in an attempt to hide your shame. As you were lost in your thoughts, the door clicking pulled you out of your fog.

As he apologized for the delay, he kept the conversation friendly and open in an attempt to ease those nerves of yours. He lit the candles and pressed play on the playlist, which was set to peaceful sounds of nature.

The squirts of warm massage oil coaxed a slight shiver from you.

“Is it too cold?”

“No, just wasn’t expecting it.”

His laugh was soft, endearing even. When his hands found their way to your back, you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. As his touch kneaded over your sore spots, your murmurs signaled for him to be gentle. When he came across tight knots, his skillful fingers worked them out—your soft moans being the encouragement he needed.

He focused on your lower back, and then eventually your glutes and thighs. You clung to the table in anticipation, only to be hushed by Sanji, “Just relax.”

He watched your movements closely, trying to gauge how you were feeling. Your legs parting gave him his answer. Massaging your inner thighs, his thumbs pressed small circles into your fatty flesh. The oil was warming your skin, making his fingers the welders of your pleasure.

Working his way closer to your pussy lips, your arousal was obvious—the wetness glistening slightly even in the dimly lit room. His thumbs tenderly massaged around your labias, which made the slick between them seep out a little. His other fingers kneaded your ass, causing you to involuntarily arch your back. The sweet moans coming out of you filled the room. As one was placed on your hip, rubbing it gently, the other traced over your folds.

Your body quaked and your breath hitched in your throat. The warmth from the oils was fanning the flames within you. His fingers glided over your clit, prompting your hips to shake and a whimper to pass over your soft lips.

His thumb circled over your sensitive bundle. Each gasp and tremble only made him work you harder to squeeze each euphoric laced cry out of you. As you groaned from your orgasm, his hands returned to your back—his hands firmer in order to work out the lingering bit of ecstasy.

He moved to your shoulders, letting you enjoy the stress of the day being released. Your huffs and soft pants were subsiding, which meant you were perfect for the next round.

Your hips were the center of attention again. The masseuse’s hands roamed over them, being sure to give an ample amount of affection to your lower back and sides, as well. You whimpered while his fingers teased your entrance. Instinctively, you bucked your hips slightly into his touch, yearning to be completely and utterly satisfied.

Though you couldn’t see his face, it held a look of relief. Seeing his clients go from a nervous and stressed wreck to ones so willing to put their trust in him never ceased to leave him in awe of their courage, their beauty.

He plunged one finger in to start. As your body adjusted to it, he could feel your walls spasming already. The feeling of a gorgeous woman coming undone from his touch was like no other. He couldn’t help but give in.

“That’s it, my sweet thing,” he cooed at you. “Just let go.”

He put another finger in you, followed by another shortly after. Your cries of ecstasy were making his head spin. Watching you grip at the table, the way you convulsed on his fingers, and the faint slapping of his hand against your slit: you were a depiction of pure angelic imagery.

Your groans and pants were evident that you were close to that long sought after edge. Leaning in slightly, he whispered for you to cum for him. Burying your face into the softened table, you could feel yourself slipping. 

Filling you completely with his experienced fingers, your body couldn’t hold on any longer. Your cries of reaching the peak of euphoria sounded throughout the room. As he guided you through your orgasm, a faint smile found its way to your spent complexion. Your body, now totally relaxed, went limp on the table.

“Thank you,” you murmured, your voice still raspy from your high.

Your politeness was much too sweet. He rubbed your hips again, beaming down at you. “That wasn’t so bad then, was it? You did great.”

He gave you some time to get dressed as he rang you up. Exchanging pleasant chit-chat, his inviting demeanor might be the most intoxicating thing about him.

When he handed you your receipt, his fingers ran lightly along yours. With a friendly grin, he added, “Hope to see you again.”

Your heart was pounding so hard against your chest, it was as if it was about to leap out of you. Once in your car, your eyes caught sight of a small note he left on the paper.

“Come by anytime during the evening on weekdays. I’ll be here to help you relax. Xoxo.”

Fawning over the note, you made sure to drop by every once in a while. Who knew? Maybe there was something other than business to explore.