#Those are among the dreaded questions

[driftingballoons]

This may be cheating by asking two questions but Favorite season and favorite movie?

Favorite season is probably spring! After going through the winter, love seeing the animals/plants reappear and feeling some sun :3

As for favorite movie…I don’t think I could possibly pick just one, but one I never get tired of is Spirited Away! Partly for nostalgia bc it was the first Studio Ghibli movie I saw in its entirety, and partly bc I actually…have a lot of trouble remembering all the plot points unless I’ve recently watched it 🙈

[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.

[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!

[theoxenfree]

ROOT ROT

possessed!scholar husband x reader|3.7k| 18+

following your cold and reticent husband's return from settling affairs with his deceased uncle's estate, he has changed and done things unheard of. once a great lover of botany and entomology, he has razed his garden to the ground as proof of his love to you. this man—this thing—os not your husband.

warnings;; pseudo-victorian setting, dubcon, mentioned dp, mentioned temperature play, cumshot on body, cum eating, other explicit sexual details, mentions of drug use (opium), unrequited love, hypnosis/trance, some horrific imagery, detail & prose heavy, roughly proofread.

this is a companion piece to imposter. you don't have to read it, but if you want a better idea of what is going on, I suggest you do!

a/n; I reappear after a month hiatus with this piece. I have questions and notes at the end of the fic that I'd love to have feedback to!

please reblog this if you've read it, guys! help keep your favorite writing and authors on this website by reblogging their work!!

“He is simply not himself!”

Bartolomé Medina knew his best friend better than you knew your husband, so you believed him when he said that your husband’s newly acquired, increasing eccentricities were not some fictitious imagining of yours.

Although, Medina himself could not explain the unexplainable and all of the oddness without growing visibly flustered.

A bit flushed in the face, singeing the roundness of his ears. He'd stamp out your justifications for strangeness in the same way he did the fine cigars he'd been accustomed to sharing with his friend, yet had not for quite sometime now.

“And you say his garden is dead?” Medina looked stricken with dread, suddenly ill by repeating something so blasphemous. “Now, my dear, please don't mistake my shock as disbelief. I very much believe in what you're saying. I've seen Solomon and his weirdness! Why, just this morning over breakfast, at a time where you were still tucked away in deep sleep, he wouldn't drink his coffee. So bizarre! That man knows the thousands of tastes and varieties of coffee beans, and he spat the very stuff out on the floor like it'd never once touched his tongue!

“But his garden? A botanist without his garden is like a bird without wings. A dog without a tail to wag. A newborn without his mother’s teat! Vulgar, I understand, but you see my point.” He drank from a heavy glass in his hand. The inside had nearly spilled over at one point with light brown which glittered gold under the overhead light, smelling slightly sour and earthy. “To think that Solomon would let it all die. Something is wrong. Something has happened to my only true friend and to your husband.”

You did not drink with any enthusiasm or anguish from your own cup, rather you used those seconds of delicate sipping to gap the conversation, separate yourself from it all for just a moment. You'd had your time to grieve and contend with knowing the man you had married and come to love was not the same one who kept you awake at night.

Solomon had once been a reclusive and reticent man, the only son of David Agrippa and sole heir of the Agrippa Diamond Mines and Jewelry Galleria. He'd never been able to replicate his father's ardor for business and entrepreneurship, choosing towards academic ventures of entomology and botany and most of everything belonging to the natural world instead.

Among his most prized things was a sprawling, domed greenhouse made of large sheets of pale blue-green glass soldered with metal which shifted rose-gold in bright daylight.

“I loved his garden, but I didn't much like to be in there with him,” you confessed, forgetting your manners as you kept your cup still against your lips, mumbling your words. “He liked to tell me about the plants and flowers he grew. Most of it I could never hope to understand, but… I loved seeing him come alive. He seemed to glow when he could tell me things, so I got into the habit of listening to him when he wanted to speak.”

Medina, not yet drunk or driven to any untoward behavior, set aside his empty vessel with jittering ice cubes and looked at you admiringly. “You said that you didn't like being in there with him? Why?”

“The bees. The bugs. The humidity. The fertilizer he liked to use because of the nitrogen content. He told me that it mattered what he used and couldn't just break up soil from the yard.” You said, tilting your cup.

After taking another sip, you determined you hated the taste of the liquor and how it slid down along your throat like fire trailing an oil spill, yet clung there with residual, syrupy stickiness that nearly made you gag.

“Why did you keep going inside?” Medina asked tranquilly, much of his previous frustration softened, body and soul warmed by the alcohol and how fondly he regarded your sweetness towards his friend.

You thought very little before answering, “I wanted to be where he was. It didn't matter to me if that meant his greenhouse or the coldest part of the arctic.”

That was the truth of it. Once you'd received the first crumbs of understanding who Solomon truly was beneath his stolid exterior built brick-by-brick from tragedy and grief and a lifetime of emotional ineptitude, you would've gone to any length to see more of him. To see his pale eyes gain a wild, flickering candlelight of passion, and the faintest of trembling smiles disguising how deeply your questions had aroused his soul.

In those moments, he revealed to you the things he loved the most and what you envied the most: the natural world.

The flittering, fat-bodied pollinators whose entire world were yellow and red flowers with succulent centers and lush, girthy leaves where they'd rest their weary, iridescent wings and could never understand your husband's appreciation of them.

The thousands of specimens he'd collected from every corner of the world and articulated thoughtfully against wood and felt. Their dead little limbs were pinned in place; perfect mimicry of how they would've been if still alive and crawling. He’d had them all meticulously framed and arranged across the walls in his office; trophies of his success, of his studies and hard work.

The innumerable plants and flowers he trimmed and watered in his greenhouse and the ones not contained within it. Some species he had planted in the yard, others in the cool shade of the nearby woods where they smothered native varieties with tendrils-like vines and climbed upside trees. More aquatic species were placed by the edge of the lake, growing into the water; buoyant; a woman's deep dark hair reaching forever for the surface.

He had turned the lonely, sprawling estate into a monument of life, of love that did not belong to you. And for that, sometimes you hated living there. Hated the things that he loved.

Choking the plants, poisoning their roots with any number of things from your father’s pharmacy crossed your mind more than once.

Feeding the bees something enticingly sweet and deadly; filling the greenhouse with noxious gas at night while they slept on their big leaves and your husband in his bed. It would've been such an easy thing for you to do—own your husband's grief as you held his face in your hands and comforted him in the morning when all had atrophied and rotted.

But, those feelings had become a reality you truly never wished to have seen after Solomon returned from his deceased uncle's estate months ago.

He was not the same man.

“Tell me what happened.” Medina’s voice buzzed in your ear from nearby, closer than it had been before. Your hand was caressed by tight warmth—his holding yours, his handsome face looking up at you from where he had crouched in front of your chair. “Tell me everything you've seen. It's of grave importance that you remember it all, as curing Solomon from his affliction relies solely upon you.”

You could not deny his earnestness, the squeeze of his fingers. A promise that he would not be easily shattered by what you had to say, and would think no less of his friend for it. Within his sincere stare, you saw the gleam of another, secret promise. The likes of which you pretended not to see, that he'd never speak of out loud.

“I…” you distracted yourself with the embroidery on your clothes, pinching loose threads and beads. “It was subtle, at first. I noticed some of the bees were dead on the ground. And then some plants had started developing spots. Leaves turned brown and yellow and fell off. A lot of them withered, even though their soil was still damp when I checked…”

And then, the morning came where you witnessed Solomon among a carnage of broken stalks weeping foul-smelling sap, leaves he'd ripped apart with his own hands, and some of his larger flowering plants with fiery manes completely severed. Their bountiful heads lay at his feet, flattened by the heel of his boot as he walked aimlessly, snipping and tearing indiscriminately.

“My god, Solomon! Stop!” you stepped around the countless tiny, contracted bodies of bees and other pollinators to reach him. He let go of the gardening shears as you grabbed them. “What are you doing?! What have you done?! Decades of work! Gone! Are you mad?!”

“Well, you've gone and ruined my surprise for you. I've been working on it for hours. I didn't expect you would be awake so soon.” Solomon said, sounding much like himself despite the savagery he stood surrounded by. He smiled at you in an unfamiliar way, as if trying to navigate his facial muscles around a mask. “Isn't it simply wonderful?”

The sweltering humidity trapped within this greenhouse of death had turned the air stagnant and foul, heavily pungent of detritus and mildew. Across all zones of the greenhouse, once painstakingly organized and labeled for the purpose of easier cataloging, no slithers of greenery or color remained. Each step you took in any direction seemed to sink you deeper into the decay, wet gurgling underfoot as you crossed stumpy mounds of plants and flowers he'd destroyed and thrown into piles.

“How could you? My husband spent almost twenty years building this garden and studying it. This was his life’s work!” You wished you could force life back into the severed plants; pray that the ground of yellow-brown waste would suddenly freckle with tiny, green sprouts and grow with thick stalks and thorns to keep his hands away.

“I am your husband.” Solomon took the gardening shears from your hand and tossed them aside. He leaned into your body, nose and lips pressed into the fabric covering your neck. “I've only done what you wanted. What you wished you could've done yourself, but never did.”

You flinched against the movement of his hands smoothing down your waist to the notches in your hips. Sliding inward, he unfastened the hook-and-loops and buttons holding your trousers up to push them down your thighs along with your undergarments.

“I know your thoughts and what you really think. I've been listening the entire time. I've always been listening.” Solomon let his hips roll along the back of his hand while he used his fingers to lay long, languid strokes on you. “It was tiring, wasn't it? Always competing for love and affection in a place like this. You were never going to have what you wanted. Not with this place still standing. Not with his ineptitudes and selfishness.”

His touch weakened you indescribably; like the caress of heat from the fireplace against your bare skin once the opium had taken effect. Swapping tiny pills on wet tongues with your maid until they'd dissolved into saliva and into your cheeks. You explored one another's bodies thoroughly on those cold nights, silky with sweat from the fire and exertion.

Yet, this was not the same as back then when the sexual appetite of two teenagers transcended societal morals.

Solomon encompassed you in a feeling; consumed you without ever digging into you with his teeth or nails. He could whisper hideous secrets and depravities to you to tip you over into searing euphoria. He had once penetrated you with a hot metal phallus resting on top of his own, thrusting with both until the metal cooled, and you still came anyway.

He'd put worse inside your body and done far worse than that in only a few short months since returning home, yet he never tired of the torture and you remained malleable and enthralled by it all.

“God, you are beautiful. And you are mine.” Solomon had maneuvered both your bodies to the ground, atop of the soggy detritus. Your back was exposed to the mush, leaves, and crushed flower petals, weight pushing an indentation in the loose soil. “This is the fruition of your desires, darling. Don't you love it? Destroying what he loved so you could have it all?”

The one who came back to you was not Solomon; the one fucking you into waste and dirt was not Solomon, either. You told yourself you needed to love imposter as well, because he looked like your husband; wore his signet ring, too.

At night, you imagined only his softest expressions behind clenched eyelids when he wanted to have his way with you, as something else entirely took his place. A creature so diabolical and unsightly that the servants now awaited your screams to rouse them awake in the murky midnight hours.

Every time they arrived with their candlesticks and oil lanterns, the thrusting spectre receded into the dark as a black mass hardly distinguishable from shadow.

Only Solomon would remain, and he was swift to send the servants away before they could see your improper, disheveled state sprawled across the bed sheets.

In the daytime light, his face stayed familiar and comforting to you and you could bear to see him, form some coherent words.

“Someone might—might see us out here, Solomon. Mr. Medina is supposed to—oh, oh, mmm—he’s due to arrive at any time.” You were given several long kisses, which turned into severe caresses of hot breath when his thrusts turned savage, cock reaching so deep you were starting to feel numb below the waist. A feverous response. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

He adjusted himself to lay on your chest, the sweat on your bodies offering an effortless glide and new angle for his cock that made your moans deeper and dire. Such sounds, whether in agony or pleasure, were melodious to him. Addicting drags from a pipe in an opium den; an alcoholic's first sip at breakfast; a cheating man's night with a new lover.

“Wouldn't you like for them to see that? For someone to witness you being fucked into the ground? Surrounded by everything their master loved?” Solomon tucked his face into the curve of your neck and groaned, hips slow and stuttering. “Bartolomé would be the one to find it most tantalizing. His only friend in the world ruining the only person he's ever loved. Wouldn't that be a sight? We could invite him to watch.”

At the time, it had been quite jarring to learn Bartolomé harbored those silent, ardent feelings for you. It had sufficiently pulled you from whatever trance Solomon had lulled you into, reacquainting you with all the sounds of sex and the filth clinging to your skin. It was as though your mind had been locked into a mostly airless, noiseless void that he controlled and released at will.

You held tight to his shoulders as he molded you deeper into the muck and plant litter. The squat, friable walls of soil holding your shape like the cushions in a tomb, whereas Solomon was the man lowering you into the dark earth; the last to see your face before covering it in clay and dirt.

He was in your ear with loud moans that resonated through you, simultaneously as carnal as a beast amidst its seasonal rut, and velvety as the feathery smooth glide of fingers down your spine. His throat rumbled against you, resembling the intensity of a purring housecat nestled near your head in contentment.

At his tipping point, he removed his cock from your body and used the slippery stuff glistening off it to stroke himself; weepy, deep red tip to the base. You received the aftermath of his release in thick ropes across your abdomen and chest, the warmth of it already cooling on your skin while he continuously kneaded the head to force out what remained as if they were dewdrops made from pearls.

“How do you think Bartolomé would fare seeing you like this?” Solomon swept two fingers through the cum in an elegant curl to smear it around his cock. The viscous white thinned into pale gloss on his girth and a sticky residue inside his hand.

Your lips parted to give an answer, but his fingers and taste were faster than your words.

“And… that is all? Truly?” Bartolomé asked, shattering your visions of the recent past as he revealed a compact silver case from inside his vest, pulling a cigarette from within it. “You simply walked into the garden one morning and saw that he had destroyed everything? He gave you no explanation whatsoever?”

The imposter had stolen much of your dignity over the months, but enough of it remained for you to omit every significant detail from your story. You'd only told him that Solomon had cut the heads off of rare flowers, mumbled in a disorienting way, and gave you no difficulty with the gardening shears.

Bartolomé went away from your side for an open window across the spacious sitting room, matching his cigarette and blowing gray plumes out into the dense summer air.

“This is concerning.” He spoke loud enough for you to hear, even with his thumbnail tracing the underside of his lower lip, muffling him somewhat. “Solomon is considerably worse off than I first thought. We need to investigate this, retrace his every step since the moment he left you that night for his uncle's estate.”

“Oh, Bartolomé, that will be very unnecessary.” Solomon announced himself as he walked in through the open doors, offering you a tepid smile, which came nowhere close to reaching his eyes. Your chair jostled slightly as he stood behind it, a weighty hand landing on the tall back above your head. “Why trouble yourself with employing some ludicrous scheme when you could, ah, inquire as to what haunts you instead?”

Bartolomé tamped out his cigarette on the windowsill and pocketed it. “You are ill, Solomon. You may be suffering from some form of hysteria. It's time you visited a doctor, my old friend.”

“Well, that just isn't true.” Solomon kept the neutrality in his tone, but you tracked a rumble of agitation; a warning not far off. His hand followed the curvature of the chair down to the arm that you leaned against, fingers touching your shoulder, lightly kneading you through your clothes.

He was sure to be in Bartolomé’s eyesight as he did this, further aggravating the heavy disquiet. You didn't dare to move out of reach of his touch.

“But, it is true, Solomon!” Bartolomé insisted, gesturing toward the window. “What of your garden? All of your life's work now means nothing, you damned fool! You've snapped, old boy. See a doctor before you do something you regret.”

“That garden was more a source of misery than it was a boon. At any rate, I'm quite finished listening to you harp at me for one night, my dear friend.” Solomon lightly stroked down your cheek with bent fingers, coaxing you to look up at him. “It's time for bed, darling. Us impropertious brutes have kept you up for too long.”

You hesitated, and then stood when Solomon took your arm. “Alright.”

“As usual, your accommodations should exceed expectations. I'll have a servant wake you for breakfast again tomorrow.” It was too soon to call those Solomon's departing words to Bartolomé, as he stopped with you in the doorway, your hand caressing the meat of his forearm. “You know, Bartolomé, I would recommend marrying soon. There is no greater feeling than having the one you love so close to you, don't you think?”

Bartolomé became unreadable as he fished a hand into his vest pocket for the cigarette case again. You were led away for the bedroom before anything else could be said, but you knew that Solomon had struck a nerve.

“That was cruel.” you said.

Once in the bedroom, your back was pressed flush to the door while he unfastened the buttons to your outerwear and the blouse underneath it. Solomon kissed your lips slowly, first, before moving underside your jaw after shucking you down to your undergarments.

“And you are mine. You made your vows to me. Remember that, my sweet.”

You watched him strip out of his clothes and then stroke the length of his cock until it was hard.

“I married someone else. Not you.”

As he dimmed the lights within the space, sweeping the bedroom under a shroud of near pitch black, your annoyance shifted into a swell of anxiety both freezing cold and burning hot. Your body pulsed in rhythm with your wild heartbeat, throat clenched as tightly as infantile flower buds.

You waited for Solomon to touch you, startling once he finally did. His fingers had elongated and sharpened, his touch now far more delicate and methodical.

“Don't worry, he’s still in here with me.”

a/n; so, some notes real quick

do not count this scene as canon bc idk how much I'm going to take from it to incorporate into the actual story. like, certain things will be there fs, but a good chunk won't.

tbh, this didn't go as hard as I thought it was going to. by comparison to the actual story, this is pretty tame. but I've already relented that the full story is just hopelessly slutty and pornographic lmaooo

bartolomé medina was actually included late into my current version of the story outline. I wanted a somewhat paralleling foil character for solomon, and he's who I came up with. in a lot of ways, bartolomé and solomon are very similar, which is why they get along so well as friends. but, they're also starkly different in other aspects (e.g. wealth differences, careers, bartolomé forces his sociability and personality, whereas solomon can't be fucking bothered). tbh, I love bartolomé as a character and this oneshot does not do him justice—at all.

sadiya, mc's maid, is actually the most important supporting character in the entire story and is completely different from her first appearance in imposter. like, completely. I'd like to do one more concept piece where I can actually introduce her.

men moaning is one of the hottest things imo. get out of here with that silent ejaculating bs.

NOW, ONTO QUESTIONS!!!

what are your thoughts on me incorporating the idea that bartolomé is in love with mc into the actual story? there is a possibility of an ending with him if enough folks show interest before the final chapters. or, would you prefer it strictly focused on solomon, the demon, and mc? this subplot would not come to fruition as a side romance or "cheating" plotline. like I said, bartolomé exists mainly as a parallel and foil for solomon.

are you guys interested in smut scenes with actual, explicit details of the demon in his true form (he ain't pretty y'all. this story is majorly psychological for a reason). but, if you kinky fucks want it, I'm happy to oblige.

would having a bolder mc who experimented with things (mainly opium) and has a bit more of a sexually promiscuous background take you out of immersion and be a deterrent, or would you be interested in me continuing that route? be honest.

I dropped several hints in this piece on the inspired identity of the demon in the story. have you guessed who? 👀

how depraved y'all want me to get with the smut scenes fr???

[cthulhus-curse]

What To Expect When You're Expecting

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Word Count: 11,175

Warnings: Angst, Degradation, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Miscarriage, Other, Pregnancy, Reader has a Penis, Smut | 18+ Minors DNI

Summary: Wanda’s pregnancy is a journey you’d never let her transverse by herself, so through every little moments of it, you are there by her side holding her hand whether good or bad moments ensue.

Wide, hazy green eyes flickered over the small stick beneath them. They tried to make sense of it, to find an explanation for it, among the others scattered in the room that shared similar results. Teeth grabbed her bottom, chapped lip in their grasp. They dug themselves deep enough to draw small bits of blood, but nothing was enough to avert her gaze away – away from the two lines that showed a positive result that other tests shared.

After her period had been late and a mysterious sickness overtook her each morning with a heightened sensitivity for certain smells, Wanda knew to rush to the store and buy enough pregnancy tests to get concise results. She waited patiently, and when they all came about with the similar conclusion, her giddiness soon turned to dread. Surely she hadn’t been careful, the point had always been for her to reach such a place after months of discussing it with you, and yet it was impossible to rid herself of the tight knot forming in her chest. Once again, she had to duck as she threw up, and the tears in her eyes were from both excitement and fear. 

“Honey, I’m home!”

Stuck in her trance, Wanda barely took in the words as you passed through the front door. She cleaned her mouth, and while standing gripping the bathroom sink, she couldn’t help but look up at herself. Her breathing was ragged, surely her sudden anxiety making the most of the situation. Previously she had been ready, even joyous, to find such a result, but when reality came about, Wanda nearly ran from the responsibility of it all. 

“Hey, where are you? You’re not gonna believe what happed to Jen at work. We were walking to get lunch and she tri- Wanda?” Your voice grew louder the closer you got. Soon enough you stood in the middle of your shared bedroom inside a seemingly empty house – apart from the light peeking from under the bathroom door that was. Frowning, you carefully stood before it and lightly knocked. “Wanda, are you in there?”

There came no response as Wanda grew lightheaded. She could feel her knees beginning to give out as her thoughts went blank, all except for that small twinge of insecurity that made its way across her mind. You’re not good enough, it said. And as she fell against the floor, her backside stinging, a feeling that mirrored the tears cascading down her face, Wanda believed it. 

“Baby? Is this…” You didn’t want to assume, but based on previous experiences, you posed the question. “Did you get your period? I can go get your heating pad and put on a sitcom while I run to the store and get you some chocolate. Oh, I can even make you those salted caramel banana pancakes you like and get you some meds for the pain.” All you received as a reply was a choke sob, and although it could be nothing, you wouldn’t dare take a chance. “Shit, that’s not good,” you mumbled before trying the door handle again. “Honey, I’m coming in!”

A mental note was made for you to remind yourself to repair the door after you used all your strength to crack it open. Hissing, you stared down at the broken lock, but alas, that was not your focus. Instead you went to Wanda’s aid, and as soon as you saw her sitting in the corner of the bathroom so disheveled and finding it difficult to catch her breath, you were on your knees before her.

Your hands clutched Wanda’s shaky ones. They squeezed tight to signify your appearance, to show your wife that she was there, that she was safe with you. Leaning in, you pressed your lips against her clammy forehead and left them there as you pulled her close to you. Even in her highly frightened state, she knew to throw herself onto you and allow herself to be comforted. 

“Shh you’re safe, sweetheart. You’re right here at home safe in my arms. See?” You accented your words by running your hand up and down her arm, and cupping her face, cleaning up tears, so she could feel you. “You’re safe, Wanda.”

Minutes passed until she could finally catch her breath. Wanda cried out loud, but the sounds were muffled by your chest as she nuzzled against. Ever since you had met her, she dealt with extreme bouts of anxiety that left her frozen. Quickly you learned to comfort her during those times, but it was rare for Wanda to exhibit such feelings after a long time of being fine.

She was still shaky and her sight seemed unfocused, but once she stopped crying, Wanda finally spoke. “I’m pregnant.” 

“Oh?” You frowned as your brain rummaged to take in the words and make sense of them. It had been months of non-stop work to get to that point, so as soon as you registered them, your eyes widened. “Oh!”

“They’re all…” Wanda exhaustively looked around the bathroom, nudging a pregnancy test with her hand to show you. “They’re all positive. I know this is what we’ve been trying for, but I’m scared. I can’t do this, Y/N?”

“How come? You’re the most capable and confident woman I know,” you mumbled as you brushed wild strands of red away from Wanda’s face. “You’ll be a great mother, Wanda. That little peanut would be lucky to have you as a mom, if that’s what you still want.”

Wanda knew it to be true, and although she would always have the option to not go through with the pregnancy, the thought of having a small kid running around the house made her smile before her thoughts turned sour. “But what if something happens to me or you like it happened to…them?” 

The crash had occurred during your childhood. You knew Wanda then, and as soon as you heard of your parents getting into an accident, your blood turned cold. You were only kids during that time. Back then you didn’t stop crying whenever the slightest mention of your parents came about, and it was up to both Wanda and Pietro, their family as well, to comfort the lonely orphan they left behind. Although you didn’t dare bring up your parents much, it surely had been something you gave thought you when trying for a child. 

“That’s not going to happen, honey. I promise,” you reassured her. “Plus, I’d do anything to keep you safe. I won’t let anything happen to you or to myself, okay? Not under my watch.”

“Thank you,” Wanda stuttered out weakly. “I, uhm, I know I’m showing the exact opposite, but I’m really happy right now.”

There was nothing for you to feel, but as you dragged a hand to Wanda’s stomach, one of her own subsequently flying to yours, your heart skipped a beat. “Me too, baby.”

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

During the first trimester you were focused entirely on educating yourself about the baby on the way. Wanda had gone to see Dr. Harkness, a friend of hers at that, who only gave more certainty to the pregnancy. She hissed the first time the gel was squirted onto her belly as a wand soon came to pass over it. The six weeks mark passed, and an entire month after you two had found out was finally met. 

“Well that’s definitely a fetus in there,” Agatha hummed as she stared at the screen. She left the wand unmoving, turning to a laying Wanda for you and her to see the screen. There was barely anything there but a small circle she deemed as the baby. “Everything looks fine. The little bugger is about the size of a sweet pea right about now. You see that blob right there?” Agatha pointed at the circle. “That’s your baby.” 

“Our baby,” Wanda repeated with adoration. She clung to your hand and stared up at you with glowing eyes that drifted down to her abdomen. “Can you believe it, honey? That’s our kid.”

“That’s a pretty cool blob,” you settled for laughing at the sight of it, which only earned you a light slap for your wife. “But yeah, that’s our sweet pea.” 

“Sweet peas,” Agatha casually corrected. 

The room went silent as she uttered her words and kept staring at the screen that showed off a second blob. You and Wanda stared at it, then at each other, all before returning to the screen. Surely the idea of having a child was solidified in your minds and you were ready for what was to come, but never did you expect to find out you were having two at once. 

“Come again?” You sputtered with fear. “Sweet peas?” 

“It looks like you’re having twins. It should show up better during your next ultrasound, but from what I can see, those are two fetuses growing in there,” Agatha said with the utmost calmness. “Thank god I only got stuck with one. Between Kate and the newborn, I have been stuck taking care of two kids as it is.”

Neither nor Wanda were awaiting to find out you were having twins. As you found out, the rest of the appointment went quiet. Even when you scheduled the follow-up, Wanda squeezed your hand for dear life and nodded dumbly when the dates were given to her. You waltzed to the car in a haze, and as soon as you entered, Wanda didn’t care to start the car.

“Twins,” was all she said in defeat.

Gulping, you nodded with a blank stare. “Yup, twins.” 

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

While keeping up with her changing hormones, you were always there by Wanda’s side. Whether it was to hold her hair up as she puked or even ridding yourself of smells that made her nauseated, you were unable to leave her as it was. She needed you the same way you needed her. Especially in her state, you refused to leave her alone. 

So it was a no-brainer when you met Wanda’s urges…all of them. 

“How do I look? I feel a bit stupid,” Wanda grumbled as she stood by the door frame exiting the bathroom. She gazed down at her body and cringed slightly. Her breasts had already increased in size slightly, something she knew had your mouth watering in secrecy. Surely she’d be excited for such a feat if it wasn’t for the soreness she felt upon them. Sighing, she watched as they were clothed in frilly fabric before eyeing the skirt that barely covered her thighs. “Don’t you think it’s…too much? I know we’ve done more before, but I don’t think I look great.”

You knew Wanda was talking to you, but you were unable to register the words as your eyes nearly boggled out of your head. Regardless of her insecurities, you settled then that she was absolutely glorious while wearing the outfit you got her. It was one that mirrored that of a maid with a little band over her head and even thigh-high socks to match. Surely when you bought it Wanda hadn’t been pregnant, but it made her appear more delicious as her body begged to break free from the tight dress. 

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” you grunted. With a mind of its own, all nude sitting at the edge of the bed, your cock twitched. You gulped down with embarrassment, but the flush over your cheeks was enough to help Wanda relax with amusement. “I, uhm, I really like it.”

Raising her eyebrows, Wanda scoffed. “Yeah? Perv.”

“You’re the one that agreed to it!” You exasperated back as Wanda made her way towards you, her hips swaying even more than usual as her breasts threatened to spill out of the confines of the dress. “I didn’t mind if you picked out the cow outfit, the princess one, or even the cat ears.”

“A cow?” She stood before you with arms crossed. Her gaze averted itself to the harness between your legs. “But I wouldn’t be the one getting milked, sweetheart. Shouldn’t you be my little cow?”

“Not when you’re my whore of a maid,” you confidently said, but immediately regretted your words. “Sorry, was that too much? I know you said you’d like it but I don’t know how to be mean to you. Guess I just love you a lot.”

The head tilt she gave you was a trademark move of her. “If you love me then you should treat me like a whore, baby. We can take it slow if you’d like. Hm, maybe do a little bit more roleplaying. Wouldn’t you like that, master?”

Wanda’s hand grazed your hard cock, and for a moment time stopped. No matter how many years you had spent by each other’s sides, you still melted as you did the first time she touched you. There was no denying your adoration for her. Wanda was everything you wanted and more. The simplest movement caused you to moan and throw your head back, while she smiled watching you intently. 

“R-roleplaying?” 

“That’s right. Lay back for me, honey,” she pushed you onto the bed before taking her rightful place on top of you. “Today is all about me cleaning up the mess I caused. I made you this hard and sticky, huh?” Wanda questioned in awe as she gripped your dick. “Maybe some other time you can film us while fucking me. We can pretend I love posting videos online and slutting myself out for the world to see, and you’re the little pervert that makes me. Fuck, I want you in control so bad. As much as I love making you squirm, I just need you to blow off all your steam on me while I…” she leaned in dangerously close. “Blow something else.”

“Oh my god,” you whined as you felt the tip of your member being brushed against Wanda’s slick, throbbing center. Her words made your skin burn bright red while she lit it aflame. It was impossible to resist her, but even more so in her pregnant state that made her glow further. “I- just wait a second.”

Wanda knitted her eyebrows together as you hastily reached out to the nightstand. She was even more confused when you retrieved a small packet. Knowing what it was fueled her innocence. Watching you tear it open was just the last straw she needed to break out. 

“Wha- what are you doing?”

You shrugged, sharing a similar amount of doubt with her. “I’m…putting on a condom?”

“Why? You can’t get me more pregnant than I already am,” her laughter made you feel embarrassed, but you knew she had a point. 

“Well, I just thought it would be safer to-”

“Y/N, you have about five seconds to put yourself inside of me before I make you,” Wanda grumbled. Her hand reached out for the condom you tried to tear open, only to grab it and throw it over her head. Neither cared where it landed. Not when she slowly pulled herself away from you and teased her way out. “Five, four, three, two…”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!”

Your hardened length was grabbed and lied up against her gaping hole. Pulling up her skirt, you were met with the glorious sight of her shaven pussy. It made it easy to see her juices running down her inner thighs and hear the sloshing sounds of her pussy as you rubbed against it. With a nod from Wanda, you very slowly pushed your way inside, almost erupting immediately as you clung to her hips for support. 

“There you go,” Wanda whimpered with feigned confidence. “Oh f- fuck baby!”

No matter how many times Wanda had you inside her, she simply couldn’t grow tired of it. Her velvety walls clung to your cock for dear life. They welcomed you with a tight hug that made it impossible for her to descend further on you. It was then up to you to hold her in place and gently push yourself to her depths. 

“Is that good?” You knew she wanted more, so you gave it to her. Even if your bottom lip was gnawed by your teeth, you wanted your wife to enjoy herself. “You fucking slut.”

“Your slut,” Wanda echoed with a sudden thrill dripping from her voice. “I love it so much, master. You spoil me, always making me feel so good.”

“Well, it’s your job to clean this mess up,” you explained as you found a steady rhythm. Your eyes were glued to her pussy where your cock was deeply nestled inside. It wasn’t hard to see how you disappeared inside Wanda, feeling as your balls slapped against her skin letting out a mouth-watering sound. “I don’t give a fuck about how it makes you feel. You’re my property, meaning you should be focused on making your master feel better. You wouldn’t want me to find a better maid to help me out with my not-so-little problem, would you?”

“No!” 

The two of you always discussed the scenes previously. Wanda held your hand as she told you exactly what you wanted. Although she knew you were apprehensive about potentially hurting her feelings, she promised it would do the exact opposite. Being made to feel like nothing turned her on to no end. As an alternative she said you could use a paddle on her, one that you used only a handful of times. Surely hurting her made you feel aroused as well, but with her being pregnant you hesitated to be too much. 

When she was on top of you bouncing like the perfect maid, all those thoughts subsided. She swallowed your dick as though it was meant to be. You were her owner, and Wanda, as she begged to be, was your dumb property. Grabbing the neckline of her dress, one that barely covered her breasts, you strongly tugged at it. 

Her tits poured out of the torn fabric making you even more motivated to ram her. Your hands curiously grabbed both of them, ensuring to squeeze them tenderly so as to not hurt your lover who pushed them closer to you. Rosy erect nipples were swirled before being pinched enough to draw a scream from the depths of Wanda’s throat. You loved hearing her, but more so if the entire neighborhood was well-aware of how you took her. 

“Fuckin’ bitch,” you grunted. The deeper you went, the closer you got to your tip pressing against her sweetest spongy spot that always made her cum when repeatedly stimulated. “You like that? I bet you do. You’re nothing but a stupid cumrag for me to use. A fleshlight can do the same fucking thing you can, but you can’t shut up, huh? Go on, show the neighbors just how good your master fucks you. I bet they all know by now what a dumb cumrag of a maid you are by now.”

Never had you gone so far with your degrading verbiage. Most of the time you kept to sweet praises. Seeing Wanda smile beneath you as you worshiped her body was enough. You didn’t even need release, but instead to spoil your partner as she wished. Now that she had many different thoughts about what could be done to her, you’d humor her ideas until the end of time. 

“Baby I’m so fucking close,” Wanda broke out of character for only a few seconds, but you wouldn’t fault her for that. She desperately jumped up and down your dick as she begged you to ruin her for anyone else. From the dress that was tugged up, you could practically see the outline of your penis even through her appetizing stomach rolls you’d often kiss before eating her out. “Ah! Y/N!”

Using all your strength, you made quick work to flip her over so she’d be laying on her back while you rammed her from above. Wanda hugged you close, and as drunk in lust as she was, she still found time to giggle when your face buried itself between her tits. That sound immediately died in her lips when you gave her something to cry out about. 

The moment Wanda came, you did so as well. Her pussy was unbelievably tight and it gripped you with an immense force you simply couldn’t get anywhere else – not even with the beloved fleshlights she’d gotten you. Your balls hit her skin as you were close enough to merely ghost in the slightest bit at her swollen clit. 

As Wanda rode out her orgasm, you stuffed her to the brim with your own seed. You didn’t remember the last time you came so much. Still, it was nothing compared to the desperation you had felt on the night you conceived after a rather wild time at her friend’s birthday party when you returned home to claw at one another. The woman had begged you for months to fill her up “nice and good” as she said, and although you had been successful in your chore, you simply couldn’t shake that feeling away. 

Even when the two of you were spent, your tongue stuck out and licking at her sore breasts and nipples, you were still balls-deep inside of her. “That was…fuck.” It was impossible to find the proper words to describe such achieved pleasures. “It was amazing.”

Wanda allowed you to nuzzle your face and almost suffocate yourself on the valley of her breasts. “You really outdid yourself, master,” she chuckled. “But I do think it’s time for me to do a better job at cleaning, with my mouth at that, sweetheart.” 

That night neither of you found the strength to do anything else but devour one another. Wanda’s hormones grew, but so did you desire for her. Even later in the shower you were unable to keep your hands off her in your exhausted state, eventually falling asleep hugging her tightly. With her by your side, it was a wonder how you got anything done. 

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“You know, I’ve been doing some reading…”

Although more words were spoken, you simply couldn’t help but involuntarily ignore them. There came enough stress once the first trimester was out of the way. The monthly appointments with Wanda’s doctor helped relieve some of it. Agatha was kind enough to reassure you two that although pregnancy with twins was not a walk in the park, that you’d do well. But alas, that did not soothe the anxieties you felt over telling her parents. During the beginning of the second trimester Wanda decided to tell them, and she wanted you to be there for it. 

Oleg and Irina weren’t bad people whatsoever. During your childhood once your parents passed, they were the ones who were always there by your side when your grandparents took you in. If anything were the surrogates of what you lost in the beginning, guardians who’d ensure you’d never be harmed. Even when you and Wanda became open about your relationship, nothing changed. They still loved you, and yet you sought out their approval enough to fear anything other than that. 

“...and then Peggy actually ate her placenta. She told me all about it while I was eating lunch and I’ve never felt sicker. Apparently it tastes really good, but I wouldn’t be able to do it,” Wanda carried on. It was only the end that you barely listened to, and were far too confused to ask her to explain herself again. “I can’t imagine walking out of the hospital with your placenta in a bag. Do you think they drain the blood? I mean, I assume you do. Does it count as meant or…Y/N? Are you listening to me, honey?”

“Yeah, that’s awesome. Sounds great,” you absentmindedly replied. Your eyes were on the clock stuck to the wall counting down the minutes until her family arrived as you did your best to add the finishing details to the meal you had cooked together – meaning only you did the work while Wanda stood back and attempted not to puke at all the strong smells.

“So you want to eat my placentas?” Wanda asked with raised eyebrows. That made you turn to her with bewilderment-stricken features. Waltzing towards you, Wanda pressed her front against your back. Her chin rested on your shoulder with arms that quickly wrapped themselves around you. “What’s wrong, baby? You’re so tense.”

“I’m so scared to tell your parents,” you shuddered. “What if your mom thinks I’m no good for you? Or if your dad doesn’t want me seeing you any longer?”

“Sweetheart, we’re not high schoolers anymore. My dad walked me down the aisle on our wedding day and gave me off to you. I don’t think he’s going to try to get us divorced,” Wanda chuckled against your ear. “Besides, he’ll miss his bowling buddy. You know what happened the last time he tried replacing you with Pietro when we were on our honeymoon.”

The clear image of the picture Irina had sent you and Wanda of that night still made you laugh. Pietro had been smart enough to throw, not slide, the bowling ball hard enough that it went to another lane and proceeded to smash itself against the bar covering the pins. Oleg would never let his son live it down and reassured his son it was best to stick to his career as a football player than anything else, something which Pietro agreed with. They all loved you, you knew that much, and when you took Wanda’s last name, becoming a Maximoff yourself, you turned into one of the family. 

“Don’t overwhelm yourself, my love,” she reassured you lovingly with a peck on the cheek. “They love you so much, and so do I. I bet they’ll be so excited to know we got two little peanuts on the way. Now, let me finish this up and go get ready. They’ll be here any second. 

Surely enough as soon as you descended the stairs and made your way into the dining room, Wanda’s family already sat there. Your wife had been kind enough to put out the food she finished cooking. Waving at her parents and her brother, you attempted to dim down your anxious thoughts as you pulled out Wanda’s seat, allowed her to sit, and then did the same for your own. 

Towards the beginning you were a frozen mess. You couldn’t stop thinking of the worst-case scenario. Rationality was thrown out the window as within your peripheral view you could take sight of the tiniest sign of Wanda’s bump showing. Gulping down the knot forming on your throat, you began bouncing your leg. 

“So, what was so important that you just couldn’t tell us over the phone?” Pietro questioned as he immediately dug into his paprikash chicken. “You know, I had to miss practice just to travel down from the city. You better be pregnant or something.”

As soon as he finished speaking, you were chugging down a whole bunch of water. Rather than spit it all out, you swallowed with wide, fearful eyes, only sputtering out tiny drops as you hid your face away in embarrassment. Wanda did her best to keep her smile suppressed, but it was impossible to do so as your torture was her amusement. 

“Actually…” she reached out for your clammy hand and squeezed it. “I am pregnant, twelve weeks!”

“Twelve? And you’re only telling us now?” Oleg sounded hurt, but it was nothing compared to Irina’s beam of excitement. If Pietro wouldn’t give her grandchildren, she trusted her daughter would. “You’re almost halfway there by now! How did this happen?”

At that your eyebrows were furrowed, but you decided to answer his bizarre question nonetheless. “Well, sir, when two people love each other they-”

Wanda wasted no time in slapping your arm hard enough to nearly make Pietro choke on his food out of the hilarity of it all. Her parents frowned, but all your wife did was flash them a smile as her hand dropped to your lap. The last thing she wanted was for you to dread having experienced such humiliation even more. 

“Sorry, papa. Y/N and I really wanted to tell you, but I got scared. It’s so new to us and we wanted to make sure nothing would…happen.” Her voice was shaky, and you knew exactly what she referenced. It wasn’t the first time you had gotten the news of her pregnancy. Back then the two of you had been fresh out of high school, just two dumb kids going about life without precaution. Both were scared yet thrilled at the idea of having a child as you went to college, but that only lasted for a few months up until Wanda was awoken by a searing pain and a pool of blood gushing down her legs. It was the worst year of your shared lives, and from then on you made sure to not only protect her body, but also her mind and heart. “We wanted to be sure, that’s all.”

He wasn’t upset, but Wanda knew her father loved being involved in her life. They sat in silence for a second awaiting his reply only for Oleg to show off his excitement. He congratulated the two of you, making sure to run to the other side of the table to wrap his daughter up in a hug. Just as they had cherished you as a child, they’d do the same to the twins on the way. 

The remainder of dinner went by smoothly, but just as you began relaxing, Wanda made you tense more. Her dominant hand moved around your lap until it eventually went to cup your soft penis through your pants. It rubbed you up and down, gripping only slightly as you let out a stifled grunt. And yet your wife was unfazed, smiling even as she used her free hand to take a sip of her water. 

“Doesn’t that make you feel better?” Wanda allowed herself to lean onto you far enough so her whispers were unheard by the others. “All you need is some…released. If you behave for the rest of dinner,” her eyes looked down at your growing bulge where a small pool of wetness began forming through your briefs and slacks. Slapping you gently, she hummed. “Then maybe I’ll give you what you want. You can even take me from behind just how you like it, baby. I’ll be a good girl only if you are good as well. Remember that.”

You couldn’t stop counting down the minutes until Wanda’s family left, and as soon as they did, you were pleased with what she had to offer you. While insatiable, your wife loved putting your needs above her own. After all, getting on her knees and looking up at you as she pleased you was one of her favorite things.

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Around week 16, according to the calendar you set up on your cubicle at work, Wanda began showing even more. Her flat stomach was adorably swollen. Often she’d stare into the mirror and grimace at what she saw after stepping out of the shower, but you bore holes into her body with your insistent stares. Maybe she didn’t believe it, but the further into her pregnancy Wanda got, the more you lusted after her. 

When she was at work and you were left to go into your shifts from home, thankful to be part of the IT department at a law firm, you took care of yourself. Your growing appetite for Wanda made it impossible for her to keep up with you, you mused. So instead you settled on doing what she did for you, although it never did feel the same. 

Sitting with your back pressed against the headboard, you groaned. You had poured enough lubricant onto your cock to get it all nice and shiny before doing the same with a clear fleshlight. Wanda was an avid lover of it. She’d watch in awe, sometimes even move it herself, as your cock was enveloped by the sweet material. It was impossible for her to not grow incredibly wet at the sight. 

“Fuck,” you mumbled into the nothingness of the room. Your laptop was open right on the bed with the program from work ready in case you needed to watch over it further. It didn’t faze you though. You still guided your thick, hard cock to one of the openings of the fleshlight and lined yourself up perfectly.

The warmth that enveloped your dick was nowhere near as delicious as it was when Wanda was around, but it would have to do. You took your time with her, but not when you were alone. Rather than care about how much pain you exerted on the toy, as you’d do with your wife, you let yourself go. 

Animalistic thrusts came about as you focused solely on jacking off. It felt so good to be rough and uncarity. With one hand you held the fleshlight in place while the other went down to carefully massage your balls, prodding them with adoration as you imagined it was Wanda touching you. 

Fucking the fleshlight, you longed for it to be Wanda’s pussy. She was always so drenched and ready for you, making it easier to slip inside without any issues. Getting her pregnant was just the tip of the iceberg. It was what made all of your desires spill out of Pandora’s Box. Every single sick, perverted thought you had, you humored. And knowing your partner, you knew she’d happily indulge you without a question asked. 

Deciding to tease your wife, you reached out for your phone. The camera was pointed at the toy where your dick disappeared into, and as you got it on video, you smiled. Wanda loved nothing more than to watch you masturbate. At times she simply sat back to look at how you made yourself come undone. You’d be desperate yet confident in your thrust as she knew you pretended to be fucking her. 

“Fuck, baby. I miss your pussy,” you let out a guttural moan from Wanda to enjoy. The wet, sloshing sound of the fleshlight being masterfully fucked was all she’d hear. “This is how I’m fucking you as soon as you get home. I bet your pussy’s gonna be so wet and ready for me. ‘M gonna get you to beg for this cock, slut.”

For the past few weeks the two of you further explored Wanda’s insistent desire to be degraded. Not only did she want such vile words to be spewed her way, but also to be treated as though she was nothing more than a toy for your amusement. You could claim her whenever you saw fit. While you loved the idea, it would take a lot more coaxing from her part to make it happen. 

Sending off the short video, you kept up the slapping sounds even when you got the receipt that Wanda saw it. You could already imagine how she’d excuse herself from her cubicle and run off to the bathroom in a haze. Her mind always felt too cloudy when she was turned on, and once she came it all turned blank. 

In only a matter of minutes, you received back an image of her wetness through her panties with a caption reading “for you, my favorite perv.” Two could play that game, you thought after having saved the image – Wanda knew full well you stared at the little folder of herself that you had in the depths of your phone. You each sent the other numerous pictures and videos, with Wanda showing you exactly how drenched she was at the thought of you, and how heavy her breasts appeared. It was the sight of that alongside her swollen tummy that made you cum all over your own stomach, her name coming out choked from your lips. 

“Can’t wait to see what you have planned for me at home,” Wanda texted as she saw the image of the cumshot you sent her. “I’ll be ready for you, Y/N.”

And as much as you hated to admit it, a sole text like that made you fully hard once more. 

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“Baby, I’m hungry!”

You mused that was your Bat-signal as it made you instantly rush to Wanda’s side. For the past few weeks after her ultrasound, where she was able to receive a much clear picture of the twin babies growing inside of her, she’d been rather…glued to the couch. Her feet were sore along with her back, and although Pietro constantly wondered why his sister refused to visit him in the city with a huff, you couldn’t imagine the amount of discomfort she felt with not one, but two lives forming within her.

“What do you wanna eat for lunch, pretty girl?” You asked as you took a seat next to the couch that you might as well call Wanda’s. She lay watching yet yet another rerun of Superstore, giggling away as she remembered the time the two of you shared as teenagers working at a rather large chain retail store. “I can make you some mac & cheese or even order a pizza and-”

“I’m really hungry,” Wanda interjected, nudging you a bit with her leg. “Burger-type of hungry…with fries.”

“I’ll go get you a burger right now then. Anything else you’d like since I’ll be out?”

Wanda gave it some thought, and after enough time she settled for texting you a list of things to pick up from the grocery store. Lazy weekends were her favorite. During the week she attempted to keep busy by doing yoga in the morning or pulling you out of bed to run across the neighborhood, shower, then go to work. Your wife said she wished to be active, but deep down you knew it had something to do with her changing appearance. No longer was she as slim as she used to be with the bigger her bump grew. While she found problems with that, each day you reassured Wanda without fail that her beauty never left. 

Knowing Wanda’s appetite would only evolve for the worst. You ran across the grocery store and zoomed by her favorite fast food restaurant to pick up her food, getting something for yourself as well as you knew your own hunger would give you a headache. Each time you went out without her, you felt a newfound fear stirring the pot. Surely she’d be safe and fine, and yet you couldn’t help but think kf the worst. What if the twins didn’t make it? Or Wanda at that? You wouldn’t know how to properly function if either were to happen. 

You had already lost a little peanut once. Although she hid it well, you were fully aware of the ultrasound picture Wanda hid underneath the pillow on her side of the bed. The back of it had excited scribbles from the both of you. Back then life was anything but great, and yet that surprise had made you realize it was worth living it together. She carried that picture everywhere, even to work, but once she received the news, Wanda didn’t dare let it leave the safety of her home.

The torturous image of Wanda shaking you awake desperately, tears in her bloodshot eyes that cascaded down furious cheeks, covered in blood still haunted you at night. She let out incoherent babbles then as you turned on the light and took sight of the mess on the bed. The pain she felt had been constant for days along with the bleeding, but it never got as intense as it did on that cruel night of May 14. You ran with Wanda to the hospital, her hands clutching a small bunny your friend Peter had given you when he found out about the pregnancy. Neither of you were the same after that, nor did you care to be. 

Clutching your steering wheel, you blinked rapidly. The flashbacks hit like a brick as you made your way back home. You could already feel your chest beginning to tighten, and while uncaring about any traffic laws, you sped towards Wanda. 

Upon arriving at the house, you hastily gathered all the bags before running to the door. They were thrown over the floor, alerting a rather groggy Wanda who had fallen asleep on the couch. She sat up slightly with half-open eyes and furrowed eyebrows wondering why you rushed to her, but as soon as she noticed the tears in your eyes, she was on alert. 

“Baby? Oh honey what happened?” Wanda was taken aback when she sat up at the edge of the couch only for you to kneel before her. She simply lay a hand atop your head, tilting her own as you hugged her tightly with your face buried against her belly. “Hey, you’re alright, Y/N. I’m right here.” You barely nodded, something that made her smile sadly because at least you could understand her. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I need them to make it,” you choked out with your forehead pressed with Wanda’s bump. “I…I need it to happen.”

That only confused Wanda even more. “Who needs to make it?” But realization dawned upon her instantly. “Wh- oh.”

Your shaky hands took hold of her stomach that you pressed countless kisses against. “I miss our little girl — our Magnolia.”

By the time she was gone, neither of you picked a name until it was too late. It was Wanda who settled on it while remembering through tears that when you were children, that was the first ever flower you gave her. Each year on the anniversary, on what would’ve been her birthday, you made sure to give your wife another one. Those were the ones she wore on her head on your wedding day. Whether physically or not, your forever little peanut would always be there with you.

“I miss her too,” Wanda admitted solemnly. She always wanted a little girl, someone who mirrored her in every way. You and her would lay watching the sunset imagining how your futures would turn out. Wanda was rather excited about the concept of braiding the girl’s hair for her first day of school that you’d drive her to together, but it never came. “But our boys are healthy, they’ll make it. T-they be safe, honey. They have to be.”

As teary-eyed as you were, you couldn’t help but stop to question her. “Our…boys?”

“Don’t be mad. Agatha called a few days ago and I told her you’d want it to be a surprise, but that I couldn’t wait. I’ve been eyeing some things for them too,” Wanda shrugged. She leaned down far enough to be able to place a kiss on your forehead before cupping your face. “We’re having twin boys.”

“That’s amazing!” You exasperated with sudden joy. Your hands went to touch her stomach, overzealous at the idea of having boys, but then again, you never did hope for one or the other. As you rubbed your hands all over her clothes skin, that is when you first felt it. “Was that…a kick?” 

Wanda was unfazed as she had felt it before during her previous attempt, but still giggled. “I think the little buggers can tell mama is hungry and so are they. As much as I’d love to sit here and have a heart-to-heart with you, baby, I really am starving over here.”

You went to give Wanda her food, and while the two of you sat on the couch eating your lunch, you realized once more how lucky you were to have her by your side until death do you apart. 

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Early during Wanda’s third trimester, you were even more in need of her; it surely didn’t help that she got bigger and liquid sprouted from her breasts. You didn’t say much, instead opting to remain quiet and keep your perversions to yourself out of fear of being judged. Your wife was fairly open to whatever you wished to explore, but you doubted she’d be keen to the idea of you suckling from her tender nipples. 

From afar you watch her fall into the pits of pain. At times she’d beg you to help her gently massage herself, throwing her head back in relief as the harshness of the built-up milt in her tits was gone. Each time they grew heavy, you were to offer helping hands and allow your partner to feel better. Only your guilt and shame grew during those moments. You stared in depth at the mounts, watching in awe as liquid traveled down their bulkiness before Wanda went to clean herself up. Agatha reassured the two of you that it was normal, but that didn’t deter her suffering during those moments. 

“Between the kicking and the soreness, I don’t think I can make it,” Wanda hissed on a particular day where her breasts made it impossible for her to carry on. She had come back from work complaining about the pain she was in, instantly laying across the couch rubbing her hands against her stomach. “You know I love my boys, I really do, but I’m pretty sure at this point Tommy will be a football player just like his uncle,” her face scrunched up momentarily as she clutched her bump. “And Billy thinks he can kick his way out of this earlier than he’s supposed to.”

“Is there anything I can do?” You felt for her, you really did. The sole image of her facing such horrors made you shudder. You couldn’t imagine having to experience that, so as you set a hand atop Wanda’s swollen tummy, you hoped the twins would settle down for once. “I can get your heating pad or maybe make you some comfort food? Anything I should go out to get you?”

“Just stay with me, please,” Wanda cried as she put her hand above yours. “I don’t even want to imagine how horrible it’ll be when I popped these little shits out.” As soon as she spit out the words, a kick came. “Fuck, sorry boys. You’re not little shits,” she went to mumble under her breath. “Sometimes.”

“Just a few more months, honey. You’re more than halfway there,” you cooed at her. Leaning in, you pulled her shirt only slightly to be able to press your lips upon her skin. “Our peanuts will be here soon. Our Billy and our Tommy.”

“You’re lucky we’re having twins, otherwise I wouldn’t have let you name our kid Billy,” Wanda grumbled with feigned annoyance. It quickly turned into a moan as she arched her back and her hands shot up to her chest that almost throbbed. “Fuck, I’m full. I need them to get out and help me out because otherwise I’m going to start t-”

“What if I help you?”

Wanda frowned at that, wondering what else you could provide other than the glorious massages you were so kind to give her. “Honey, you’ve already helped me enough. There’s nothing you can do unless you’re willing to suck all the milk out of me.”

She meant it as a joke, but the words made your throat dry up. You couldn’t help the burning sensation that settled at your cheeks. A shrug came out before your voice was found. “Maybe…maybe I can? If you’re alright with it,” you choked out while refusing to look at Wanda. “It’s embarrassing, but that’s all I’ve been thinking about as of late. God, Wanda, you’re so fucking gorgeous that I…I can’t contain myself.”

“You’ve gotten off to the thought.”

At the confidence in her words you turned to her ready to form a lie. “I, uhm, haven’t.”

“No, no. That wasn’t a question, honey.” A dry laughter came out, one that allowed you to properly relax as you were consumed by anxious imagery. “I know you do. Honestly? I’ve been dying for you to finally come clean. It was about time, darling. Mommy doesn’t like when you make her wait.”

“Mo- what?” you frowned, confused as to whether or not she found it to be humorous. “You’re not creeped out?”

“Of course not. You’re just a little baby that wants mommy’s milk, huh? A hungry angel,” her voice was sweet and serene. You easily got lost in the devotion you had for her. “Come here, Y/N. I know you’ve been dying to try. So be a good pup and help mommy feel good.”

With shaky hands, you helped Wanda shed her shirt. The knot at your throat wasn’t easily dissuaded, especially not when she stared at you with amused eyes. She guided you on top of her, carefully getting you to lay on your side so you wouldn’t harm her stomach. With lips merely grazing at one of the swollen nipples, you licked your lips and looked up in question at the woman before she nodded your way. 

As soon as you latched onto her, your mind went blank. Lips tenderly suckled at the rosy bud before white liquid began descending into your mouth. Your tongue welcomed it, tasting every slight drop as you grunted with need. Wanda tasted amazing in every way imaginable and you simply were unable to get enough of her. 

“There’s a good pet,” Wanda tried, but she couldn’t churn away her own arousal. Her arms were wrapped around you the same way yours embraced her. On her thigh she already felt a tent, growing by the second, poking at her with desperation. “Keep going, baby. You’re already making me feel so good.”

Her hand drifted down to the area between your legs with fake innocence, and yet you couldn’t muster any case for it. Instead, you nuzzled your face against Wanda’s breasts still continuing to suck on one. The other, out of fear of leaving it unattended, was massaged. Your thumb swirled around it, making faint drops of milk spew out that you brushed with your finger before bringing it to your mouth. 

Kneading her one of her tits made her moan, but you were the one to do so louder as Wanda slipped into your pants. “Help me,” you begged as digits trailed their way along your thick hardened shaft before finding the wetness your pre-cum left. “Please, m-mommy. I need it so bad.”

“Yeah? Oh honey, your dick is all hard and sticky,” Wanda pouted as she jerked you off momentarily. She pressed her lips against your forehead, planting butterfly kisses there as she made quick work to tease your already-throbbing member that you humped against her. “Be a good puppy and drink up all of mommy’s milk. Then maybe we can talk about me milking you instead.”

For the remainder of the night, you didn’t hesitate to do exactly what she said. It ended up being a rather fruitful evening, leaving you full of Wanda’s essence as well as with a fussy mind that was hazy as you came all over the palm of her hand. You felt limp against Wanda, milk drooling out of your lips as she hugged you tightly. 

“Such a good little one for mommy,” she whispered to your exhausted body with the utmost love residing in her soul. “My perfect baby.”

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

The insatiable nature Wanda had was not easily dissuaded no matter how close she got to giving birth until Agatha put a halt to it. She urged the two of you to be careful and cease any of your typically fun workouts with each other until weeks after the birth of the twins. Although it left your wife pouting all the way to the car knowing she’d need to stop at the very least a few weeks before giving birth, given she carried not one but two lives inside of her, you were the one which upheld the advice given to you by the doctor. 

But alas, that didn’t stop either of you from humoring Wanda’s increased sex drive for whatever time you could.

“I want it to be special,” Wanda had told you late one night as she lay exhausted beside you with her head in the clouds. “Let’s make it a night we won’t forget.” 

Keeping in mind her words which resonated with you, you made sure to do exactly what your wife wished. Previous talks about several different fantasies came to you, but only one stood out. Surely she’d look ravishing with a schoolgirl outfit being bent over the desk as you spanked her with a meter stick, but you didn’t think it would be safe enough for the moment. From all the possible choices there could only be one that you knew she’d enjoy while remaining unharmed. 

Wanda had stared at you incredulously when she first stepped into the room, but as she quickly went to do as you told her, to get on her hands and knees on the bed, the thrill came to her. She hadn’t noticed the camera pointing at the bed until a few minutes passed of you undressing yourself. When you happened upon her suddenly wide smile, your eyebrows were raised. 

“So, what do you think?” You questioned knowing what the answer would be already. After days of online shopping, you had finally settled on a beautiful gift to commemorate what Wanda deemed as the last official night of lovemaking before the twins were born. Walking around the bed, you stood before your partner showing off the item in your hands. “I got this for you to wear. I thought it would be fitting.”

“It’s beautiful,” Wanda mumbled, emerald orbs gawking at the pink collar that resided in your hands. She was particularly intrigued by the heart-shaped tag that hung from it with the words ‘pretty girl’ bestowed on it.

“Just like you,” you replied cheekily. Nodding her way, you brought the collar close to the woman. “May I?”

The redhead shuddered at the unfamiliarity of the faux leather around her throat. She giggled happily, looking down as you locked the collar that sat comfortably on her body. It was the perfect fit, and you knew then it would be hard to get it off Wanda without even a smidge of protest. 

As the two of you settled into the scene, your bodies relaxed and melted against one another. You couldn’t help but laugh as each second Wanda attempted to steal a quick glance at the area between your legs – already painfully hard and oozing with pre-cum. Your tip slapped accidentally against her legs as you settled behind her, the camera already turned on and began to take video of what was happening. 

“Such a pretty girl,” you repeated the words from her collar as your hands came down upon Wanda’s ass, squeezing tightly until your handprints were left behind. “And a fucking slut.”

Each time you dared spew such degrading words, Wanda’s chest would become filled with exhilaration. Not only were her features reddened with her immense arousal, but her pussy appeared flushed with puffiness and slickness. It was impossible to keep yourself from running your fingers through such wetness, much less to prevent yourself from grabbing your erect cock and rubbing its bulging head to part the folds of her slit. 

Her guttural moans were low as they banged against the four walls of the bedroom. Already having been cleared for maternity leave, the woman found herself to be both bored and in desperate need of you at all times. Even the slightest touches, a brush of your dick upon her cunt, made her squirm before begging to have you inside – and that is exactly what you gave her. 

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” you grunted as you eased into Wanda. She was far too wet to cause any difficulty, instead leading you to be enveloped around her gentle warmth. “I bet you like it when I stick my cock in you, huh? You’re nothing but a mindless bitch for my dick. So fucking needy and obsessed.”

“I love it,” Wanda groaned while nuzzling her face against the bed sheets. “I love your cock so fucking much.”

“Yeah?” You tried your best not to let yourself get carried away, but it was impossible when Wanda’s pussy gripped you with such firmness. Suddenly you couldn’t contain your urges as you gripped her hips to begin fucking her with hard thrusts. “It’s like your pussy was only meant to take me. Oh baby you’re fucking dripping like a needy slut in heat. It’s so adorable.”

Wanda’s pleasure wasn’t deterred by the way in which you treated her almost like an object. She knew she was nothing other than a fleshlight of yours to have, and she loved every second of it. You spent the majority of your days constantly praising your wife, but at times she needed to be reminded of her place within scenes. No longer did she care for control, but instead found solace within the warm embrace of forceful submission and objectification. 

Your cock was hugged warmly by her inner walls that were stretched out with each time you pounded her. Wanda was forced to stare directly into the camera, her hair pulled as you made her show off her new beautiful collar. Her stomach was swollen, and at times a hand drifted down to cup it before making its way to her sensitive breasts whose nipples perked up when you grazed. The alabaster skin was set aflame and you were the culprit, but your eyes solely remained upon her cunt where your dick disappeared into, hitting Wanda’s sweetest spot and making her scream. 

“F-fuck,” your wife stuttered out through gritted teeth. “Oh baby…baby! I’m so close.”

“Then cum, you naughty whore,” you huffed. The sounds of your skins slapping together made for a glorious orchestra. Knowing you were close as well, you gripped Wanda’s waist, humming as you were ready to let go. “Show the camera how much of a cock-addicted bitch you are, Mrs. Maximoff.”

When she came, so did you. Your bodies were synched up and connected as one. The growing arousal one felt carried on to another, and you failed to see how you’d ever let go of such a lustful heat. Wanda squirted, her juices overflowing all over her inner thighs, your twitching cock, and the sheets. Meanwhile her insides were tainted by white drops that stuffed her pussy full of cum, some even leaking out adorably. 

Neither of you could move, at least not until you found enough energy to gently slide yourself out of your partner. Her cunt released your dick with a sloshing sound which made you arche in even more need. Gulping down, you teasingly slapped a hand over Wanda’s ass, who turned to sit facing you with her reddened face. 

“What a mess,” Wanda giggled as she eyed your throbbing member bouncing excitedly calling for her cunt which oozed out a mix of cum and juices. “Hm, don’t you want me to clean that up, sweetheart? With my mouth?”

Grabbing your still hard cock, you bit down on your bottom lip. “Then get on your knees, pretty girl. And get to sucking.”

For the camera, mostly for you, Wanda put in the utmost amount of effort into entertainment. You sat at the edge of the bed with her kneeled in front of you. The tip of your dick pressed against her cheeks inside her mouth, bulging them up for the camera to see. There was no time wasted as her head bobbed up and down, taking in countless inches of you while you very lovingly guided her through it. 

“Such a cute cock sucker,” you couldn’t help but say, all for Wanda to look up with wide, doe eyes before gargling all over your length. “That’s it, baby. I want you to swallow every single drop like the good girl I know you are. Hm, can’t wait until I can fill that pretty pussy of yours with even more pups knowing how needy you get for my dick…”

And by the gods did Wanda deliver.

｡☆✼★━━━━━━━━━━━━★✼☆｡

When the twins came, all of your anxieties came crashing down into a mixture of a breakdown and hyperventilation. It was night when Wanda’s contractions felt worse, leading the woman to wake you up with a wail as she clutched her stomach painfully. You feared seeing blood between her legs again, but were relieved to find other fluids lying there before rushing to lead her out of the house, go-bag in hand with other necessary trinkets. 

Hours passed before any news came. You were to sit by Wanda’s side at every second, holding her hand and remaining uncaring about how much she squeezed it from pain. The twins wanted to get out, you knew, but refused to do so quickly enough. It left your wife in a state of frenzy, her face continuously scrunched up as she begged you, not the nurses, to get the babies out of you – at times even threatening to divorce you if you failed to complete the task. 

“These little shi-”

“Wanda,” you calmly interjected. “You know, they’re coming out soon. Imagine the first words you tell our children being those. That’ll do something to their self-esteem, don’t you think?”

The snide look Wanda threw your way was synonymous with that of murder. “Really? Because I doubt they’ll remember the time they almost killed their mom giving her so much- fuck! So much pain,” she hissed. Her teeth gritted against one another, and as she saw a nurse coming to check on her, the redhead scared her off with flaring nostrils. “But I sure as well am remembering this. I can’t wait until they get old enough for me to blackmail them for doing this to me.”

“Well, they didn’t exactly choose to be born,” you mused hoping it would diffuse her anger only for it to be made worse.”

“You…” Wanda paused, eyebrows furrowing as she gave her words some thought. She turned to you, but you refused to even look her in the eye before shriveling up to her mighty hand. “You did this to me. You put not one, but two fucking babies inside of me! Oh Y/N, I’m about to fucking kill y-”

Her words died in her lips as the doctor rushed in. She did more to soothe your wife’s fears, something you were thankful for as being at the receiving end of her rage, even if heightened by her situation, was never taken with positivity. They prepared her to finally push, and that was the moment your eyes flashed before your eyes. Time stood still as the realization panged at your heart. I’m going to be a parent again. My twins, our Billy and our Tommy, they’re coming…

The process by no means was easy to watch, but your empathy was with Wanda who was the one needing to go through all the hard work. Even when covered in sweat and yelling out profanities in the midst of her pain, your wife was forever defined by her beauty. You leaned down to praise her, to remind her of the brave warrior she was for carrying two lives in her at once. There was no one stronger than your partner and you needed her to remember. 

Cries of the first baby came out, and you immediately knew that it was your Tommy who went out faster than the speed of light. You shied away from seeing him in the first few seconds, but as soon as you could see the doctor holding up a small, frail child, your eyes widened with love. Tears formed in your eyes, and while they carried on to get Billy out, you were solely focused on the little one that you realized was the picture-perfect image of you as an infant. 

Complications ensued in getting Billy out as copious amounts of blood were left in the first twins’ wake. You wondered what went on, but as soon as the doctor mentioned the need for a Cesarean section, your face went pale. Holding down bouts of fear, you faced Wanda, but she was far too high by her torture to care. So as soon as they brought out the necessary instruments to get the second child out, you shuddered. 

“It’s okay,” you promised Wanda even as she was put to sleep. The hold on your hand loosened, but you never let go of hers. “It’s okay, honey. Billy’s going to get to meet his mama soon just like Tommy.” You so wanted to believe that, but a small part of you feared for the worst. “You’re going to be okay, Wanda. You both will.”

Nothing could ever prepare you for seeing your wife cut open, but as soon as you noticed a small infant being pulled out, you beamed. The cries let you become aware of his healthy state as a nurse grabbed Billy to give him the same exact treatment. He was checked out before you requested to hold him, all while watching over Tommy. Those were your boys. Not identical, but each one of them mirroring either you or Wanda. 

Hours passed before your wife was awakened, and as soon as her eyes fluttered open, she ignored the pain on her lower abdomen from the fresh set of stitches. Instead she scanned the room carefully, humming as her panic died out upon the sight of you still by her side. 

“Are they safe?” Wanda groggily questioned, suddenly afraid of what the answer would be. But as soon as you nodded, the exhausted ends of her mouth rose. “Thank you, Y/N. I…I am in so much fucking pain right now, but I’m glad I got you by my side, sweetie.”

“I’m the one that should be thankful for you. I mean, you just gave birth to two kids. I can’t ever imagine going through that,” you replied. “The nurse said that they’ll bring the twins up in a few hours. Billy, uh, looks a lot like a mini-Wanda I have to say. He’s got your nose scrunches and everything down.”

“Really? Oh I can’t wait to see them.” Wanda squeezed your hand once more, but this time you could feel all the love she had for you with a simple electrifying touch. “I wish we got to meet her too.”

At that you merely hummed, but she knew how much you longed for that to have been a reality. 

When the time came for you and Wanda to see the twins in a much cleaner, sleepy state, both of you were overcome with joy. She had trouble moving with her fresh wound, so the nurse carefully placed Tommy on her chest while you received a yawning Billy. No words needed to be spoken at that moment. The love you had for your children, even if new, wouldn’t ever die out. They were your lives, and as you shared a knowing look, you both came to be on the same page – nothing would dare intervene with them so long as you were alive.

[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

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Legolas tag: @dark-angel-is-back @mylittle-escapingdreams @abandoncloud9 @aphroditesmoon @carojasmin2204 @high-sea-husbands @aheadfullofsteverogers

add yourself to my taglist

[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

[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.

[qin-qin16]

cw.: Dream x Reader, hurt/comfort, gn!reader, reader has a bad coping mechanism, depressive thoughts, Dream is here to comfort you, he is just a sweet and good boy, comfort end, but the beginning is kinda angst… 

note: I ask for suggestions and decide to write one of them! Thank you @emeraldhazeidentity for the ideas! And sorry for the delay!  

Your body has always been at odds with itself, whether mentally or emotionally; this time, the problem was your feelings. They were vile and unwanted, creeping into your chest like rats and gnawing away any desire you normally had to get out of bed. And just like those rats, your body only huddled further into the nest that was your sheets on the mattress, a pile of shame and crumbs left from your last meal.

And even though you wanted to stop feeling all of this — this inadequacy at being competent in anything, the constant envy of never being among the best despite your efforts… All of this simply wore your body out, leaving it in a state of inactive exhaustion that began as mental fatigue and spread like a plague throughout.

However, it wasn’t because of your static figure or turbulent mind that you wanted to stop feeling all of this, no. It was because of Dream.

Oh Dream, he was a true angel sent from heaven into your life — and like any angel, you wanted him to stay untainted; your rotten feelings would only taint him, hurting his kind, golden soul. He had already suffered enough at the hands of others; you didn’t want to be just another person to take advantage of his kindness and heroic aura.

You didn’t deserve that — being wrapped in such warm energy — much less to be so selfish as to want Dream all to yourself, even though the thought of holding him in your arms during these lonely times was a recurring one. 

No, a small voice at the back of your mind whispers, Remember what Ink said once? That anything negative could hurt Dream? This weak mindset of yours only draws more and more of those bad, toxic feelings towards him,  and just like every time you found yourself hiding under the covers, the voice was right — was it your subconscious trying to bring some reason to you? Or was it just some kind of dissociation episode?

Truth be told, you didn’t care. That voice was usually right in the end, so why question its existence or purpose? Gradually, your fingertips grew numb, as if your body was sinking deeper into this spiral of feelings, while your chest felt so empty — a contradiction you had long stopped questioning.

Your mind goes blank from the sudden warmth resting on you, like a cozy blanket you didn’t realize you needed after covering yourself with all the ones on your bed.

The mattress dips slightly near your body; someone must have sat down next to you and probably covered you with an extra blanket. You flinch for a moment as you feel a gentle touch on your shoulder through the covers in a back-and-forth motion.

Someone calls your name, but it sounds so distant, muffled; as if softly guiding your mind back to your body.

“What happened, dear?” Oh, it’s him.

In a faint, flickering glow, your soul shimmers beneath your skin, casting a dim, cold light — and you can’t help but hear the soft, distant laughter coming from the other side of your hiding place.

“Oh, dear…” Dream, your cherished Dream, coos, momentarily pausing his gentle touch on your shoulder.

Close to your face, you see Dream’s fingers tentatively emerging from beneath the blanket, inching closer to you — until they lift the blanket just enough for Dream’s face to come into view, with a smile that, though small, radiated the light of the most beautiful stars you’ve ever seen.

"Hello, my darling." he whispers, sliding under the covers, "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner." 

You don’t need to apologize for anything, but you can’t find the strength to say it; your body remains curled up, still numb from the deep sadness — even the presence of your angel wasn’t enough to chase away those dreadful feelings.

"I shouldn’t have left you alone." The hand that was holding the blanket over both of you moves to your face, gently caressing your cheek as the blanket falls over you two.

"I didn’t…" you start to speak, your throat tightening, "I didn’t mean to upset you." you finally admit.

Dream shushed you, leaning in slowly to press his face against yours in a tender gesture, "You could never upset me, never."

And then you feel that warmth again, the same warmth that had settled on you moments before — realizing that this gentle, comforting warmth was simply Dream’s presence close to you, wrapping your body in a warm embrace.

For a moment, you let yourself be carried away by the wave of tranquility that radiated from him, closing your eyes and feeling Dream relax even more against you — leaving a lingering kiss on your cheek before moving down to your jaw, placing another kiss before returning to his gentle nuzzle on your face.

“There’s a world out there waiting for you…” you murmur, hoping that his presence isn’t just a fleeting dream.

“The world can wait a bit longer.” he responds.

And as clichéd as it may sound, it was enough to bring a small smile back to your lips and to help your body finally emerge from its state of inertia. One of your hands strokes the back of Dream’s neck, drawing him closer into your tender embrace.

Maybe it was okay to be a little selfish and hold him in your arms for as long as you needed.

[soulfulazrael]

"Media literacy" in HB fanbase. OH MY GOD is r/HelluvaBoss dumb. Also Vassago.

I made a mistake

Well 2. One of them is using this gif given recent... funny things with certain VA, but the other, relevant one is visiting the dreaded r/HelluvaBoss

Now I do not engage in discussion there. It will lead nowhere as most of you will realize the moment you will see what I have to show you, but first let's talk about a spectacular case of confused character writing that is Vassago.

I wont discuss who he is in Demonology. That is kind of irrelevant because this show barely follows any of it anyway. What is important is their appearance in Mastermind as the sole defender of Stolas's honor and all I can say is... Who the fuck are you?

And let's be honest. If none of us watched promotional material we would also ask ourselves the same thing. Who is this guy?

And it makes sense because suddenly at a very high point in the story this character is thrown at us as if we are not only supposed to know who this is, but also be amazed at that he defends Stolas. His one friend... brother... lover... someone who comes to his aid among all the other Goetias.

And there was no build up to this character, there was no name drop of him before, no flashback, not even a peep that would relate in ANY way to his character and all we are left with are questions and not the good kind. Why is he for instance speaking spanish in between english? Why is he so important? Why is he the only one in Stolas's corner? Why is he in this pivotal moment that is meant to cap off the entire season's story?

But not to worry because bright people from a beautiful place that is r/HelluvaBoss come to our aid to help our 'media illiteracy'

Do I even have to say anything? I mean I do, but still... come on.

Let us first address top comment "He will be important later". I am sorry, but what kind of justification is that? When is that later? 3rd season? Because if so then this is terrible way of introducing character that is going to be important in 3rd season. Because this show already presents him as if he has been part of the story for a while and gives him a prominent role (as prominent as like 5 lines are) like there was some kind of foreshadowing towards him being the only one to defend Stolas.

There was not. Vassago is put in a role that would be more fitting for character like Ozzie. You know. Actually important character that was given previously some screentime and has established relationship with the main cast who can stand in this proceeding and do SOMETHING aside from looking down at his phone like an average 12 year old today during Christmas Dinner.

And that is the thing. Such a role in an episode should NOT be given to completely new character. This is a role that should be given to already pre established character that AT LEAST is mentioned by word. Like I dunno. With Stolas maybe wondering how Vassago is doing or how maybe at some point he mentions him. SOMETHING. Dropping this character so suddenly in such a crucial moment of the story is just very strange. In a way same goes for Satan who also had about nothing about him besides I believe Verosika episode having him mentioned... one line... that is the level of foreshadow we are doing here.

And then there is that other comment that talks about "media literacy". You want to add a new character? How about do it ANYWHERE ELSE than a crucial part of it. Because those moments are not good for introductions of new parts of main cast without any prior mention of them. Those moments are meant to be culmination of everything that came before. Leave intros for before and/or after.

And then we have some of this

I love those people man. All talking about "media literacy" or "anti-intelectualism". Just... AAAAGH! God. Yeah. You are so smart. You understand writing so well.

Let's just put it into perspective. This is as if Verosika's first appearance would be in Apology Tour as one of the people Blitzo hurt and we are suddenly supposed to care for her even though she never showed up or was mentioned before. That would be STUPID right?

Well that's what they did with Vassago. Apparently VERY important character to Stolas introduced haphazardly during climax of the Season in a prominent role of being the only one who defends him even though not only is this part better suited for other character that is there, but also this role is absolutely wasted because he has about 5 goddamn lines. And it is telling how much in that first image the long comment does mostly just theorizing because we know absolutely NOTHING about this character and people are already supposed to be hyped for him despite that he was introduced so quickly. Also take a load of this.

Yeah. Because a character introduced at the very start of the book is the same as goddamn Vassago. In fact this is like Gandalf being introduced in Moria. Wouldn't that be just dumb? And you know what's sad? This.

Those people actually bring up good points. And they either no attention or get downvoted. Why? Because critical thinking is a sin on that subreddit. The first one especially (upvoted by me now BTW). Just... ugh...

This is the state of people on r/HelluvaBoss. If you value your braincells do NOT go to that damn place. There is about as much critical thinking and praised "media literacy" as there is on ragebait thread on twatter spouted by some idiot talking about how "west has fallen" because woman.

It's stupid. And makes me dumber just thinking about it. Jesus. This fanbase man. It's amazing.

Now there are smart people in this fanbase. There are good people in it. There are very much great, talented people in it. And some of those people who I mentioned who's comments hurt my brain could be talented and could be smart, but are just not about this part of HB. But considering what they are saying... I needed to vent about this because this hurts to see.

And the worst part is that Viv probably likes that this fanbase is like this. No critical thinking or doubts. Just spouting insults. Making headcanons to counter criticism and refusal to leave their echo chamber.

It's sad. Because not only I feel bad for them, but I feel bad for the show, because with fans like those how could it EVER improve? To many of those probably the only time to say anything critical is when it's all over. But at that point... who cares?

Also do not think I am some pillar of 'media literacy' or 'intellectualism'. I am not. I am really not. I am just passionate about writing and those people cause me headaches.

[hypostatic-oath]

Hydro Archon, Hydro Archon, Don't Cry

I've noticed a pattern with 5star characters in my game - they only come home after I've done their story quest or at least the Archon Quest where they appear. From an in-game perspective it's obviously because it takes me a while to finish the quest and I raise the pity in the meantime, however... from a SAGAU perspective, it's adorable that they only come around after I've spent the time to get to know them better.

Content Warnings: Angst, Furina desperately needs a hug.

SPOILERS FOR 4.2 BELOW

Imagine Furina before the Archon Quest. She's holding it together, like she has been for five hundred years. She's been performing her role so well for so long, yet she feels like she's already gone beyond her limit. She doesn't know how long she can handle doing this for, but she knows she must.

Late at night, she takes a break to catch some air. She's aware that she's still performing - she's alone, but she cannot risk lowering her mask, even before an invisible audience. She takes a deep breath and looks up, and doesn't even feel the tears flowing down her face.

A shimmering light crosses the sky.

Foçalors, it beckons. Come home.

Oh no. Not this. She's not ready, she's not ready! Not tonight. She tells herself she'll answer your summons tomorrow. In truth, she doesn't feel worthy of answering. What if she's not what you expect?

That isn't even a question. She knows she's not what you expect.

She knows you have other Archons - real Archons - among your Vessels. She panics - she doesn't even have a Vision, much less an Archon's authority. There's only so much she can achieve with acting. What would she do when you took her out on the battlefield and she inevitably failed?

Come on... Another shooting star crosses the sky, your voice a faint, ethereal whisper in her ears. I need an Archon team...

It fills her with dread. She can't answer your summons! She absolutely can't! Not only would she disappoint you - because there's no way she wouldn't, surely, she can't imagine a world in which you are not disappointed once you figure out just what she is, a fraud who can't even use Hydro much less be the literal Archon - she'd also jeopardize her only purpose.

She rushes inside, back to her room, closes the shutters and the window and the curtains and almost leaps into bed, placing the covers over herself as if to shield herself from the world.

She can still hear you calling.

The next day, Poisson is struck. The prophecy is in full swing. She's frantic, searching for something, anything that could possibly help. All the while maintaining the façade. At least you seem to have given up.

It's both relieving and heartbreaking.

At night, she doesn't even risk it - her windows are kept shut. She analises every report, and locks her door when she notices that she's crying, the papers she's holding becoming dotted with tears that fall despite her best efforts. She can hear the rain hitting her window, and the downpour has her feeling even more hopeless.

Neuvillette speaks with her in the following morning. If the pressure from you wasn't enough, she now also has to manage to assure the Hydro Dragon Sovereign that she has everything under control. It's funny, how those eyes capable of such gentleness seem to gaze into her without a shred of mercy. Just speaking to him now feels like she's been put on trial, and Furina knows, deep down in her soul, that she is guilty.

He presses. Poisson has fallen. She knows. She also knows she's likely crying, the mask is slipping, but she can't give up. She has no right - no right at all, to sacrifice the lives of every person in Fontaine for the sake of her comfort. She cannot afford to slip up. And that means she cannot trust anyone - not you, and not Neuvillette. So she gathers the little control she can at this time, tells him she knows exactly what she's doing, and dashes out the door.

Wait, Furina!

She barely hears your voice as she runs. "I'm sorry, but I can't answer!" She thinks, as she rushes to the top floor of the Palais Mermonia. She knows she gas no time to lose. She needs to get herself in check, to wipe away her tears, to figure something out. Where had she gone wrong? Five hundred years, searching for a solution. Five hundred years of observing every trial, hoping it'll finally be the one she needs. But nothing.

She has nothing, and Poisson has fallen.

She thought the Traveler - and you, by extension - would be the key. That by judgding them she'd have the "most magnificent trial" that her mirror self spoke of. And yet, at every turn, the blonde outlander had managed to evade being sentenced, or even making the trial as grand as she'd expected. She paces around in her room as she mulls it over. Should she had judged you directly? Could she have done so? That would've been a trial for the ages - the Overseer, brought to justice by the Hydro Archon of Fontaine, for the crime of... what could she even accuse you of? Posessing people's bodies? That had to be illegal - or at least immoral enough to warrant a trial...

She lets her body flop onto the bed, covering her eyes with one arm as she lets out a sigh that despite its overdramatic appearance, is in fact incredibly genuine. She's tired. So tired.

Foçalors, come home.

Furina buries her face beneath one of the pillows. She hopes it'll drown out the sound of your voice. She can't distinguish whether that ache in her chest is from your summons growing more insistent or from how much she needs to cry.

The shooting star turns golden outside the window, and Furina wonders if the fact that someone else intercepted it will be enough to dissuade you. She hopes it is, otherwise, her days are numbered.

No more stars cross the sky that night, and relief washes over her body, in a wave so intense that she once again doesn't notice the tears. She falls asleep like that, and dreams of rising waters.

Furina heads to the Opera Epiclese in the morning. She's not looking forward to seeing Neuvillette, but she prays that there'll be a trial. "Please," she thinks, as she sits down in the throne reserved for the Hydro Archon, observing the stage from on high, "let it be today."

It isn't. Instead of a trial, there is a performance... and though she usually loves them, now is not the time. Worse yet, she's spotted by the crowd as she's getting ready to leave. They're angry, of course they are. The prophecy is true, and what is their Archon doing? Furina performs as best as she can, but this time the audience is completely unreceptive. She doesn't blame them. She'd be angry, too, in their shoes. She knows they're terrified. She's terrified, too.

But what can she do? Her search has turned up empty. She has no powers, not really, none besides the power of persuasion and even that seems to be slipping more and more these days. She cannot reassure her people. Neuvillette no longer trusts her, if he ever did. The water rises every day with no signs of stopping.

"Why, mirror-me? Where am I failing?"

The crowd chases her out of the theater. Neuvillette is nowhere in sight, and even if he were, Furina isn't sure she could call upon him now. The time in which he acted as her shield if gone. Neuvillette is now just another of the many she's disappointed.

It hurts.

With no other choice, she runs - as far as her legs will take her, she dashes away from the crowd, and guilt tells her she's being a coward. That she needs to stand up and reassure the masses, that she needs to do what an Archon would at that time.

The notion feels almost ridiculous. She cannot command her element freely like Barbatos, or raise protections over her city like Morax. She cannot threaten to strike down the unruly like the Shogun, nor does she have Lesser Lord (Lesser Lord! Hah! Even someone known as 'Lesser' is leagues beyond Furina's ability) Kusanali's foresight and wisdom.

So she does what she can do.

Whether it is fate or simply her own feelings of guilt, she finds herself in Poisson, at the base of the Spina di Rosula. The place where all those people - her people - had lost their lives to a disaster she was supposed to prevent.

When the Traveler extends their hand, she doesn't know whether it is a blessing or a curse. She wants to run again - what else can she do? But her pursuers are apparently still giving chase, and the outlander offers her aid. She can feel your presence from within them - every time she's crossed paths with them, as brief as those moments were, you were there. She can tell that the longing in the blonde's eyes is, at least in part, yours.

She's sorry.

She follows the Traveler to the hiding place - someone's home? It seems irrelevant. For a moment, she wonders if she could sue you for invasion of private property. "Oh, what am I thinking? The time for the grand trial is over... and even if it weren't, suing the Overseer for something so trivial would warrant the same result as the first time I challenged the Traveler..."

The Traveler. The outlander whose presence preceeded disaster. They were known for solving it, sure, but she knew that the moment they set foot in Fontaine the prophecy would have already started. Was it their fault, or yours?

Furina still feels like it might be hers.

The Traveler offers help once again. They extend their hand, and the look in their eyes as they ask her to confide in them is so earnest, so genuine. She swars she can hear two sets of voices saying the words - the Traveler's, and yours. It's faint, and gentle, and pained, and carries a yearning she knows she cannot fix.

Through them, you reach for her and she almost breaks. She knows you'll stop reaching once you know the truth.

Furina, please. You can trust us, love. Let me- let us help. People from your world cannot know, but neither of us fit that criteria. Your people will not dissolve, I promise you. I've seen enough worlds to know.

She considers it.

She hears your voice, and considers it. But there is uncertainty in your tone. You're gambling, and she's a good enough actress to know you're not sure yourself. They wouldn't do it, that's your reasoning. Furina doesn't know who 'they' are, but you're placing all your bets on the fact that 'they' would not erase an entire Nation. Who are 'they'? Celestia? If so, she knows for certain that your wager is more optimistic than based on facts. It's not enough - blind optimism is not enough for her to risk it, not even from a being like you. Besides, that is not her choice to make.

She cannot give up. She cannot lower her guard. Not with Neuvillette, not with the Traveler, not with you. The Traveler urges her for a response, reaches out, and she's about to deny them, when the house's walls fall.

Damn it, we needed more time! Furina, I'm so sorry.

She feels your sorrow about at the same time that she feels the spotlight on her.

Neuvillette looks down from his seat as the Chief Justice, and somehow the sliver of pity in his eyes hurts more than the coldness of a few days prior.

She's on trial.

________

She's crying.

She's not even making an effort to conceal it anymore. It's over. The curtains have closed and everything she worked so hard for has crumbled. The people know. Neuvillette knows. You know. Furina makes no effort to hear your voice. She knows you're disappointed.

If she did, perhaps she'd hear how you're screaming at the Traveler to go check on her. If she did, perhaps she'd hear how despite everything, you're reaching out, still. How you wish to hold her tight, as she deserves. She'd perhaps hear your outrage at the thought of her being subjected to the death sentence, she'd hear you trying to tear Neuvillette apart for allowing it, she'd hear you slowly realising that the fact that the sentence is addressed to the Hydro Archon means it's not her who dies.

She doesn't witness your relief.

Instead, it is you who gain an understanding of her thoughts. The Traveler reaches for her, and she can feel you pushing through, but she can't stop performing. Even now, she's still holding it, as much as she can.

You tear through her defenses with more ease than she expected. Furina had, until now, thought of you as detached. She knew you saw the world as a stage, a story for your amusement. Sure, you liked them, but only to the extent that one likes characters in a play, right? You were, as far as she knew, exactly the type of god - or, er, entity? - she emulated. Fickle. Boastful. Using lives as entertainment, watching trials and tribulations like a performance and solving the Nations' troubles like nothing more than a game. She had not expected you to care.

Not about her.

Not after knowing the truth.

You push forward. She knows it's you, and not the Traveler, who's in control. She can feel it, the intensity with which you reach out is the same she felt tugging at her very being every time a star crossed the sky. She knows it's you who's still trying to reach her. Even if she's failed.

Even if she's not capable of being in your Archon Team.

So she sighs, and lets you witness. That is your role, after all, isn't it? An audience of one, watching an interactive play. You haven't given up on her character, even though it's not what you expected. You're not what she expected, either. Funny, she finds herself thinking, you're both more human than anyone realised.

You witness her life. She lets it play out like a film before your eyes, the endless stream of memories of growing hopelessness as she realised that the prophecy was slowly setting itself up and she was not any closer to finding out how to stop it. Now you know - the truth, the whole truth. She has nothing left to lose now, anyway. Everything is lost. She was unmasked. She failed.

You're pushed out of her thoughts after she invites you to take your place on stage. You act in her memory, but this time the Traveler doesn't speak. You barely have time to state your piece - all you manage is an I'm sorry before being forced away. She has nothing more to share. That is enough, she figures, and far more than she ever thought she'd share. She still feels the urge to cry, but part of it is from relief.

After that, she doesn't feel your presence until after the flood.

The prophecy comes and goes and Fontaine is unharmed. The flood lasts no more than minutes, and no one is dissolved. Furina remembers your words - 'they' wouldn't do that. Though she is unsure as to 'their' identity, she is thankful that you were right. The sunlight feels like bliss upon her skin as she steps out of the Opera Epiclese, gentle rays drying the remaining water from the streets and the tears on her cheeks, and for the first time in five hundred years she breathes easy.

"They're still hoping you'll come." A familiar voice pulls her out of her trance. The Traveler, alone, stands behind her. Your presence is nowhere near. They look the same, yet different, without you within. Furina can't quite explain it, but it feels odd after being so used to seeing you within the outlander.

"I'm not an Archon." She answers, a certain bitterness in her voice as she looks down, defeated.

"I don't think they care. I know you need to rest for now, and they don't have enough primos for a ten pull anyways, but... just so you know. They'll keep trying."

Furina doesn't quite know whether that is meant as a warning or as an opportunity presenting itself. They're gone before she can ask. Either way, they're right - she is tired, and she does need rest. Out of instinct, she heads to the Palais Mermonia, but stops herself as she reaches for the door.

"Lady Furina." The gentle, deep voice she knows as belonging to the Iudex pulls her from her thoughts. She doesn't dare look him in the eye. He opens the door for her, but she simply turns away. She cannot face him, not after that trial, not after everything she'd done.

"Thank you, monsieur Neuvillette. But I... I think I'll be going, now."

The now fully restored Hydro Dragon can only watch as Furina walks away. He knows she needs her space right now, but that doesn't stop him from worrying for her. He'll arrange the best apartment he can get for her, and make sure she never lacks for anything. In the meantime, though, he'll just try not to let his emotions get the best of him, lest he causes a downpour to fall upon poor Furina, who definitely does not need rain right now. If there is one thing he knows about humans is that rain does not, for the most part, cheer them up. So he holds it in, promising himself that he'll take a small break for a walk after the aftermath of everything is over, and heads to his office.

There is so much to do...

_________

Three weeks pass. Furina lays on her bed, her window open, the soft breeze bringing the smell of a night that promises rain into the apartment. She is busy, not with work, or with renovations, but with the azure glass sphere that she holds up to the light, examining it under her lamp. A Vision... during all those years, she had never thought she'd receive such a thing, much less after being pushed away from her role as the Archon. She is thankful, yes, for her newfound freedom, and, she supposes, for the fact that she'd gotten to act again. But it still remains that this bauble was completely unexpected.

Power. This little thing can give her power. She's still unsure on how to use it, and it crosses her mind that the Traveler - or you - might know. You owe her, after all, after what she did to help you out with the play... she could feel you trying to strangle the Traveler and Paimon on the astral plane and that was perhaps why she wasn't entirely offended by their remarks. Still, she had made a great effort for that play. It was only fair that at least one of you repays the favor, no?

Furina smiles softly, sighing. She'll have to put up a commission at the Guild tomorrow.

She examines the light reflecting within, and it reminds her of the surface of the sea as seen from underwater. The holder, a silvery ornament not unlike those she's seen worn by Vision-bearers, has a distinct characteristic - four fang-like details that seem to secure the glass in place. Before she can give it more thought, the first pitter patter of raindrops reaches her ears, and she rushes to retrieve the clothes hanging on the line she has in the small balcony of her apartment before they get too wet. She rushes outside, hearing as the rain and wind pick up.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it..." She mutters to herself, quickly shoving the clothes onto a basket, trying to pick them off the line as fast as she can. Behind her, a flash of light illuminates the night sky. "Oh, I am so not in the mood for thunder..."

Furina cringes, hoping the storm is not directly above. Maybe she'll be able to sleep if it's just a faraway rumbling. What she hears, however, is not the booming sound of a storm.

Furina. Come home.

You're still trying. For a moment, she forgets about the heavy rain, and the clothes, and simply looks up at the sky. Blue flashes, one after the other, cross the clouds in rapid succession. Even after everything, you hadn't given up. The Traveler had warned her, but at the time she hadn't been in a stable enough state of mins to even care, still shaken from everything that had happened.

Now, she simply looks up.

"Overseer." She answers. You won't be able to add her to the 'Archon Team'. She knows she's not as powerful as most of your Vessels - hell, she doesn't even know how to use her Vision yet. But you still want her.

You know the truth - the whole truth - and you still want her.

The next star that crosses the sky turns gold, and glows brighter and brighter until it lands in front of her, hovering above the railing on her balcony. It emits a soft, warm light, and Furina reaches for it like she'd reached for her Vision.

Warmth spreads over her body, and it feels like every time she'd looked at the Traveler with you in them, except everything feels more... intense. It's not like she's seeing the filtered bits of you that shine through the cracks in someone else, no. She can feel you directly, and she understands why they call it 'coming home'. It's warm. It's comfortable. And for the first time she can truly, honestly say she doesn't feel alone.

You're happy she's there. Time seems to stop around her, and she finds herself dry and in a field full of stars. If she squints, she can barely make out a form, a swirling swarm of stardust in the vague shape of a person. She reaches a hand out.

You place the cursor over her outstretched hand.

Welcome home, Furina.

[trustmypoison]

SVT and a partner with White Coat Syndrome

Requested? Yes! 

Genre: comfort, angst

White Coat Syndrome: when your blood pressure is higher at the doctor’s office and normal at home, usually caused by the stress and anxiety of being in a clinical setting. 

Some of these won't specifically address the hypertension, but rather the feelings about going to the doctor or not feeling heard while there. Be careful reading if you're sensitive about that sort of thing.

Seungcheol

When you say you might just cancel your annual check up, he gives you a perplexed look. It’s a wellness visit, why wouldn’t you go? When you tell him you always get a lecture about your high blood pressure and no doctor will ever listen to you when you just say you’re stressed, expect a few questions. Did you feel stressed before you made the appointment? What makes you so stressed at the doctor’s office? Maybe you should find another doctor? You shrug it off and think that’s the end of it. But the day of the appointment, you’re surprised to find he’s late for work, casually sitting in the kitchen. “I’m going with you,” he says simply, keys in his hand. Your heart’s so full that he’d abandon his busy schedule to accompany you for such a silly thing that your blood pressure reading isn’t as bad as it normally is there.

Jeonghan

Say you have a chronic issue that has you in and out of the doctor’s office with some regularity. Expect that he’s noticed the way your mood fluctuates around those appointments. But he won’t say anything because he doesn’t want to add to your stress, and he knows there are limitations for what he can do to help when it comes to a chronic condition. So it’s a common occurrence for you to come home from an appointment and be surprised to find him at home starting dinner. “Go take a bath,” he’ll demand. You know better than to not listen because he might just run a tub of water and dump you in it, clothes and all. Later, between the warm bath and meal and being wrapped in a warm blanket on the couch, you don't even remember the anxiety that had such a tight hold on you earlier today.

Joshua

He’s sooo sneaky. He recognizes the pattern to your stress, but you don’t seem to. So, he pitches a new craft for the two of you to do together - bullet journaling. It’s got three purposes in his mind. The one you’re aware of is that it’s a fun little activity for you guys to do together. But it serves as a destresser AND evidence of your stress all in one, because he’s insisted that you guys track your moods in a cute little chart, among many other things. After a few months, he’ll show you his ‘discovery’ - you predictably mark that you're stressed in the days before your appointments and the day of. He just wants the light bulb to go off for you so he can address your anxiety directly. 

Jun

He comes home at a blessedly normal time today, excited to hang out and have dinner with you. He’s been looking forward to it all day and nearly crawls out of his own skin when he finds you crying on the couch. That’s right, he thinks, you took the afternoon off for an appointment. He’s all over you because he’s really thinking the worst, wondering what kind of bad news you’ve gotten today. You sigh and just tell him you don't feel like you’re being listened to at your appointments. You gesture to the new medication on the coffee table, saying that you really don’t think you need it. He doesn’t have to hear much to insist that you get a second opinion. He’s already googling doctors in the area with high ratings. You have a long list to go through tomorrow, but you’re touched that he listened and did something about it. 

Hoshi

I kind of see this starting out much like Jun’s situation did. His baby is crying and he’s thinking the worst!!! But you just say the doctor’s office stresses you out and now you’re dreading going back for a follow-up in a couple weeks. He thinks, Okay, I can fix this!!! Despite the long day he’s had, he’s making you dinner and rubbing your feet and coddling you. Eventually, you aren’t even crying because of stress but because of how overwhelmed you are with the energy and passion he puts into caring for you while you're down. You’ll push him away and say he should take care of himself too because he’s probably had a long day, but he’ll stubbornly cling. No way, this is his therapy too!!

Wonwoo

Raises an eyebrow when you guys have progressed in your relationship enough for him to see what kind of medications you’re taking. “Blood pressure medicine?” He’ll ask quizzically. You’re young, and you’re normally so laidback that it doesn’t really make sense to him. When you say that your reading is always high when you go to the doctor, he won’t say anything right away. But a couple days later he’ll come home with a little blood pressure machine and ask you to humor him. He’s careful to get plenty of data over the course of a couple weeks before he hands you a sheet and all but demands that you go to the doctor to tell them you don’t need to be on this medication, because you’re actually reading low at home. You’ll give him a big blank stare in the moment, but will be overjoyed to be off the medication a week later. You won’t be doubting Wonwoo’s methods again.

Woozi

He helps by… not explicitly helping. Hear me out, okay!! He’s not nosy about your business as long as you try to keep him in the loop to the extent that you’re comfortable with. So he waits for you to come to him if you need him. He knows you have some anxiety about the doctor’s appointment you have today and half expects you to just go straight home and relax for the rest of the day. But there’s a meek knock on his studio door in the afternoon and you let yourself in and he kind of has heart palpitations. You came to see him!! He thinks. “Don’t mind me,” you’ll say, “I just want to hang out here for a while before going home.” He’ll roll his eyes like he’s annoyed, but he’s opening his arms for you to sit in his lap while he works. He’ll let you cling without breathing a word about it as long as you want to if it makes you feel better. 

DK

This one is dramatic, but it’s because it’s Seokmin, okay?? Say you’re on medication for high blood pressure and haven’t even thought anything about telling him about it. You normally feel fine (outside of the doctor’s office, that is), and it just… hasn’t come up. You’re spending the day at home with him and you’ve just offered to go fix some lunch, but you don’t make it. You wake up on the carpet with Seokmin hovering over you with panicked eyes. “You fainted, why didn't you tell me you didn’t feel well?” He’ll scold. He takes your health and safety seriously (they all do, really), so he’ll insist putting you in the car to take you to the hospital. You’re so out of it that you don’t really have any energy to argue. At the hospital, the nurse and doctor give you a look when they glance between your medication list and your blood pressure readings. They send you home and tell you to discontinue your blood pressure medication and recommend a mental health professional instead to manage anxiety. Best believe Seokmin’s making you follow through with THAT appointment. 

Mingyu

Did you think he was going to let you go alone? Did you think he was going to let you drive yourself and add to the stress? Did you think he wasn’t going to sit in the exam room with you and glare menacingly at the doctor like a big scary guard dog? He’s insistent and you’re running late, so you let him do all of this. He’s the epitome of over-protective the moment you tell him you’re nervous and don’t really want to go. Has no qualms about getting up and dragging you out of the room if you try to tell the doctor you’re just stressed HERE and they don’t listen. It’s like a switch is flipped by the time you’re in the car because he’s all sweet and soft and telling you that he’ll help you find a doctor that will actually listen. 

Minghao

 You have an afternoon appointment and he’s been watching you pace since approximately 5am. You’ve done all the normal chores by 7am and have moved on to some of the more infrequent chores, like dusting the tops of the kitchen cabinets and ceiling fans and deep cleaning the fridge. He can’t stand to watch you spiral anymore by about 9am and makes you sit down for a cup of tea with him. He holds your hand across the table and asks what the deal is. Does NOT expect the flood of tears that come but handles it with grace. When you sniffle about how nervous you are and how much worse it will be when you get to the office, he offers to help you meditate for a bit. You look skeptical, and he gets that maybe it’s not as helpful for you as it is for him, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already cleared his schedule to go with you anyway.

Seungkwan

You’re sick and absolutely refuse to go to the doctor. He’ll raise an eyebrow at the sea of tissues around you as you cough through your argument. “Fine, have it your way,” he’ll say - for now. If you get any worse, he won’t give you a lot of choices. So you get a constant stream of teas and soups and medicine during the day, and later that night while he’s cuddling you back to health, he’ll ask the serious questions about your avoidance. He doesn’t want to pressure you to go to the the general practitioner that you’re so anxious about seeing, but he does recommend tackling the anxiety individually and encourages you to seek some professional help for it. He’ll even go with you, he insists. You’re so touched that he actually listened that you let him schedule an appointment the next day.

Vernon

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again because I will die on this hill. He’s not as aloof as he seems!! He’s noticed the pattern to your anxiety but hasn’t said anything about it because he isn’t sure it will help. So he does the little things like planning for a quiet night in on your appointment days to work down some of the anxiety, complete with take-out, a bunch of blankets, and a bad comedy. But this time, you lament about how the appointment went, movie totally forgotten. You’re worked up again about it asking Vernon what you should do and why no doctor will listen to you. He thinks it might be rhetorical, but he gently recommends going to a counselor or psychiatrist because they might be able to help manage the anxiety you're feeling. You blink at him with a little ‘oh’, feeling kind of silly that you’ve never thought of it. He doesn’t let you feel silly for long, because he’ll clear his schedule to go with you any day if there’s a chance it will help you feel better.

Chan

Bless his heart, you might have to spell it out for him. Does not understand the bad mood you’re in after your appointment and thinks he might have done something. You huff, “No, you haven’t done anything. I just hate going to the doctor. It kills my mood.” He refuses to let you apologize for your bad mood after that. Can’t relate necessarily, but does his best to understand you and what you need from him. Expect to be smothered with affection today, but he’s already thinking of a mental checklist for things he needs to do before, during, and after your next appointment. He’s not sure he can solve all of your problems, but he can absolutely be someone you can depend on.

[pretzel-box]

Hello Hello! Hope you’re doing well! If it is possible could you write something about a Sister!reader who never gave up on thinking Sebastian is still alive and they reunite and its sob worthy? Thank you ^^

Tags: Pre!Lockdown scenario, fem sibling reader, plationic

Words: 1,2k

The corridors of the Urbanshade facility were cold and sterile, a maze of steel and concrete that stretched on endlessly. Each step echoed off the walls, amplifying the silence that permeated the place. To most, this facility was a place of dread, a monument to the horrors that took place behind its doors. But to you, it was something else. It was hope.

You tightened your grip on the clipboard in your hands, the fake Urbanshade ID badge clipped to your coat collar.

Your heart pounded in your chest, anxiety mingling with anticipation. It had been years—long, grueling years—since Sebastian had disappeared. Everyone had told you to give up, to accept that he was gone after he got executed for the gruesome crimes he did, or rather, didn't committed . They said it was time to move on, but you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. Because deep down, you knew he was still out there. You could feel it, a connection only a sister could have. And now, after all this time, you finally had a lead after such a long time of search.

Your breath hitched as you rounded a corner and saw two guards standing outside a heavily reinforced door. You forced yourself to stay calm, to keep your expression neutral, trying to hide the true feelings between your solid expressions. This was it. This was where they were keeping him. You felt so close and yet so far from your goal.

“Evening gentlemen,” you greeted in a professional tone, trying to sound as casual as possible, as if you naturally belong among those workers. “I’m here for the weekly inspection of the experiments. Orders from high up.”

One of the guards, a burly man with a thick beard, gave you a skeptical look. “Haven’t seen you around here before.” His voice was rough, as if he had smoked for ages. It gave you a nasty feeling.

Yet you swallowed hard, your mind racing and you had to come up with a lie quickly since having an ID and a clipboard wasn't enough nowdays. “I’m new. Transferred in from Sector 7. They needed someone with experience in handling… sensitive subjects. Short on staff, you know the deal.”

The guard grunted, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he didn’t question you further as if he felt your words a bit to much..“Short on staff indeed. Fine. Make it quick,” he muttered, punching in a code on the keypad beside the door after holding a keycard against it, yet you couldn't really see the code. The heavy metal door slid open with a hiss, revealing a dimly lit cell beyond. They really had tight security around here.

You took a deep breath, stepping inside. The door slammed shut behind you, and for a moment, you were plunged into darkness. Your eyes slowly adjusted to the low light, and then you saw him.

Sebastian.

He was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, his head lowered. His raven hair was longer now, messier, and his clothes were torn and dirty. He looked… different. Thinner, more gaunt. And he…he looked so inhuman and deformed. But it was him. You could see it in his now fluorescent blue eyes—the almost same eyes you had grown up with, the same eyes that had always been there, watching over you.

“Sebastian…” you whispered with a tone that was almost fleeting , your voice barely more than a breath. Tears immediately welled up in your relieved eyes as you took a step forward with newfound confidence. “It’s me… it’s your sister.”

Sebastian’s head shot up at the sound of your voice. His eyes were wide, filled with disbelief and confusion. For a moment, he just stared at you, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, slowly, recognition dawned on his face.

“You?” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a croak. He pushed himself up from the floor, using his hands to push is now larger body across the cold cell floor, his movements slow and hesitant, as if he was afraid you were just a figment of his imagination. “Is… is it really you?”

“Yes, it’s me,” you choked out, warm tears streaming down your face. “Oh my God, Sebastian… I knew you were alive. I knew it!”

Before he could say anything else, you rushed forward, wrapping your arms around him in a tight embrace by pressing against the cold steel bars that kept you separated from now. It was the last form of security. For a moment, he just stood there, stiff and unresponsive. Then, slowly, his arms came up around you, pulling you close. He was trembling—no, shaking—and you could feel the wetness of his tears against your neck.

“I thought… I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “They told me… they told me you all…blamed me…You hate me…”

You pulled back slightly, cupping his face in your hands. “No, Sebastian. I’m here. I’m right here.” You brushed a tear from his cheek with your thumb, so careful, that you might think it could break any second. But it was your heart breaking at the sight of him. “I never gave up on you. Not for a single second.”

Sebastian’s shoulders shook as he tried to hold back a sob. “I—I tried to escape,” he said, his voice trembling. “But they… they caught me. They did things to me. Horrible things. I thought… I thought I’d die in here.” The try to fill you in on the events by remembering those scenes made him tremble more out of pure terror and fear.

“Shh… it’s okay,” you soothed, pulling him close again. “I’m here now. And I’m going to get you out of here. I promise.”

Sebastian’s grip on you tightened, his body wracked with silent sobs. You held him, stroking his back, whispering soothing words as he broke down in your arms. For so long, he had been alone, trapped in this nightmare. But now, he wasn’t alone anymore. You were here. And you weren’t going to let anything happen to him ever again.

Minutes passed, maybe hours—you couldn’t tell. Time seemed to stand still in that small, dark cell. Eventually, Sebastian pulled back, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He looked at you, his eyes looking tired, but there was a spark there now—a spark of hope.

“How did you find me?” he asked, his voice still shaky.

You gave him a small smile. “I never stopped looking,” you said simply. “I knew you were alive. And when I heard about this place…the rumors. I knew I had to come.”

Sebastian nodded, his eyes filling with gratitude. “I don’t know how to thank you,” he said softly. “For never giving up on me. For coming all this way…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, your voice thick with emotion. “You’re my brother. I would move mountains for you.”

Sebastian’s eyes welled up with tears again, and he pulled you into another tight hug. “I missed you so much,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered back, your own tears falling freely. “But we’re together now. And we’re going to get out of here. Together.”

You pulled back slightly, meeting his gaze. “Are you ready?” you asked, your voice steady despite the tears in your eyes.

Sebastian nodded, determination hardening his features. “Yeah,” he said

[yiichan]

KYII'ᔕ TᕼOᑌGᕼTᔕ Oᖴ TᕼE ᗪᗩY 🌷💌 — CULT

IMAGINE — yandere!cultleader!jeonghan x gn!you

WARNINGS — yandere elements, dead dove: do not eat, cultish elements, religious.

WRITER'S NOTES — just twelve days ago i'm still a blog with almost 0 interactions and less than 100 followers, and now it's going to reach 200 and people are interacting with me? please you guys are making me cry- so here is my present for you. just a drabble on how i think geto- i mean, jeonghan's thoughts on 'you', as a cult leader.

speical mention — @sousydive

back | navigation | main page | kofi | ao3

It fascinated Jeonghan how influential you were among his followers, how easily you captivated them without even trying. He had spent years building this web of loyalty and trust, spinning every word, every glance with precision. Yet you walked into his carefully constructed world and, without effort, turned it on its head.

It began with Wonwoo, the toughest nut to crack. Jeonghan had worked tirelessly to earn his trust, planting seeds of doubt and faith where needed, coaxing the stoic man into his fold. But then you arrived—childhood friends, you called yourselves—and everything shifted. Wonwoo softened in your presence, smiled more, and for the first time, seemed to prioritize someone other than Seungcheol.

Then there was Jihoon. Jeonghan had spent endless hours breaking down his defenses, dismantling the rigid beliefs that had shielded him. Jihoon was sweet but unyielding, a fortress Jeonghan had painstakingly breached. And yet, with you, it had taken mere moments. A conversation, a laugh, and Jihoon was yours.

Minghao was no different. Jeonghan had thought the perceptive man would see through you, would remain immune. But even Minghao wasn’t spared. Jeonghan saw the way Minghao’s sharp eyes softened when they landed on you, the way his body leaned ever so slightly in your direction whenever you spoke.

It infuriated Jeonghan.

And yet, it enthralled him.

What was your secret? How did you manage to do what had taken him years? You weren’t calculating, weren’t manipulative. You didn’t need to be. Your charm was effortless, natural. It made Jeonghan question himself, his methods, everything he had built.

It made him envy you.

But more than envy, Jeonghan found himself drawn to you. He told himself it was curiosity, a desire to uncover your secrets and make you his. But it was more than that. He wanted to understand you, to unravel you, to possess you.

You were dangerous, and that thrilled him.

For the first time, Jeonghan felt outsmarted, outshined. It sent a cold rush of fear through him, but alongside it, a darker thrill. He wondered—how would it feel to have you under his control? To see those captivating eyes look at him with reverence? To have you hang on his every word, obey his every command?

The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a strange mix of dread and desire.

What would it take, he wondered, to make you worship him? To see you kneel before him, not out of love but devotion, the way his followers did?

The idea sent goosebumps rippling across his skin.

Jeonghan smiled to himself, a slow, serpentine grin.

Perhaps you were a challenge. But every challenge could be overcome. And when he did, oh, how sweet it would be.

© yiichan, 2024 origin of divider

[novaursa]

The Price of Fire (5)

- Summary: In the shadows of the Red Keep, the daughter of the Mad King, Princess Y/N Targaryen, finds herself caught between duty, love, and survival. As her father’s madness deepens and political intrigue swirls, she seeks solace in a forbidden romance with her sworn protector, Ser Arthur Dayne. With King Aerys plotting to use her as a pawn and her brother Rhaegar maneuvering to shield her from their father’s grasp, Y/N must navigate a web of deceit and desire. As tensions rise, secrets ignite into fierce passion and dangerous alliances, where the wrong move could mean the end of them all.

- Paring: targ!reader/Arthur Dayne

- Note: For the rest of the parts or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (Aerys is warning on his own)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 4

- Next part: 6

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @lightdragonrayne @onlyrealjoy

The midday sun filters through the tall, narrow windows of the Red Keep’s dining hall, casting warm light on the long table where the Targaryen family and their closest retainers are gathered for lunch. The lavish spread of food is as much for show as it is for sustenance—ornate platters piled high with roasted meats, fresh fruits, and rich sauces. Yet, for all the finery, a tension lingers in the air, taut as a drawn bowstring. Servants move silently along the walls, their faces blank masks, well aware that the mood of the room could shift in an instant.

You sit beside Rhaegar, your brother’s familiar presence a comfort even as you notice the subtle strain in his posture. His face is drawn, the shadow of something dark clouding his normally serene expression. He wears the haunted look you’ve seen so often when his dragondreams have plagued him during the night, those cryptic, foreboding visions that offer more questions than answers. Rhaegar usually confides in you—his closest ally and confidante—but this morning, there was no opportunity. The king’s summons came early, and both of you were dragged into the presence of Aerys before even a word could be exchanged in private.

The gathering is a performance, a display orchestrated by Aerys more for his own twisted pleasure than any genuine familial warmth. The lords and ladies invited to dine with you cast furtive glances, each trying to discern the hidden meanings in every exchange, every gesture. It is a room full of people poised on the edge, waiting for the king’s mood to turn, for his unpredictable whims to manifest.

You reach for Rhaegar’s hand beneath the table, your fingers brushing against his in a gentle attempt to offer comfort. He turns his head slightly, meeting your gaze for a fleeting moment. The concern in your eyes prompts him to give a faint squeeze of your hand, but his mind seems distant, lost in the haze of his visions.

“I saw the tower again,” he murmurs, so quietly that only you can hear. “It’s clearer now… the blue roses, the shadowed faces.” His voice trails off, his expression tightening as if he’s trying to make sense of fragments that refuse to align. “There’s blood… and a choice.”

Before you can ask more, Aerys’ voice slices through the air, sharp and sudden. “A toast!” he declares, raising his goblet high. The movement is so abrupt that the lords and ladies present scramble to follow, lifting their own goblets with varying degrees of eagerness and dread.

You freeze, your hand still clasped with Rhaegar’s under the table as your father’s gaze lands squarely on you. There’s something unsettling in his eyes—a mix of pride, possessiveness, and something darker that makes your skin crawl. His smile is thin, more like a grimace, as he begins to speak, his voice dripping with a twisted affection that sends shivers down your spine.

“To my daughter,” Aerys proclaims, his tone almost giddy. “The flower of House Targaryen, the blood of Old Valyria made flesh. Beauty unmatched, grace beyond compare! A jewel among common stones!” His words grow louder, more fervent, as he looks directly at you. “Who could resist such a vision of purity? Who could deny that she is worthy of the greatest honors the realm can bestow?”

The room is deathly silent. You can feel the eyes of every noble in the hall boring into you, some of the ladies blushing at the king’s proclamations while the lords exchange uncomfortable glances. Even the servants seem to shrink away, as if hoping to melt into the shadows. The intensity of Aerys’ gaze, the fevered light in his eyes as he speaks of you, sends a jolt of anxiety through your chest. You force yourself to hold his gaze, knowing that showing any sign of discomfort would only encourage him further.

But Rhaegar’s grip on your hand tightens, his knuckles white with tension. “Father,” he says, his voice steady but laced with an edge that carries barely restrained fury. “Your compliments are… generous. But such displays are best saved for more appropriate occasions.”

Aerys’ head snaps toward Rhaegar, his smile twisting into a sneer. “And what would you know of appropriate, boy? Do you think yourself fit to judge what I choose to honor?” His voice rises with every word, his mood shifting like a storm at sea. “You sit there like some sullen ghost, whispering secrets, while your sister shines as the star of this family. Perhaps if you spent less time brooding over dreams and more time appreciating what is before you, you’d understand the true value of what I offer!”

The tension thickens, the atmosphere in the hall turning suffocating. You can see Rhaegar struggling to keep his temper in check, his jaw clenched so tightly that it’s a wonder he doesn’t shatter his teeth. You know how much he hates this—the way Aerys parades you around as if you’re nothing more than a prized possession, a tool to be flaunted before the court. It’s a cruel mockery of the family you once were, a twisted shadow of the father who has long since been consumed by madness.

Desperate for some sense of stability, you let your gaze drift across the room, searching for something—someone—that can anchor you in this nightmare. And then you find him. Ser Arthur Dayne, standing just beyond the reach of the table, his eyes fixed on you with a quiet intensity that only you recognize. There’s no judgment in his gaze, only silent support, a steadying presence that cuts through the chaos.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but the comfort in his eyes is enough to give you the strength to hold your composure. The bond you share is one built on trust, on the understanding that even in the darkest moments, you are not alone. You draw in a slow breath, calming the frantic beat of your heart as you give Arthur the faintest of nods, a silent acknowledgment that his presence is a lifeline in a sea of madness.

Aerys, still glaring at Rhaegar, finally returns his attention to you, his tone sickly sweet but laced with the same madness that has become his trademark. “Do not let your brother’s sullenness ruin this day for you, my dear,” he says with a mock tenderness that makes your stomach twist. “You are the light that guides this family, the flame that burns brightest in the darkness. Perhaps I should have you sit closer to me—after all, what is a king without his most precious jewel?”

Rhaegar’s eyes flash with anger, but before he can respond, you tighten your grip on his hand under the table, silently pleading with him to let it go. The last thing you need is for this already volatile situation to explode further. Rhaegar catches the warning in your gaze and reluctantly falls silent, though the tension in him remains palpable.

The hall falls into an uneasy quiet, broken only by the clinking of goblets as the lords and ladies murmur among themselves, desperate to avoid drawing Aerys’ ire. The king takes a long, indulgent sip from his goblet, seemingly satisfied with the discomfort he’s sown.

You return your attention to Arthur, who remains as steadfast as ever, his eyes locked onto yours. The room may be filled with whispers and judgmental stares, but in that brief, shared glance, you find the strength to keep your head held high. No matter how twisted the court’s games become, no matter how suffocating the weight of Aerys’ obsession grows, you know that there is still someone who sees you for who you truly are—someone who would stand by your side through it all.

The meal continues, but the lightness of the festivities outside feels miles away. The tension remains, lingering like a dark cloud over the gathering. And yet, beneath the surface, there’s a current of determination that runs through you and Rhaegar, a shared resolve that no matter how much Aerys tries to twist and control, there is still strength in the bonds you’ve forged—with each other, with those you trust.

The uneasy atmosphere clings to the room like a damp fog, making every bite of food taste bland and every sip of wine feel heavy. The conversation at the table is stilted at best, strained with the weight of the tension that lingers after Aerys' unsettling outburst. The lords and ladies continue with their meals, but their gazes dart nervously between each other, clearly more concerned with staying out of the king’s attention than with enjoying the feast.

You keep your head down, focusing on the food in front of you, though every bite feels forced. The memory of Aerys' twisted toast, his unsettlingly affectionate words still lingering in the air, makes your stomach churn. Rhaegar’s silence is heavy beside you, and though you hold his hand under the table still, the weight of his dragondreams and the tension with your father drags him deeper into brooding thoughts. The rest of the table—filled with lords, ladies, and noble guests from across the realm—remains stiff and formal, the usual lively conversations replaced by murmurs of caution.

But as you lift your gaze across the table, your attention is drawn to a cluster of Northmen—Lord Rickard Stark and his sons, Brandon and Eddard. The Starks, so often distant from the southern courts and their intrigues, are rarely seen this far south unless duty demands it. Yet here they are, attending a festival that has little to do with their interests. And as you observe them, it becomes clear that they, too, are uneasy.

Lord Rickard sits with a stern expression, his gray eyes observing everything with the quiet intensity that only a man accustomed to harsh winters can carry. His sons sit beside him, Brandon with his strong, confident bearing, and Eddard with the quieter, more contemplative demeanor of a man who prefers action over words. The Northmen shift in their seats, uncomfortable not just with the courtly splendor but with the palpable sense of dread that hangs in the air.

Brandon leans slightly toward his father, his voice low but clear enough for you to catch snippets of their conversation. “This is not what we expected,” he murmurs, his tone edged with disapproval. “The stories of the Mad King were no exaggeration.”

Lord Rickard’s expression remains impassive, but his eyes narrow slightly in thought. “We knew the risks in coming here,” he replies quietly, his voice gravelly from years spent in the cold winds of the North. “But duty to the crown remains, no matter how twisted it has become. We cannot afford to show weakness, especially not in a den of vipers like this.”

Eddard, the youngest and most reserved of the Starks, shifts uncomfortably, his gaze flicking briefly toward you before quickly looking away, as though unsure of how to reconcile the images of the noble Targaryens with the madness of their father. “We should have stayed in Winterfell,” he mutters under his breath, his discomfort clear. “This is no place for honorable men.”

Rickard hears the words but does not rebuke them. Instead, his eyes flicker toward Aerys, who sits at the head of the table, muttering to himself while occasionally casting possessive glances in your direction. The unease is plain on the Stark lord’s face. There is no love lost between the North and the South, and the differences are only made more glaring by the grotesque spectacle they’ve been forced to endure.

You wonder what drew the Starks here in the first place. It is unusual for the cold and distant North to be represented at such a festival, especially one that celebrates the Mother—a figure more revered in the South than among the practical gods worshipped in Winterfell. The presence of the Starks suggests something more than just a visit; perhaps they have come out of obligation, or perhaps there are whispers of unrest even in the North that require the great houses to stay close to the center of power.

As you ponder this, Rhaegar’s voice quietly interrupts your thoughts. “The Northmen are uneasy,” he murmurs, his tone laced with the same weariness that haunts his every word. “They feel the madness as clearly as we do. They’re not blind to the truth hidden behind the courtesies.”

You nod subtly, agreeing with his assessment. “It’s a rare thing for them to come this far south without cause. Perhaps they suspect that something more is at play here.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flick toward Lord Stark and his sons, considering them for a long moment. “They’ve come to witness the unraveling firsthand,” he says quietly. “They know that the realm is on the brink, and they’re taking the measure of it before deciding where they’ll stand when the flames rise.”

The thought is unsettling, but you can’t deny that there’s truth in his words. The Starks are not known for idle travel; they’ve come for a reason, and whatever it is, it’s tied to the growing tension that seems to permeate every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.

A sudden clattering of utensils draws your attention back to Aerys, who is now eyeing the Starks with a peculiar interest, his gaze calculating and more focused than it was just moments ago. “Ah, Lord Rickard!” he exclaims suddenly, his voice dripping with false warmth. “It’s rare to see the wolves of Winterfell in such fine company. Tell me, how does the North find our southern hospitality? I would hate for our guests to feel unwelcome.”

The room falls silent again, all eyes turning to the Starks as Rickard slowly rises from his seat, bowing with the politeness expected in the presence of the king, though his expression remains inscrutable. “Your Grace honors us with this invitation,” Rickard says carefully, his words respectful yet guarded. “The North appreciates the warmth of the South’s hospitality, though it is quite different from what we are accustomed to.”

Aerys leans back in his seat, a twisted smile tugging at his lips. “Different indeed. The North is known for its harsh winters and cold nights, but here in the South, we have ways of keeping warm, do we not?” His gaze flickers briefly back to you, his smile widening in a way that makes your skin crawl. “Perhaps our honored guests would like to join us in our more… intimate traditions?”

The suggestion is laced with insinuation, and you can see the faint tightening of Rickard’s jaw, though he remains composed. “The North has its own customs, Your Grace,” he replies coolly. “But we are always eager to learn from our southern kin.”

The tension ratchets up another notch, the unspoken meaning of Aerys’ words hanging in the air like a dark cloud. Rhaegar’s hand tightens around yours beneath the table, a silent warning to remain calm, even as his own fury simmers just below the surface.

You glance again toward Arthur, who stands at the edge of the room, his eyes locked on you. There’s a subtle shift in his stance, a readiness that you’ve come to recognize—he’s prepared for anything, knowing that in a single moment, Aerys’ mood could swing from sinister amusement to outright violence. The silent connection you share is your anchor, and you hold onto it as the tension in the room thickens, the meal dragging on with a sense of impending disaster.

As the uneasy silence stretches, broken only by the clinking of silverware and the soft murmurs of nervous guests, you can’t help but wonder how much longer the realm can bear this strain. The Starks, the Targaryens, the lords and ladies gathered here—everyone is waiting, watching for the moment when the first crack in the fragile peace becomes a gaping chasm.

The midday feast stretches into the afternoon as the court makes its way to the festival grounds for the continuation of the celebrations. The tension from the uncomfortable meal lingers like a bad taste, but the atmosphere gradually brightens as music and laughter fill the air. The royal pavilion has been set up near the jousting lists, draped in rich Targaryen colors, with banners fluttering in the warm breeze. Lords and ladies stroll through the grounds, exchanging pleasantries, and the smallfolk cheer as performers and musicians entertain the gathered crowd.

But even amidst the revelry, you notice a shift in the mood as the arrival of House Martell is announced. The vibrant orange and red sigil of the sun-and-spear flutters high, and there is a buzz of excitement and curiosity as the Dornish contingent makes its way toward the pavilion. It is no secret that Dorne has been a topic of discussion in Aerys’ small council, and many have speculated that an alliance with House Martell would be advantageous—both politically and strategically.

Prince Doran Martell leads the group, his gait measured and dignified. His younger siblings, Elia and Oberyn, walk beside him, each a striking contrast in personality and appearance. Elia, graceful and poised, exudes a quiet strength, her dark eyes keenly observing everything around her. Oberyn, with his sharp features and confident smirk, radiates a more dangerous energy, his eyes glittering with amusement as he scans the crowd with the air of a man who knows he’s being watched and relishes it.

It’s clear from the way the courtiers glance toward the Martells that there’s more at play than simple courtesy. The whispers grow louder, and you can almost feel the weight of the speculative stares as people connect the Martells’ presence with the recent discussions within the small council, much to Tywin’s distaste. Dorne, long known for its independence and reluctance to bend to the Iron Throne’s will, has always been a key piece in the game of thrones, and Aerys—ever paranoid, ever calculating—has been increasingly pressured by some members of his council to solidify an alliance with the southern kingdom.

As the Martells approach, Rhaegar’s grip tightens around the armrest of his seat, his expression unreadable. You don’t miss the flicker of discomfort that passes through his eyes as Elia Martell steps forward with a soft, demure smile. It’s no secret that certain factions within the court, including members of the king��s council, have been pushing for a marriage between Rhaegar and Elia—a union that would solidify ties with Dorne and strengthen House Targaryen’s position in the realm.

But you know your brother better than most. Despite his princely demeanor, Rhaegar is a man of deep convictions, one who loathes being manipulated by those who view him as little more than a political pawn. His dreams—his visions—constantly weigh on him, and the idea of a marriage arranged solely for political gain is not something he would accept lightly.

You catch Rhaegar’s eye, and he gives you a subtle, almost imperceptible shake of his head. The message is clear—not now, not here. There’s too much at stake, too many eyes watching. But the tension between duty and desire gnaws at him, and you can feel the weight of that conflict in the air.

As the Dornish entourage reaches the pavilion, Prince Doran offers a graceful bow to King Aerys, his voice smooth and respectful. “Your Grace, it is an honor to be here and partake in the festivities. Dorne brings its warmest regards and hopes that the peace and prosperity of the realm continue under your wise rule.”

Aerys, for once, seems to rein in his usual erratic behavior. He nods slowly, a thin smile stretching across his lips. “The pleasure is mine, Prince Doran. It is a rare thing to see our Dornish cousins so far from the sands of Sunspear. But these are rare times, are they not?”

The exchange is laced with undercurrents of meaning, and you can almost hear the unspoken negotiations happening in the silences between their words. Oberyn’s gaze sweeps the gathering, his eyes sharp and calculating. When his gaze lands on you, a smirk tugs at his lips, though it’s impossible to tell if it’s one of amusement or curiosity.

Elia’s presence, on the other hand, is far more subdued. She inclines her head toward you and Rhaegar with practiced elegance, but her eyes hold a quiet intensity. It’s clear that she is as aware as anyone of the implications of her being here. Her dark gaze lingers on Rhaegar, searching for something—perhaps a sign of his thoughts, his feelings toward the marriage that has been whispered about in hushed circles.

Rhaegar returns her gaze with polite distance, his smile courteous but strained. He offers her a formal nod, acknowledging her with the respect due to her station, but the lack of warmth in his eyes speaks volumes. The court notices it too, and the whispers begin anew—questions, speculations, murmurs of what this means for the much-rumored alliance.

King Aerys, ever the disruptor, suddenly raises his voice, cutting through the murmurs. “It is fitting that our Dornish cousins join us for the festival in Mother's name,” he says, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. “After all, the beauty of Dorne is as famed as its resistance. Perhaps it is time to bring the two closer together, wouldn’t you say?”

The question hangs in the air, charged with meaning. Aerys’ eyes flick toward you briefly, but then return to Rhaegar, who remains silent, his expression carefully neutral. The court waits, breath held, to see how this game will unfold.

Prince Doran, ever the diplomat, smiles graciously. “Dorne is always open to discussions that benefit the realm, Your Grace. But such matters require delicate handling, don’t they?” His voice is smooth, his words carefully chosen—a reminder that while the Martells may be here, they will not be rushed into anything without careful consideration.

Aerys’ eyes narrow, the ghost of irritation flashing across his features before his grin returns, sharper this time. “Delicacy is often overrated, Prince Doran. Sometimes, the boldness of fire is what’s needed to forge true bonds.”

Rhaegar’s hand tightens again, and you feel the tension radiating from him. He’s trapped between duty and his own desires, the weight of expectations pressing down from every side. But before the conversation can spiral further, the musicians strike up a lively tune, and the attention of the court is momentarily drawn away from the tension toward the festivities.

The Dornish nobles blend into the crowd, their presence a reminder of the delicate balance at play. The day continues, but the undercurrent of unease remains, a shadow over the festivities. You know that Dorne’s arrival is just another piece moving on the board—a board that seems more treacherous with every passing day.

The festivities continue into the late afternoon, with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets filling the warm air. The sun casts a golden hue over the grounds as the nobles revel in the lively atmosphere. You stroll along the edges of the celebration, Ser Arthur faithfully at your side. Despite the tension woven into the day’s events, you manage to find comfort in the little moments—the brief exchanges of smiles and the shared glances between you and your knight, who remains ever vigilant but subtly more relaxed when he’s near you.

As you walk past a group of lords engaged in a spirited conversation, you notice Oberyn Martell approaching from across the courtyard, his stride confident and almost languid, as if he has all the time in the world. He’s dressed in the vibrant colors of House Martell, his tunic a striking shade of orange with rich gold embroidery. His presence draws attention wherever he goes, and it’s no surprise when he comes directly toward you, a playful smirk already curving his lips.

“Princess,” he greets you, his voice smooth like honeyed wine, with a hint of teasing that dances on the edge of propriety. He offers you a low bow that’s more exaggerated than necessary, clearly intended to amuse rather than impress. “I was hoping I might steal a moment of your time. The festivities are grand, yes, but they pale in comparison to the chance to speak with a true daughter of Valyria.”

You raise an eyebrow, unable to suppress the small smile tugging at your lips. Oberyn’s reputation precedes him—bold, dangerous, with a silver tongue that could charm even the most guarded courtiers. “Prince Oberyn,” you reply, your tone light, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’ve made it your mission to charm your way through every lady present today.”

Oberyn grins, unabashed. “I would never be so crude as to deny it. But can you blame me, Princess? The beauty of the South may be celebrated, but it is the rare elegance of Targaryen blood that truly captivates.” His eyes gleam with mischief as he adds, “Besides, why limit oneself to just one conquest when there are so many delightful encounters to be had?”

Arthur, standing dutifully beside you, watches the exchange with a careful eye, though there’s a flicker of amusement in his otherwise stoic expression. Oberyn’s reputation as the Red Viper may be formidable, but it’s clear that this is all in good fun. Still, Arthur remains close, a silent reminder that you are not without protection.

You decide to play along, matching Oberyn’s banter with a smile that’s equal parts amusement and challenge. “It’s a wonder you have time for the festivities at all, Prince Oberyn. Surely, with all these conquests you speak of, you must be exhausted.”

Oberyn’s laugh is warm and rich, and he takes a step closer, though he remains just outside the edge of propriety. “Ah, but a little exhaustion is a small price to pay for such pleasures, don’t you think? Life is short, Princess, and the days we live in are fraught with uncertainty. Why not seize every moment of joy we can, while we still have the chance?”

You can’t help but find his unashamed charm refreshing, especially after the tension and dourness of the day’s earlier events. There’s something disarming about Oberyn’s approach—the way he speaks so boldly, without hiding behind the masks of courtly pretense that so many others wear.

Arthur clears his throat lightly, his voice measured but carrying a note of dry humor. “Careful, Prince Oberyn. The princess is well-guarded, and not just by her knights. Her wit is sharp enough to match even the famed Red Viper.”

Oberyn chuckles, inclining his head toward Arthur with an exaggerated expression of mock deference. “Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and a master of words as well. I suppose I should tread carefully, lest I find myself on the receiving end of both your sword and her tongue.”

You exchange a quick glance with Arthur, and for a moment, there’s an unspoken understanding—both of you are enjoying the banter, allowing a brief reprieve from the weight of the day. It’s a rare thing to find lightness in these times, and even Arthur, whose duty often keeps him vigilant and serious, seems slightly more at ease.

“Prince Oberyn,” you say, feigning a thoughtful expression, “you speak of seizing joy in the face of uncertainty. And yet, for all your charm, I wonder—how often does that charm get you into trouble?”

Oberyn’s eyes sparkle with amusement, his smirk widening. “More often than not, I confess. But what’s life without a little trouble, Princess? Surely, even someone as regal as yourself has indulged in a moment or two of rebellion, hmm?”

Arthur’s posture stiffens ever so slightly, his protective instincts flaring at Oberyn’s insinuation, but there’s no real threat in the prince’s words—only playful curiosity. Before Arthur can interject, you decide to lean into the game, allowing yourself a moment of levity.

“Rebellion is an interesting word, Prince Oberyn,” you reply with a coy smile. “But I’ll leave it to your imagination. After all, a little mystery keeps things intriguing, does it not?”

Oberyn’s laugh is genuine, his eyes dancing with approval. “Indeed, Princess. You are as formidable in wit as you are in beauty. I find myself more captivated with each passing moment.”

Arthur can’t help but shake his head slightly, though there’s a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Be careful, Prince. The court is a dangerous place to be captivated.”

“Danger and delight often walk hand in hand, Ser Arthur,” Oberyn counters smoothly. “But perhaps I should save my wits and leave the princess in peace—for now.”

With a graceful bow and one last roguish smile, Oberyn steps back, giving you a parting wink before he saunters away, undoubtedly seeking out his next amusement. As he disappears into the crowd, you can’t help but chuckle softly, finding yourself oddly refreshed by the encounter.

Arthur steps closer, offering you his arm once more. “I’ll admit, I was almost certain you’d skewer him with words by the end of that conversation,” he remarks, his tone laced with gentle humor.

You take his arm, allowing yourself to relax a bit more now that the exchange is over. “He’s harmless—mostly. Besides, it’s rare to have a conversation that isn’t laced with veiled threats and hidden motives. A bit of straightforward mischief can be… refreshing.”

Arthur nods, his expression softening as he looks down at you. “It’s good to see you smile, even if it’s Oberyn Martell’s antics that brought it out. There’s been too much weight on your shoulders lately.”

You glance up at him, finding comfort in the steadiness of his gaze. “Thank you, Arthur. For always being by my side.”

He offers you a reassuring smile. “Always, Y/N.”

The festival grounds are a swirl of color and sound, the jubilant atmosphere masking the tension that lies just beneath the surface. As Rhaegar moves through the crowd, his expression carefully composed, he does his best to avoid Cersei’s sharp green eyes that have been following him like a hawk all afternoon. Her persistent advances, thinly veiled behind her honeyed words and practiced smiles, have left him with a deep sense of unease. The more she presses, the more he feels the weight of the expectations crushing down on him—expectations he has little interest in fulfilling.

But as fate would have it, in his attempt to evade Cersei, he finds himself facing another challenge: Elia Martell. The delicate and poised princess of Dorne catches his eye as she approaches with a gentle smile, her dark eyes filled with quiet warmth. Elia is everything a future queen should be—gracious, kind, and intelligent. Yet, despite these virtues, Rhaegar feels a gnawing sense of distance, a barrier he cannot breach, no matter how much the court desires this union.

“Prince Rhaegar,” Elia greets him with a soft curtsy. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? The festival has brought so much joy to everyone.” Her voice is soothing, almost melodic, but Rhaegar’s thoughts are elsewhere.

He smiles politely, offering her a courteous nod. “Indeed, it’s a rare sight to see so much happiness in the capital,” he replies, his voice calm but lacking in true engagement. He is too aware of the expectations draped upon them—how this conversation, so benign on the surface, is being watched by those who would love nothing more than to see them married and united. But Rhaegar’s mind isn’t on Elia or the games of courtly politics.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots movement—something familiar and comforting. Turning his head slightly, he sees you, his sister, slipping away from the crowd with Ser Arthur Dayne at your side. It’s a subtle retreat, almost unnoticed by those around you, but Rhaegar’s eyes catch the brief moment when your hand brushes against Arthur’s, a touch so brief it would seem accidental to anyone else. Yet he knows better. He sees the way your hand lingers just a moment longer, the way you gently nudge Arthur as you murmur something to him, coaxing him to follow your lead.

Rhaegar’s brow furrows ever so slightly. There is nothing overtly improper in the interaction—it could be dismissed as a simple gesture between a princess and her sworn knight. But Rhaegar knows both of you well enough to read the subtleties. He recognizes the unspoken connection between you and Arthur, a bond that runs deeper than mere duty. It’s in the way Arthur’s eyes soften when he looks at you, the way he stands just a little closer than necessary, always ready to protect. And it’s in your demeanor, the way you relax slightly when Arthur is near, a small comfort in a world filled with dangers and uncertainties.

As much as Rhaegar trusts Arthur, the sight of you together—alone and retreating from the crowd—sparks a flicker of concern in his chest. His protective instincts flare up, mingled with an unease that he can’t quite place. His mind drifts away from Elia’s gentle conversation, distracted by the need to find you, to make sure you’re safe, and perhaps, to understand the growing connection between you and the Sword of the Morning.

Elia continues to speak, her tone warm and gracious. “I’ve always admired the strength of House Targaryen, Prince Rhaegar. Your family’s legacy is woven into the very fabric of Westeros. To see you here, carrying that legacy forward, is truly inspiring.”

Rhaegar forces himself to stay present, nodding as she speaks, but his thoughts remain clouded with concern. “Thank you, Princess Elia,” he replies, his voice polite but distant. “The legacy we bear is a heavy one, but it is our duty to uphold it, no matter the cost.”

Elia’s gaze softens, sensing something beneath his words, but before she can press further, Rhaegar’s attention shifts once more toward the direction you’ve gone. His eyes dart over the crowd, searching for any sign of you and Arthur. He feels an inexplicable pull to follow you, to be near you, to understand the bond you’ve formed with your sworn protector.

Elia notices his distraction, her expression flickering with concern. “Is something troubling you, my prince?”

Rhaegar shakes his head slightly, offering a strained smile. “Nothing of consequence, Princess. My thoughts are simply elsewhere today.”

Elia’s understanding nod is tinged with quiet resignation. She is perceptive enough to know that Rhaegar’s heart and mind are not fully present, though she cannot fully grasp why. There’s a quiet grace in the way she steps back, allowing the conversation to end without pushing further, though it’s clear she knows this is more than mere distraction.

“I won’t keep you, then,” Elia says softly, her voice carrying a hint of sadness. “I hope the rest of your day is peaceful.”

Rhaegar inclines his head in thanks, offering her a final nod before excusing himself. As he moves away, he casts one last look in the direction you went, determined to find you, to make sure all is well. The knot in his chest tightens as he thinks about you—about the way Arthur’s presence seems to comfort you in a way few others can. There’s a part of him that feels guilty for leaving you to bear so much of the court’s scrutiny alone, especially when you’ve always stood by him through his darkest moments.

Rhaegar knows he should return to the heart of the festival, where his presence is expected, where lords and ladies await his favor. But his instincts push him in another direction, driving him to find you. You’ve always been his closest ally, his truest friend, and the one who understands the burdens he carries without needing to ask. And now, with the growing shadows in his dreams and the weight of the future pressing down on him, he feels that need to be close to you more than ever.

The festival continues to whirl around him—the laughter, the music, the colors blending into a blur—but Rhaegar’s mind is focused on one thing: finding his sister, finding you, and understanding why the sight of you and Ser Arthur together fills him with both comfort and concern.

In a secluded garden nestled within the labyrinthine paths of the Red Keep, far from the prying eyes of courtiers and nobles, the world shrinks to just the two of you. The air is filled with the scent of blooming flowers, sweet and intoxicating, mingling with the faint rustle of leaves. It’s a rare oasis of peace in a castle that is often suffocating with intrigue and danger. You and Arthur stand close, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a mixture of longing, love, and a flicker of hesitation—hesitation that melts away the moment your lips meet.

The first kiss is soft, tender, as if testing the boundaries, but the spark that ignites between you quickly blazes into something more. The carefully maintained distance you’ve held for so long always collapses under the weight of your desire. Arthur’s hands find their way to your waist, pulling you closer as your fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him down to deepen the kiss. The world outside fades away as your passion consumes you both, a fire that has been burning quietly beneath the surface for far too long.

There’s a desperation in the way he kisses you, as if every moment could be the last. Your bodies press against each other, the cool metal of his armor a stark contrast to the heat between you. It’s reckless and dangerous, but you’ve never felt more alive than in his arms. Each stolen moment, each whispered promise, every touch that sends shivers down your spine—all of it leads to this. The tension that’s been building between you both, masked behind duty and decorum, finally breaks free.

You lean back against the rough bark of a tree, pulling Arthur with you as his lips trail from your mouth to your neck, leaving a path of warmth in their wake. You gasp softly, your fingers tightening their grip on his cloak as he presses closer, his breath hot against your skin. It’s a whirlwind of emotions—relief, joy, fear—all wrapped up in the overwhelming need to be near him, to be with him, if only for this fleeting moment.

But even in your passion, there’s an edge of danger. The knowledge that this is forbidden, that if your father were to discover your relationship, it could lead to ruin for you both, lingers in the back of your mind. Yet that risk only heightens the thrill, driving you both further into the embrace. Arthur’s hands grip your waist tightly, as if anchoring himself to you, while his kisses grow more urgent, more insistent.

“Y/N,” he murmurs between breaths, his voice rough with emotion, “you have no idea how much I—” He breaks off, kissing you again before he can finish the thought, as if words are inadequate for what he feels.

But before he can say more, a sound—a sharp intake of breath—breaks through the haze of your passion. The both of you freeze, your lips still brushing, hearts pounding in your chests as the sound of approaching footsteps echoes through the secluded path.

You break apart, breathless and flushed, as the reality of where you are comes crashing down. Arthur steps back just enough to put distance between you, his expression a mix of frustration and regret, though his hand remains on your arm, grounding you.

Emerging from the shadows is Rhaegar, his face pale, his violet eyes wide with shock. The look of disbelief on his face is quickly replaced by fear—fear not for himself, but for you.

Rhaegar steps forward, his face a mixture of shock, fear, and something that looks almost like betrayal. His eyes dart between you and Arthur, taking in the flushed cheeks, the way your breaths still come in ragged gasps, and the undeniable closeness between you both. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind racing with the implications of what he’s just witnessed.

“Y/N… Arthur…” Rhaegar’s voice trembles slightly, and the gravity of what he’s stumbled upon sinks in fully. His instinct is not to scold or condemn, but the terror of what could happen if your father were to find out is palpable in every word. “Do you realize what you’re risking? If Father—if *Aerys*—ever discovers this, it will mean ruin. For both of you!”

You pull away from Arthur fully, your heart hammering in your chest as you take a step toward your brother. “Rhaegar, please, I know how dangerous this is, but—” Your words falter as you see the raw panic in his eyes. You’ve seen Rhaegar handle courtly intrigues and navigate the madness of your father with a cool head, but now, faced with the possibility of you being harmed, he looks utterly shaken.

Arthur’s face is drawn, his expression hardening with the knowledge that Rhaegar is right. “I would never willingly put her in harm’s way,” Arthur says quietly, his voice firm but tinged with guilt. “I know the risk I’m taking, but—” He stops, searching for the right words. “But I cannot regret what I feel for her.”

Rhaegar’s eyes flash with a mixture of frustration and desperation. “This isn’t about regret, Ser Arthur. This is about survival.” He steps closer, lowering his voice to an urgent whisper. “You know what Father’s like. You’ve seen how possessive he is, especially with Y/N. If he finds out about this… he could do something unspeakable.” Rhaegar’s voice cracks slightly, and he reaches out, taking your hands in his, as if trying to shield you from the very thought. “You’re all I have left, Y/N. I can’t lose you to his madness.”

The fear in his eyes mirrors the worry that’s been gnawing at the back of your mind ever since this secret relationship began. You know your father’s paranoia and cruelty, how he views you as a prized possession, a symbol of his power. If Aerys even suspects that you’ve formed an attachment beyond his control, the consequences would be catastrophic. Yet, even as you acknowledge the danger, your feelings for Arthur remain undeniable—a connection deeper than anything you’ve experienced before.

“Rhaegar,” you say softly, squeezing his hands. “I understand the risk, truly, I do. But this isn’t something I can turn away from. Arthur… he’s more than just a knight to me. He’s been my constant, my strength, through all of this madness. I can’t let fear dictate everything we do.”

Arthur’s gaze remains steady on Rhaegar, even as guilt and determination war within him. “If you ask it, I’ll leave her side and never act on this again,” he says, the words heavy with the weight of sacrifice. “But I swear on my honor, I will always protect her, no matter the cost.”

Rhaegar’s expression softens at Arthur’s vow, recognizing the sincerity in his words. He’s torn between the love he holds for you and the duty he feels to keep you safe from the horrors that Aerys could unleash. For a long moment, the three of you stand in silence, the distant sounds of the festival faintly reaching your ears as the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across the secluded garden.

Finally, Rhaegar lets out a deep breath, a mixture of resignation and resolve settling in his eyes. “I won’t betray your secret,” he says quietly, his voice laced with a hint of sorrow. “But you have to be careful—far more careful than this. I can’t watch over you every moment, and if even the faintest rumor reaches Father’s ears… We all know what he’s capable of.”

You nod, feeling the gravity of his words settling heavily in your chest. “I’ll be more cautious, I promise.” You look between Rhaegar and Arthur, both of whom are bound by their loyalty to you, even if it tears them apart inside.

Rhaegar’s hand drops from yours, and he gives Arthur a hard look. “If you truly care for her, then your duty is to ensure that this never comes to light. You’re one of the few I trust, Ser Arthur, but if this secret endangers her life… you’ll have to let her go.”

Arthur nods solemnly, his jaw set. “I would sooner lay down my life than see her harmed, but I understand, Prince Rhaegar.”

With a final, lingering glance at you, Rhaegar turns and walks away, his footsteps heavy with the burden of what he’s just witnessed. He disappears back into the festival, leaving you and Arthur standing alone once more, the silence between you now tinged with a bittersweet edge.

Arthur steps closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “We’ll be careful,” he whispers, his voice laced with both determination and affection. “But I won’t let this be the end, Y/N.”

You lean into his touch, finding strength in his presence even as the weight of the world presses down on you. “Neither will I,” you whisper back, sealing the promise with a kiss—this one softer, but no less filled with the depth of your emotions.

Rhaegar takes a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart as he steps away from the secluded garden. The shock of what he just witnessed lingers, gnawing at the back of his mind like a persistent ache. The sight of you and Arthur locked in such an intimate embrace, the raw passion between you—he cannot shake it. It isn’t the impropriety of it that haunts him, but the danger, the unbearable risk you’re both taking. If Aerys were to discover this…

Rhaegar’s thoughts spiral, a mixture of fear, anger, and desperation clouding his mind. He knows the lengths to which Aerys will go to control everything within his grasp. His father’s obsession with you is unhealthy, twisted—a possessiveness that borders on something darker. Rhaegar has long suspected that Aerys sees you not just as his daughter, but as a possession, a symbol of power that he clings to more tightly with each passing day. The thought makes his stomach turn, and his resolve hardens.

As he emerges from the shadows and rejoins the festival, Rhaegar’s gaze sweeps across the bustling courtyard, searching for any sign of you and Arthur. His eyes finally settle on you both as you step back into the throng of nobles and courtiers. The lighthearted laughter and music of the celebration are a stark contrast to the tension that still thrums through him, but you and Arthur carry yourselves with practiced ease, as though nothing has happened.

You’re smiling, speaking with some noble ladies who eagerly engage you in conversation. Arthur stands nearby, ever vigilant, his expression calm but always alert. He remains close enough to be within reach if needed but maintains the careful distance expected of a knight. To anyone watching, it’s just another day at court—no one would suspect the secret that lies beneath the surface. But Rhaegar can’t unsee what he now knows; the bond between you and Arthur is undeniable, and it’s something neither of you can easily hide.

Rhaegar’s chest tightens with a mix of protectiveness and helplessness. You’ve always been his anchor, his guiding star in a world gone mad. Losing you to Aerys’ schemes or, worse, seeing you destroyed by the king’s madness, is a fate Rhaegar cannot allow. He’s watched you endure the court’s venomous whispers and Aerys’ possessive nature, always standing strong despite the dangers. But this—this relationship with Arthur—puts you in greater jeopardy than ever before.

His gaze shifts from you to Aerys, who is holding court in the center of the pavilion, surrounded by sycophantic lords and eager noblewomen. The king is in one of his rare moments of relative calm, his laughter loud and grating as he basks in the hollow praises showered upon him. Yet, even from a distance, Rhaegar can see the darkness lurking behind his father’s eyes—a madness that is always teetering on the edge of explosion.

Aerys’ gaze drifts lazily across the assembled crowd, but Rhaegar catches the moment when his father’s eyes land on you. The intensity in Aerys’ stare sharpens, and Rhaegar’s blood runs cold. It’s that look again—the one that chills Rhaegar to his core. Aerys’ fixation on you is not the protective affection of a father; it’s something possessive, twisted, a hunger that defies all reason. Rhaegar knows that if Aerys ever suspected that your heart belonged to another, especially a knight like Arthur Dayne, there would be no limit to the cruelty he would unleash.

Rhaegar clenches his fists, anger and determination warring within him. He’s spent so much of his life navigating the complexities of court politics, trying to maintain a facade of control while keeping his own desires buried beneath duty and expectation. But this is different. This is about you, about protecting the one person he loves more than anything in this world. He cannot, will not, allow you to be another victim of Aerys’ madness.

Silently, Rhaegar makes a vow to himself. He will do whatever it takes to keep you safe, even if it means defying Aerys more openly, even if it means making decisions that will change the course of all their lives. He’s already burdened with the knowledge of prophecies, of visions that tug at his mind and point toward an uncertain future. But none of that matters more than protecting you. If it comes to it, he will take you far from King’s Landing, away from the shadows that cling to the Iron Throne, and keep you safe from the darkness that threatens to consume them all.

For now, though, Rhaegar knows he must be patient. He watches as you laugh with a lady from House Tyrell, your smile masking the tension beneath. Arthur’s eyes flick briefly toward Rhaegar, a silent acknowledgment passing between them. They both know the stakes. They both know what must be done to ensure your safety.

Rhaegar straightens, his expression growing resolute. He steps back into the crowd, moving through the festival with the grace expected of a prince, but his mind is already working through plans, contingencies, and possibilities. He will keep a closer eye on you and Arthur, ensuring that any risks are minimized. And when the time comes, he will act—swiftly and decisively—to shield you from the storm that is brewing.

No matter what happens, Rhaegar Targaryen will not allow Aerys’ madness to touch you. Not while there is breath in his body.

[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.

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