#dot plays the star war

[tiredassmage]

i giggled about this for way too long (sniper is fun xD)

[batsovergotham]

CHAPTER 1 PART 1

you agreed to spar and now you’ve basically dry humped in front of the royal guard

pairing - emperor!mark grayson x reader

summary - you were supposed to form an alliance. instead you slept with him three days in and now you have no idea what’s happening.

content notice: 18+. dry humping, accidental voyeurism.

a/n: this chapter is mostly expository, other chapters will be a lot more nasty ;)

This is a kind of quiet you’ve never experienced before.

It's not the type that drapes over the palace gardens in the early morning, when the fountains are quiet and the mist hugs the marble balustrades. It's not the quiet reverence of the Temple of Light when everyone’s deep in prayer at noon. It's like the quiet before the storm on a battlefield, just waiting for that first scream to break the silence. No, this is a different thing altogether. Something from the past. Feeling hungrier. The kind of silence that seeps into your bones and makes you forget what warmth feels like.

This is the silence of space.

And you hate it.

Not because it frightens you, fear isn’t what twists in your chest. You’ve stared down warlords, led charges into enemy territory, stood alone with your sword drawn against odds that made the palace scribes pray behind their hands. But this… this is different. This is distance. From your people. From everything you’ve ever known. From the world that made you who you are.

Swift Wind flies steady beneath you, his wings catching solar wind like sails. You can feel his frustration in the way his muscles tighten, the way he occasionally tosses his head even though you haven’t tugged the reins once. He doesn’t like this any more than you do. There’s nothing for him out here. No world to gallop across. No wind to play with his mane. No scents on the air. Just artificial gravity and stars that don’t sing.

You shift in your saddle and reach down, smoothing a hand over his shoulder. “Just a little longer,” you murmur. Your voice sounds strange in your throat. Too small. Like someone else is speaking.

You’re the Princess of Eternia. Second-born heir. Trained in all the rites, every weapon, every form of diplomacy and war known to your people. You were leading strategy meetings before your voice had even settled into its adult register. When you speak, kingdoms listen. When you fight, armies follow. You’ve bled for your planet. For your family. For the idea of peace your ancestors built temples to protect.

And yet right now, you feel like a single, ridiculous dot against the backdrop of an empire that has swallowed entire civilizations.

The Viltrumite flagship looms ahead now, just a silhouette at first, but it's growing larger. Closer. The shape of it is aggressive even at a distance. Smooth, sharp lines. No unnecessary parts. No aesthetic flourishes. No welcome. It doesn’t even look like it was made by people. More like it was forged in the belly of some god of order. Everything about it feels foreign. Antiseptic. Unfeeling.

Your jaw tightens. Not in fear. Not even in anger. But in resistance.

They asked for a diplomatic envoy. They’ll get one. But they’ll also get the weight of Eternia’s legacy riding straight into their cold, silent kingdom. Not because you expect to intimidate them. You’re not that naive. But because you refuse to arrive looking like a guest. You are not here to be inspected like merchandise or coddled like some glass heir.

You are here to see the Emperor. To look into the eyes of the man who rebuilt a bloodstained empire and decide for yourself what kind of ruler he really is.

Mark Grayson.

Even his name sounds strange in your mouth. Part-Human. Earthborn. Raised among people who live in wood houses and pave their streets with black tar. A world that thinks flying is for machines and still uses combustion for transport. And yet he rose from that place, half-Viltrumite, half-Human, and tore Thragg off his throne. Some say it was vengeance. Others say it was mercy.

You don’t know yet what you believe.

But you know this. You’ve met monsters before. And you’ve met men who wear crowns like excuses. You’ll know which one he is the moment you stand in the same room.

You’re getting close enough now that the ship's gravity starts tugging at Swift Wind’s path. You let it. The transition is smooth, mechanical, efficient. Another reminder that nothing here is natural. Everything about the Viltrumite Empire is sharp and deliberate. Their war was long. Brutal. You remember hearing about it even in the palace, whispers carried by offworld traders, fragments of footage buried in restricted archives. Eternia never took a side. Your world remained neutral, untouched. But you remember the images of the blood. Of planets reduced to dust. Of what a single Viltrumite soldier could do when given orders.

And now you’re flying toward the man who commands them.

You reach down to touch the flower on your wrist. Gold, red, and white, your family’s colors. Your mother tied it for you in the royal chamber, her fingers steady even as her voice trembled. She didn’t cry. She never does. But when she kissed your brow and whispered, “Be more than what they expect,” you felt her heartbeat echo in yours.

Your father had fewer words. Just a long look, a soldier’s nod, and the placement of his hand over your heart. “You speak for all of us now.”

No pressure, of course.

You square your shoulders and straighten your posture. You always do this before a new campaign or royal engagement, center yourself physically before your thoughts can spiral. You were taught to control your breath before your words. Stillness before action. Even now, that training holds. Your body moves into perfect form, as if it remembers the weight of your crown even when you’re not wearing it.

The ship’s docking bay begins to open.

A wide, glowing mouth spilling warm, artificial light into the dark. You narrow your eyes. You half-expect a formal reception. A landing platform. Trumpets, perhaps, or at least a guard waiting at attention. But the space beyond the gate is empty. No fanfare. No visible soldiers. No welcome at all.

You’re not sure if that’s meant as a power play or a sign of trust.

You adjust your grip on the reins.

This isn’t how Eternia would treat a foreign royal. But then again, the Viltrumites don’t operate by the same customs. You were briefed on that. Their culture is built on strength, but not always honor. They don’t value pageantry. They value results. That much, at least, you can understand.

Swift Wind slows his wings as you approach the entrance. His breathing is calm but alert. You lean forward slightly and pat his side, soft, but firm.

“No matter what happens,” you say, mostly to yourself, “we don’t bow first.”

You ease him toward the gate, eyes locked ahead. Whatever waits inside, whether it’s Mark Grayson himself, or just a long hall of silver metal and cool stares, you’ll walk into it standing tall.

Because you’re not just here to observe.

You are the Princess of Eternia. Defender of your world. Blade and voice and crown all in one. And the stars may not know your name yet, but by the time you leave this ship… they will.

The air inside the Viltrumite docking bay is thin and cold.

Not cold like the high Eternian cliffs in winter, where the snow bites and the wind howls and you can feel your blood pumping just to keep your fingers alive. No, this is colder in the absence of things. No birds. No scent of stone or pine. No breath of weather. Just the kind of temperature that machines choose, precise, efficient, untouched by anything natural.

Your heels hit the polished metal floor with a quiet finality as you dismount, the echo of your landing trailing out into the vast, cavernous space ahead of you. Swift Wind lands beside you in perfect unison, his wings folding inward with grace that stills the air around you. His hooves clink against the floor as he steps closer, ears flicking. He’s tense but obedient. Alert, but not alarmed. You feel that same tension wound tight in your own spine.

You stand tall. Because that’s what you were raised to do.

Your warrior dress gleams under the artificial light, white and gold, high-belted at the waist, ceremonial but fully functional. It’s a fusion of tradition and practicality, armor that still allows movement, dignity that doesn’t sacrifice readiness. Your sword hangs at your hip, resting easy against your side, the crystal at its hilt catching the sterile light like a living thing. You don’t touch it, not yet. But its weight reminds you who you are.

You are the Princess of Eternia. And this place doesn’t feel like it was made for someone like you.

Everything around you is clean to the point of emptiness. The walls are seamless metal, the light is without warmth, and the hangar doesn’t so much as stir when you arrive. No escort. No horns. No banners bearing your crest. No music to announce your entrance or mark your status. Just silence. Cool, white silence.

You hold your ground anyway.

Then the doors open.

A thin seam in the wall parts with a whisper, and two figures step through. Uniformed. Straight-backed. Viltrumite, by the look of them. One stays just behind the other, likely a junior officer. The one who approaches you first is tall, black-haired, his face a map of long years and longer battles. His gait is unhurried but sharp. Efficient. His presence reminds you of your brother’s war advisors, the ones who spoke rarely but whose words always carried weight.

He stops a respectful distance away. And bows. It’s a small bow, but a bow nonetheless.

“Princess of Eternia,” he says, voice formal, clear. “On behalf of the Viltrumite Empire, welcome. It is an honor to receive a warrior of your caliber aboard the Emperor’s flagship.”

You blink, just once. Not because you're surprised by the civility, but because you recognize the name before he gives it.

General Kregg.

The man who once led the siege on the Syndicate moons. The one they said lost three ribs and his right eye defending the armistice colony during the final battle against the dissidents. You studied him in your briefing. You hadn’t expected him to be the one greeting you personally.

You nod, regal and practiced. “General.”

He straightens. His gaze flicks over you, swift, professional, measuring without condescension. His eyes linger for the briefest second on your sword, then on Swift Wind’s wings. But he doesn’t comment. He doesn’t look surprised. Only intrigued.

“We’ve prepared quarters for your steed,” he says, gesturing slightly to the second officer, who nods and moves forward with a datapad in hand. “Fully gravity-regulated and climate-controlled. No restraints unless you request them. You’re welcome to accompany him, of course, or proceed to your suite.”

You glance at Swift Wind. He’s still watching. Still calm.

“He doesn’t do well in cages,” you say carefully, your voice low.

Kregg doesn’t flinch. “Nor do we, Princess.”

The smallest corner of your mouth twitches. They know how to play the game.

“You may stable him yourself,” he adds, stepping aside. “Or leave him in our care. The choice is yours.”

“I’ll handle it,” you say. “He responds to me.”

Kregg nods once. “As you wish.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then his tone shifts, still formal, but with a note of curiosity now, less rehearsed. “We’ve heard stories of you. Not just of your battles, but of the sword you carry. The Sword of Protection, forged in Castle Grayskull. Passed down only between you and your sibling.”

You don’t answer right away. You don’t like talking about the sword unless you have to. People always assume it’s symbolic. Decorative. They don’t understand the cost of it. The weight of carrying more than just your own strength.

“It’s not passed down,” you say finally. “It’s earned.”

Kregg inclines his head. “Then it belongs exactly where it is.”

He steps aside fully now, motioning toward the corridor behind him. “Once your companion is secured, I will escort you to your chambers. The Emperor is currently in council. He will receive you when his schedule allows.”

You nod once. “Understood.”

You glance down the hall. Smooth metal. No guards. No flourishes. The whole place feels like it was built by someone who values silence over grandeur.

As you begin to lead Swift Wind forward, your armor softly clinking with each step, you feel Kregg’s gaze still on you. Not hostile. Not even skeptical.

Just… interested.

“Is this your first time off-world, Princess?” he asks, keeping pace beside you.

You hesitate.

“Yes.”

He nods again, thoughtful. “You carry it well.”

You glance at him. “Carry what?”

“Being a stranger.”

You say nothing. But the words stay with you. Longer than you’d like.

General Kregg walks a half-step ahead of you, precise and silent, his boots clicking evenly against the metallic floor. The corridor stretches ahead in a gleaming line of polished steel and white-blue lights, the kind of sterile design you’ve only ever seen in offworld intelligence briefings. No guards line the halls. No banners hang from the ceilings. Every surface is stripped of ornament, everything here serves a function.

Including you.

Swift Wind’s hoofbeats echo softly beside you as he follows, wings folded neatly against his sides. He doesn’t like the ship. You can feel it in the tightness of his posture, the way he keeps glancing toward the sealed walls as if expecting them to close in. But he stays close, calm only because you are. Loyal beyond reason, even in a place that wasn’t made for him.

Kregg doesn’t say much as you walk. But when he does speak, his voice is courteous, never casual. “The Emperor instructed that your quarters be suited to your station,” he says, glancing over his shoulder without slowing. “If anything is lacking, it will be corrected.”

You nod once. “Thank you, General.”

It still feels strange to say it aloud. That you are here, in the heart of the Viltrumite Empire. Speaking calmly with the commander of what was once its most brutal arm. Stranger still, that they’ve been… respectful.

Kregg stops at a wide set of double doors. They hiss open soundlessly, revealing a suite that, though minimalist, is spacious. A private chamber with a soft-glow light source, a bed more than large enough to stretch out in full armor, a curved viewport overlooking the stars, and a side chamber with cleansing facilities. No guards at the door. No locked panels. For a place built by conquerors, the trust is unexpected.

Kregg turns to you. “Your steed will be taken to the observation stables. Our handlers were given your specifications. If you prefer to check them yourself–”

“I do.”

He nods once, unsurprised. “This way.”

You follow him through a secondary corridor and down a short ramp that curves inward like the spine of some massive creature. The air smells faintly sharper here, ionized. Cooler. You pass several corridors where Viltrumite soldiers pause to look at you, some subtly, others more openly, eyes tracking the sword at your side or the gleam of the Eternian crest stitched over your heart.

You say nothing. Neither does Kregg. 

Finally, you reach a stable unlike any you’ve seen. It’s not a barn, not an open-air structure, but a tall, wide chamber with simulated atmospheric controls. A slice of programmed sky curves overhead, a soft glow simulating dusk. The ground is padded but solid, treated with pressure-sensitive plating. Not dirt, but closer to Earth than the rest of the ship. It's the closest thing to nature you're likely to find in the Empire.

Swift Wind snorts, his hooves clinking once on the floor as he steps into the open enclosure. He lifts his wings slightly, testing the air. Then he looks at you.

You rest your hand on his shoulder, running your fingers once through the side of his mane. “It’s not perfect,” you murmur. “But it’ll do for now.”

He lowers his head briefly, pressing his forehead to yours. You hold still, breathing in the faint, warm scent of him. Of home. When you pull away, Kregg is watching. Not unkindly. Not coldly, either. Just… measured.

“He’ll be guarded, not confined,” he says. “If anyone attempts to interfere with him, they will be removed.”

You nod. “He’ll cooperate.”

Kregg inclines his head. “Then I’ll take you back to your chambers.”

The walk back is shorter. Or maybe it just feels that way now that Swift Wind is settled.

When the doors to your suite close behind you at last, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding since you boarded the ship. Not relief. Not exactly. Just the first breath you’ve taken for yourself in hours.

You unfasten your armor slowly. First the winged crown, then the bracers. The golden breastplate comes last, heavy in your arms as you set it down on the bench beside the bed. Piece by piece, you strip away the ceremonial weight, until you’re left in the simple white battle-dress beneath, a high-cut tunic hemmed in gold, light but tailored, with the golden crest still gleaming faintly over your chest. Your red cape brushes against the backs of your legs. 

No one’s here to see you like this. No one but the stars.

You step toward the viewport, bare feet soft against the cold floor. The stars beyond the glass are endless. Quiet. Farther away from Eternia than you’ve ever been.

You rest your palm against the pane and let your eyes trace the constellations. You miss your mountains. The weight of soil. The wind. But you’re not here to long for home.

You’re here for answers. For peace, if it’s real. For a ruler you’ve never met but were sent to judge with your own eyes.

Emperor Mark Grayson.

You wonder if he’ll see you as a diplomat or a threat. A relic or a warrior.

Maybe both.

Kregg waits until you’re in the hall again before speaking. “I’ve just been informed,” he says, glancing at the small communicator clipped to his belt, “that the Emperor has concluded his meeting.”

You pause. Just slightly. A shift in breath.

Your heart kicks once, but your expression doesn’t change. “And?”

Kregg tilts his head, voice precise. “He is prepared to receive you now. If you wish.”

You hesitate, if only for a breath. You’ve barely had time to wash off the weight of your arrival. You’re still in your white dress, your armor discarded back in your suite. But this is how it begins, isn’t it? Not with warning. Not with comfort.

Just a moment, and a choice.

“Take me to him,” you say. Your voice doesn’t waver.

Kregg nods once. “This way.”

He turns, leading you down another corridor, this one narrower, curving in a way that feels deliberate, guiding you somewhere more central. You pass no windows now. No chambers. Just long lines of clean metal, lit from above with pale lights that cast a faint glow against your cape.

Your mind sharpens with each step.

You were trained for first impressions. Not charm. Not manipulation. Presence. Your parents used to tell you the first breath you take in a throne room is the one that defines everything. Even if you say nothing. Even if you bow.

Especially if you don’t.

You draw in that breath now. Calm. Controlled. Your back straightens, your chin lifts, and your fingers curl once at your side before stilling.

Whatever kind of man Emperor Mark Grayson is, whatever kind of Empire he rules, you will look him in the eye and decide for yourself.

The corridor widens. Ahead, a tall doorway flanked by sleek columns stands waiting.

Kregg stops just short of it.

He turns to you, voice quieter now. “He prefers plain speech. No titles.”

“Yes,” Kregg says. “But he didn’t ask to be.”

With that, he taps a panel beside the door.

The doors open with a low, mechanical sigh.

You step into the throne room of the Viltrumite Empire, boots silent on the polished floor. The air is cool, still, almost too still, as if the room itself is holding its breath. The architecture is sleek, practical. It wasn’t built to impress. It was built to last. The walls curve upward in clean symmetry. No tapestries. No flowers. No carved monuments to history. Just quiet gravity and gleaming steel.

At the far end, seated at the center of that long, echoing quiet, is Emperor Mark Grayson.

He’s not what you expected.

The uniform he wears is formal, but not extravagant, sleek red and grey marked by the Viltrumite crest, a long fur-trimmed cloak falling behind his shoulders. The fabric moves faintly with the ship’s hum, regal only because of who wears it. He looks more soldier than king, broad-shouldered and battle-worn, and there’s something about the way he holds himself, grounded, tired, still, that tells you this is a man who didn’t want a throne, but took it because no one else could.

He watches you enter with a silence that’s hard to read. Not cold. But not soft either.

You step forward slowly, letting each movement carry the weight of your station. You’ve been trained for this. You’ve greeted foreign sovereigns before. On Eternia, you would have arrived to applause and ceremonial fanfare. Here, your arrival was quiet. Measured. Observed.

You stop at the base of the steps leading to the throne and, instinctively, begin to kneel, one hand crossing to your chest in the formal Eternian salute, eyes lowered.

But before you can finish the bow, his voice cuts in.

“Don’t.”

You freeze. His voice is quiet but firm. Not unkind. But direct. He rises from the throne, cape trailing behind him as he steps down the stairs, no hesitation, no ceremony, just clean, purposeful motion. He closes the distance between you in three strides, raising a hand and placing it lightly on your shoulder.

“You don’t have to kneel,” he says. His tone is even, but not dismissive. Not casual. There’s weight behind it, like every word he chooses is one he’s already thought through twice.

You straighten slowly, eyes lifting to meet his.

He’s taller than you expected. Close, you can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, faint, but there. The wear of leadership, of too many choices made under pressure, too many lives balanced on decisions no one trained him to make.

“I wasn’t sure what you’d expect,” you admit, voice low. “On Eternia, greeting a sovereign requires a formal bow.”

Mark’s expression shifts just slightly, more thoughtful than amused. “I didn’t ask to be a sovereign.”

His hand drops back to his side. He steps back, just enough to give you space again. But his eyes stay on you.

“I’m not interested in pageantry. Or reverence. Just honesty. You’ll get that from me, if I get the same from you.”

You nod slowly. “Then we understand each other.”

“Good,” he says. Still watching you. Still studying you, not in the way some rulers do, looking for weaknesses, but with something more complicated. Appraisal. Curiosity. Maybe even caution. “You’re the first Eternian to set foot in this part of space since the restructuring. I wasn’t sure anyone from your system would come.”

You don’t blink. “You weren’t the only one uncertain.”

That earns the ghost of a smile. Barely there. But it softens the edge of his gaze.

He turns then, walking toward the far edge of the throne room where the windows stretch floor to ceiling, revealing the black canvas of deep space outside. Stars flicker against the glass. Beyond them, war-torn systems are still reeling from the collapse of the old Viltrumite regime.

Mark’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I don’t want another war. But I’m not naïve enough to think peace just happens because I say the word.”

You move to stand beside him. The space between you feels neutral now. Not hostile. Not comfortable. Just… new.

“You rule over worlds that remember Thragg,” you say carefully. “You wear the same crest. How many of them believe you’re different?”

He glances sideways at you. Doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t deny it.

“Not enough,” he admits. “But I didn’t take this job because I wanted to be liked. I took it so no one like him ever holds power again.”

You watch him for a beat. “And do your people believe in that?”

Mark leans slightly forward, eyes on the stars.

“They don’t have to believe in me,” he says. “They just have to know I won’t stop.”

You’re quiet for a moment.

“My people sent me here to see if you’re worth trusting.”

His head tilts slightly, just enough to show he’s listening.

“And what do you think?” he asks.

You meet his gaze again. “I haven’t decided.”

That earns a second flicker of a smile. This time a little sharper.

“Good,” he says. “Neither have I.”

“I’ve heard of the warrior they call the Defender of Eternia,” Mark says, his voice steady, warm, but unembellished. “It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

There’s no posturing in the way he says it. No feigned flattery or diplomatic filler. Just genuine acknowledgment, delivered with the blunt, sincerity that defines so much of who he is. You’d expected formality. Maybe even distance. But not this.

Your cheeks warm before you can stop it. Not from fluster, Eternian warriors don’t fluster, but from something closer to being seen. Not as a symbol. Not as a representative. But as a fighter. As yourself.

You lift your chin slightly, proud and steady. “The honor is mine, Mark. Your victories against Thragg and your efforts to reform the Viltrumite Empire precede you.”

You keep your tone measured, as etiquette demands. But you don’t say it just to flatter. You mean it. You read the war records. You saw the footage from Robot, grainy and brutal, Mark Grayson holding Thragg by the throat inside of the Sun. You studied the political transitions that followed, the restructuring of the council, the negotiations with surviving systems. You know how hard it is to change something that never wanted to bend.

You respect that. Deeply.

His expression shifts, just slightly, but enough to catch.

The faint lines around his mouth ease. One brow ticks up. Then comes the grin, not wide, not cocky, but real. Surprised. Maybe even a little disarmed.

“Wasn’t sure how Eternians felt about me,” he says. “Most off-world reports focus on the bloodshed.”

You match his honesty. “They do.”

He huffs a short breath, more sigh than laugh. “Figures.”

“But I looked further than the headlines,” you add. “Not everyone conquers an empire and then tries to make it better.”

He holds your gaze for a moment, weighing your words. You can see it in his eyes, he’s heard enough false praise from planetary diplomats to spot the difference. But you’re not here to impress him. And maybe that’s why he believes you.

His grin fades, replaced by something quieter. Thoughtful. His arms cross lightly over his chest as he leans back just slightly, still watching you like he hasn’t quite figured you out.

“You’re not what I expected either,” he admits.

You tilt your head slightly. “What did you expect?”

Mark shrugs. “Someone stiff. Polished. All ceremony, no edge.”

A small smirk tugs at your lips. “I left the polished ones back home. They don’t ride winged beasts into orbit.”

He laughs at that, fully this time. It’s a brief sound, but real. Unforced. He glances away for a second, running a hand through his hair, like he’s trying to shake the moment off before it sticks too much.

You take the opportunity to study him closer. His shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his uniform, but not with aggression. More like a man used to holding tension he no longer bothers to hide. His eyes are sharp, clear, but carry something older behind them. The burden of memory. Responsibility. Regret he doesn’t talk about.

“You came alone,” he says then, quieter now. “That’s rare. Even among envoys.”

“My people trust me to speak for them,” you say. “And to defend myself, if it comes to that.”

Mark nods slowly, something like approval flickering across his face. “You’ll fit in fine here.”

You raise a brow. “Is that your way of welcoming me?”

He shrugs. “It’s the Viltrumite version. We’re not great with warm receptions.”

“No,” you say, allowing the edge of a smile. “But you’re trying.”

That makes him look at you again, longer this time. More searching. Not calculating. Just… curious. As if he’s not sure how you’ll fit into the complicated machinery of everything he’s built. And maybe he’s not sure if he wants you to fit. Or if he just wants you to stay exactly as you are.

Either way, he nods once more and gestures to the archway behind the throne. “There’s a lot to show you. The capital, the council, the things that don’t make it into reports.”

You don’t hesitate. “Then let’s begin.”

He walks beside you, not in front. Not leading. And not quite following either. Just there.

You catch yourself wondering, quietly, what kind of man keeps a crown this reluctantly. And how much longer he’ll carry it alone.

The corridor stretches wide and quiet ahead of you, lit by soft overhead panels that cast a pale glow across the polished floor. The ship’s hum is a distant presence under your boots, deep and constant, like a low heartbeat. You walk beside Emperor Mark Grayson, the silence between you no longer awkward, just full. Considerate. Like you’re both trying to feel out the shape of this conversation before stepping too far into it.

He keeps pace easily, hands loose at his sides, his red and gray uniform fitting him like it was made for motion rather than ceremony. The white fur-lined cloak drapes from his shoulders, regal but not flashy. You realize it matches him, formal enough for a throne room, but nothing about it screams extravagance. Just authority, worn without effort.

“So,” he says, glancing over at you with a faint tilt of his head. “How was the journey?”

You exhale slowly, letting the tension start to slide off your shoulders. “Long. And quiet. Too many stars. Not enough wind.”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “That sounds poetic. Or miserable.”

You huff a dry laugh. “A bit of both.”

He smiles at that, barely there, but warmer than you expected. The kind of smile that sneaks up on his face before he can stop it. It fades as quickly as it came, but the ease of it lingers in the air between you.

“My brother, Adam, he’s king of Eternia now,” you begin, voice softer but steady. “He sent me here. Said there might be common ground between our worlds. That our values, honor, strength, discipline, might actually align with what the Viltrumites are trying to become under your rule.”

Mark’s expression doesn’t shift, but something behind his eyes sharpens, attention tightening.

“He asked me to represent Eternia,” you go on, watching the way his shoulders stay square, but his jaw ticks ever so slightly. “And I accepted. Gladly.”

You look ahead as you speak, the words more honest than diplomatic. “It wasn’t a hard choice. I’ve seen the footage. Read the reports. I know what Thragg was. What the Empire was. But it’s what it’s becoming now that interests us.”

Mark’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “Most people still think we’re the same. Just with a new face on the throne.”

You stop walking for a second. “Are you?”

He turns to face you, then, really looks at you. Not like you’re a diplomat or a symbol. Just a person. A warrior. One who asked a fair question.

“No,” he says. “I’m not.”

He draws in a slow breath, like the words coming next aren’t ones he says often, maybe not to anyone.

“After Thragg, there was a vacuum. The council didn’t know what to do. Half the commanders still thought conquest was the answer, and the rest were too afraid to change anything. So I stepped in. Not because I wanted the title, but because I knew if I didn’t, someone else would, someone worse.”

He speaks like someone who’s already seen too much. Someone who’s tired, but still holding himself up for everyone else’s sake.

“I’ve been trying to lead differently,” he says. “Justice. Mercy. Accountability. I’m not perfect. But I’m doing what I can.”

You’re quiet for a second. Then your voice softens, but not out of pity.

“Eternia respects warriors who fight for justice,” you say, meeting his gaze. “If you lived among us, Mark, you'd be honored for that.”

The moment hangs.

Something flickers in his expression, something almost vulnerable. His shoulders draw back a fraction, but his gaze doesn’t drop. It stays locked with yours, like he’s trying to decide if what you just said is real. If he can let himself believe it.

You didn’t mean for it to hit that hard. But you’re not the kind of person who says things you don’t mean.

And maybe that’s why it lands the way it does.

“You say that like it’s simple,” he says finally, voice quieter now. Almost careful.

“It’s not,” you reply. “But it’s true.”

The corridor is still, but the energy between you shifts, like tension, but not uncomfortable. Just… charged. There’s heat beneath your skin, the kind that has nothing to do with proximity and everything to do with awareness. You notice the way his fingers flex slightly at his side, like he wants to reach for something and isn’t sure if he should.

And he notices you noticing.

He takes a slow step forward, not looming, not close enough to crowd you, but closer than before. The scent of him hits you now, faint but distinct, clean, warm, a mix of metal and something deeply human. The air between you feels thin.

“You’re different from the others we’ve dealt with,” he says.

“Good different?” you ask lightly, lifting an eyebrow.

A corner of his mouth curves. “Dangerous different.”

You raise your chin, letting that land. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“I didn’t say that.”

There’s a flicker of something else in his eyes now. Not caution. Not wariness.

Interest.

He looks at you like he’s trying to figure out what to do with this…you, this warrior who stepped onto his ship and didn’t flinch. Who praised him without an angle. Who matched his intensity with your own, and didn’t blink when he let the walls slip for half a second.

You take a breath. The tension lingers in your chest, behind your ribs, not uncomfortable, just sharp.

Mark finally exhales, and some of that heat in his expression tempers, though it doesn’t disappear. He nods toward the end of the corridor. “Come on,” he says. “The council chamber’s this way. You should see the view. It’s the only thing out here that reminds me there’s still beauty in the galaxy.”

You walk beside him again, shoulders brushing now and then in the narrow space.

You don't say anything about it.

Neither does he.

But neither of you steps away.

You stop at the edge of the observation deck, the stars stretching wide in front of you, scattered like shattered light across the dark. The ship hums faintly under your boots, but otherwise the room is silent, too silent for a space this big. You and Mark stand shoulder to shoulder, the air between you warm with the kind of tension that isn't hostile. Just full. Quiet. Unresolved.

Mark exhales slowly. Not tired. Just... careful.

“People think I wanted this,” he says. “The title. The power. But I didn’t. I was trying to stop Thragg, not... take his place.”

You glance at him, the seriousness in his voice cutting through the formality that had clung to the edges of the conversation until now.

“But then he was gone. And someone had to keep everything from falling apart. So I stayed. I didn’t have a choice, really. Or maybe I did, and I just couldn’t walk away.”

You understand that. Too well.

“I was raised to fight,” you say. “To protect my people. To carry legacy and command and expectation like it was part of my spine. There wasn’t time for anything else. Not really.”

Mark looks at you then.

“I get that,” he says, his voice low, steady. “I didn’t grow up thinking I’d be a leader. I didn’t even know what being Viltrumite meant until I was seventeen. But now I’m here, and every choice I make has weight. Every mistake I make costs something.”

You nod. “It gets lonely.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “It really does.”

There’s a pause.

Then you both glance at each other at the same time, and when your eyes meet, there’s something between you that wasn’t there before. Not exactly trust. Not yet. But understanding. Respect. Recognition.

And something else.

Mark’s gaze lingers, just a second longer than it should. He doesn’t look away.

You don’t either.

He clears his throat a little. “I’ve got two kids.”

You blink, the tone shift catching you slightly off guard. “Really?”

He gives a small smile. Not forced. Just… real.

“Yeah. My daughter, Terra, she’s seven. Lives on Earth most of the time with her mom. She visits when she can. And Marky, my son… he stays here. He’s eight. Smart as hell. Stubborn as hell, too. Which I guess he gets from me.”

You can’t help the way your lips curve. “So you’re not just holding the galaxy together, you’re also doing homework help.”

Mark laughs under his breath. “Basically. Yesterday he asked me why the gravity stabilizers don’t rotate, and when I didn’t have an answer, he told me to Google it. On a ship that doesn’t even use the internet.”

You smile, and it feels… different this time. Not formal. Not diplomatic. Just soft. Human.

“You must be proud,” you say.

“I am,” he says, without hesitation. “They’re the reason I haven’t completely lost it up here.”

He glances sideways again, and his voice drops slightly, lower, rougher, less guarded.

“I don’t really get to talk like this with people. Usually it’s meetings. Reports. Everyone watching their words. But you... you’re just saying what you mean.”

“I’ve had enough of politics,” you say. “I don’t know how to be anything but honest.”

Mark nods slowly. “That’s rare.”

The silence between you stretches again, but this time it’s comfortable. Almost warm.

Then, his eyes on the stars, voice quieter now, he says, “You’re easy to talk to.”

You glance at him. “So are you.”

That gets a small breath of laughter out of him, like he’s surprised. “Not what people usually say about me.”

You tilt your head. “Maybe they’re not listening.”

His eyes flick to yours. And stay there.

It’s subtle. The shift in his expression. But it’s there. Like he’s just now realizing how close you’re standing. Like maybe he’s wondering the same thing you are, that if you both weren’t carrying the weight of entire worlds, this conversation might be going somewhere else.

He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t say anything bold.

But the way his gaze drops briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes? That says plenty.

You feel the moment hover. Real. Unspoken.

And then, gently, Mark breaks it.

“Come on,” he says, his voice back to that low steadiness. “Secondary wing’s this way. I’ll show you the view. It’s not Eternia, but… it’s quiet. Sometimes that’s enough.”

You follow.

And when your arms brush as you fall into stride beside him again, neither of you pulls away.

Mark leads you through a smaller archway tucked behind the main council hall, one you might’ve missed if he hadn’t known exactly where it was. The ship grows quieter as you walk, the walls giving way to wide panes of tinted glass, warm light bleeding in from a carefully simulated sun. The atmosphere shifts here, not colder, not exactly, but gentler. Less imperial.

He taps something on a wall panel, and the doors slide open into a terrace.

The space is open, designed like a garden with precision more than nature, sleek flowering plants in elevated beds, the petals bioluminescent, glowing faintly against the warm metal of the walls. There’s greenery here, soft and cultivated, trimmed into smooth lines. A central tree, tall, wide-branched, arches toward the transparent ceiling. Simulated sky glows violet-blue above it, stars twinkling faintly, as though the ship remembers what the sky was supposed to look like.

Mark gestures to a long bench beneath the tree, then to the open edge of the terrace where the railing overlooks space.

“Council keeps forgetting this place exists,” he says. “I had them build it a year ago, somewhere people could go without talking about galactic disputes or casualty projections.”

You glance around, slowly. “It’s… beautiful.”

He nods. “Not as impressive as flying horses, probably.”

That earns him a look. “Swift Wind is not a horse.”

Mark holds up a hand, mock-serious. “Right. My apologies.”

A Viltrumite attendant steps through a side panel without fanfare, silent and efficient. He bows his head once, then offers a sleek tray with two slender glasses of an amber-colored liquid that glows faintly, like sunlight caught in syrup. Mark thanks him with a brief nod.

You accept one of the glasses, lifting it with a curious frown and sniffing the rim.

It’s sweet. Floral, almost. Faintly citrus and something warmer, deeper, like stone fruit and spice.

“It’s called vireel,” Mark says, watching you over the rim of his own glass. “Traditional celebration drink. Some Viltrumites say it boosts endurance. Others say it makes people too honest.”

You arch a brow. “Which one are you hoping for?”

His grin is slow, careful. “I’ll let you surprise me.”

You take a sip. The taste blooms on your tongue, smooth and vibrant, with just enough bite to make you take a second, smaller sip after.

You smile. “I like it.”

Mark leans against the railing beside you, arm draped loosely, glass in one hand, watching the slow trail of a comet outside the window as it drifts through a curve of nearby stars. He doesn’t press. Just lets the silence stretch long enough that when he finally speaks, it feels natural.

“What’s life like on Eternia?”

You exhale through your nose, the smile still tugging at your mouth even as your gaze grows distant.

“It’s… green,” you say, softly. “Vast. Wild, but shaped by history. The skies are layered, there’s the surface, then the floating plateaus above that, and then the higher temples, where the light breaks like glass when the moons align.”

Mark hums quietly. He’s not looking at the stars anymore. He’s looking at you.

“The cities are made of stone and gold,” you continue. “But not heavy. Everything’s built to breathe. We have libraries carved into mountain faces, rivers that run through entire provinces without needing to be redirected. And the royal court sits atop Castle Grayskull, surrounded by warriors and scholars and advisors who’ve known me since I could walk.”

Your fingers run absently along the edge of your glass.

“I was raised in it. Duty came before everything. My sword was forged before I was given a crown. I led my first campaign when I was sixteen, against an uprising of warlords that had been terrorizing the desert provinces. I haven’t stopped leading since.”

Mark doesn’t say anything. But you can feel his attention like heat. Steady. Grounded.

“There’s beauty there. Deep beauty. But sometimes…” You pause, just for a breath. “It’s easy to forget it when you’re always bracing for the next battle.”

There’s a silence that follows. Not heavy. But honest.

Mark takes a sip of his drink. Then says, “Sounds like you never had much room to be anything but a symbol.”

You glance over, surprised by the accuracy of it. But you don’t correct him. Because he’s right.

“I was taught that sacrifice defines greatness,” you say. “That selflessness isn’t a choice, it’s the requirement.”

He leans forward a little on the railing, gaze softening.

“And is that what you believe?”

You turn your eyes back toward the stars.

“I think… I haven’t had time to believe anything else.”

For a moment, the quiet stretches again. You feel him beside you, close, but not imposing. Just present. The heat of his arm a few inches from yours. The subtle smell of him, clean, warm, the faint spice of the vireel still lingering.

Mark’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. Not uncertain. Just sincere.

“That kind of strength,” he says, “people assume it means you don’t feel the weight. But I know better.”

You look at him again. And this time, you don’t look away. His expression holds no pity. No overfamiliarity. Just… admiration. Quiet and honest.

And something else. Something in the way his gaze flicks to your mouth for the briefest second before returning to your eyes. Something that makes your pulse thrum a little louder in your throat.

You wonder if he notices. You suspect he does.

“Do you ever get tired?” he asks. It’s a simple question. But the way he says it, low, almost intimate, makes it feel like he’s asking more than what’s on the surface.

You nod slowly. “Yes.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that answer for you.

“Me too.”

You don’t touch.

But you both lean just a little closer.

And in the hum of the ship and the glow of the stars and the taste of something sweet and unfamiliar still on your tongue, you know something’s changed between you.

Not fully spoken.

Not yet.

But real.

The light from the simulated sky pours in low and golden across the terrace, casting long shadows under the glowing branches of the central tree. You and Mark lean quietly against the sleek railing, the hum of the ship a faint, ever-present heartbeat beneath your heels. For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

When you finally do, your tone is thoughtful. Uncalculated.

“You mentioned Earth before. What was it like? Your life… before all this.”

Mark lets out a breath, a short one. “Messy,” he says, mouth tugging into something between a smirk and a sigh. “Normal, I guess. I had school, friends, a mom who worked too much. I didn’t even know I was Viltrumite until my powers kicked in. One day I was trying to pass math, the next I was flying through buildings.”

You blink at him. He’s not exaggerating, but he’s not being performative, either. Just stating facts the way someone does when they’ve had to retell their origin story more times than they can count.

“You didn’t want any of this,” you say.

Mark glances sideways at you, then back out at the stars. “No. I didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, softly. “That you had to make that kind of choice.”

Mark looks over at you again, eyes steady.

“Don’t be. I made it. And I’ll keep making it. It’s just… not easy.”

You fall into silence again, and it’s natural. Not awkward. Just full.

But the curiosity that’s been lingering at the edge of your thoughts finally escapes before you can think better of it.

“Your people call you Emperor,” you say slowly, politely. “Does that mean… there is an Empress by your side?”

It’s not meant to be a pointed question. Where you come from, a ruler of his status usually has a consort. It's protocol. Expected. The assumption is innocent. But the effect is not.

Mark’s expression stills. Not dramatically. Just a flicker, a pause in his breath, a subtle tightening in the set of his jaw.

You regret it instantly. But his eyes find yours again, and when he sees your sincerity, your open curiosity with no hidden meaning, something in his shoulders eases.

“There was someone,” he says, voice quieter now. Honest. “Her name was Eve.”

He glances down at his glass. Doesn’t drink from it.

“We met in high school. She had powers too. We fought together. Grew up together. I loved her. We went through everything, the worst of it, side by side.”

You place your hand gently on his forearm. Not intruding. Just… there.

Mark doesn’t move away.

“She’s the strongest person I’ve ever known,” he says. His voice is calm, but there’s a rawness beneath it, like he’s repeating something he’s practiced how to say without letting it hurt too much.

“But after the war with Thragg, things changed. I stayed out here to rebuild the Empire. She stayed on Earth. And eventually…”

He exhales, gaze drifting out past the stars.

“We stopped making time for each other. Started making choices on our own. And the longer that went on, the more we realized we weren’t on the same path anymore.”

You don’t speak. You just listen.

Mark looks down at your hand on his arm, then back up at you.

“She’s not a bad person. I’m not either. Sometimes you just grow in opposite directions.”

There’s no bitterness in the way he says it. Just a quiet acceptance. The kind that’s taken time to arrive at.

You nod. “That’s… a hard thing to come to terms with.”

Mark’s lips twitch faintly. Not quite a smile. “Harder than any war I’ve been in.”

You both stand there for a while, the quiet between you filling with unspoken thoughts.

There’s a new silence in Mark now. Not the kind that comes from restraint. The kind that happens when someone allows themselves to be seen and isn’t punished for it.

You feel it too.

The heat of his body near yours. The tension that’s no longer political, no longer formal. Just… charged. Present.

He looks at you again, gaze lingering just a second longer than before. You feel it settle behind your ribs.

“She would’ve liked you,” he says, voice low.

“Oh?” you ask.

“She had a smart instinct for people. Especially the good ones.”

Your pulse kicks, and he notices.

But he doesn’t press.

He just stays beside you, letting the silence stretch, close, familiar, maybe even a little dangerous.

And when his hand brushes against yours as he shifts, just barely, he doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

Your hand tightens slightly around Mark’s forearm. It’s deliberate, more than just politeness, less than a declaration. A brave gesture, given how tightly you were taught to keep yourself in check. Your thumb brushes once, instinctively, like your body wants to memorize the heat of him before your mind catches up.

Mark doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t tense. But you feel the way his body stills. Like something in him has shifted just slightly off balance, recalibrating to this new contact. His eyes stay on you, unreadable in that particular way of his, blunt, but not unkind. Always looking straight through you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “In Eternia, duty often asks us to sacrifice our own hearts’ desires too.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away. And the silence he gives you isn’t cold. It’s weight-bearing. Like he knows how heavy this is for you, and he’s giving you room to carry it.

You look down, suddenly aware of the vulnerability in your posture, how open you feel with nothing to hide behind but your own honesty.

“I’ve never had a bond like that,” you admit, voice lower now. More breath than sound. “I was raised for duty above all else. For service. Strength. Everything I am, everything I’ve been, is built around what I can do for others.”

You swallow, gaze fixed on the floor between you. “I don’t fully know what it means to love someone. Not in the way you did.”

That silence again. But heavier now. You can feel his gaze on you. When he speaks, his voice is quieter than before, rougher, like he’s trying to say something simple without making it sound easy.

“I didn’t either,” he says. “Not at first.”

You glance up. He’s looking at you now, not with pity, not with some hollow attempt at comfort. But with a kind of focused interest that makes your chest tighten. Makes the warmth in your belly start to build slowly, steadily.

“I screwed up a lot,” he continues. “Even when I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought love would just fit around everything else, my powers, the wars, the empire.”

His mouth quirks, but there’s no humor in it.

“It doesn’t.”

You let out a breath. “And yet, you had it.”

“Yeah,” Mark says, quieter. “For a while. I knew what it felt like to be seen. To have someone want you, even when you’re tired. When you’ve bled. When you don’t have anything polished left to offer.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t mean to, but your fingers move again, just slightly, pressing into his forearm like you’re grounding yourself in the heat of his body.

He notices. You know he does.

And when his eyes meet yours again, there’s something new there. Low and steady and unmistakable.

Tension.

It’s not overt. Not theatrical. But it hums in the space between you, coiled and waiting. It’s in the way he doesn’t pull back, in the way his voice drops just enough to slide under your skin.

“I think,” Mark says slowly, “if you’ve made it this far without losing who you are, then you’ve already got the hardest part figured out.”

You blink, caught off guard. “What part is that?”

His gaze flicks down. Once. To your mouth.

Then back up.

“Letting someone get close enough to matter.”

That’s when the air thickens.

You’re still touching him. He’s still too close for this to be innocent. And yet, he hasn’t moved. Because Mark Grayson doesn’t make the first move when the moment’s unearned. He doesn’t need to push.

He just waits. Watches. Stays. Like he knows if something’s going to happen, it’s going to be real. And earned. And worth it.

You pull your hand back slowly, fingers trailing along his arm as if reluctant to let go entirely. The connection breaks, but the heat remains, settled under your skin, in the space between you like static clinging to breath. You take a slow sip of the vireel, letting the sweetness cool the sharp edge blooming in your chest. Mark watches you, still half-turned, still close.

You let the silence stretch, just a bit, before tipping your head toward him, voice light but edged with challenge.

“You know,” you say, “for someone who talks about duty and legacy and responsibility like it’s all that matters, you carry yourself like someone who could split a planet in half.”

He quirks a brow, lips twitching at the corner. “You saying I look violent?”

“I’m saying,” you murmur, drawing the words out, “you’re holding a lot back.”

Mark huffs through his nose. “You don’t want to see what I look like when I’m not holding back.”

You raise your glass again, tilting your head. “I’m not afraid of strength.”

“No,” he says, eyes darkening slightly. “I can tell.”

Your stomach flips.

There’s something in the way he says it. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just observant. Careful. Like he’s trying to decide if he’s imagining the undercurrent here, or if it’s real. If you feel it too.

You lean casually against the railing beside him, glass balanced in your hand.

“So what’s it like?” you ask, a little softer now. “Raising two Viltrumite children while trying to reshape the empire?”

Mark breathes out a laugh, the kind that sounds a little tired but no less real.

“Marky’s a handful,” he admits. “Strong. Smart. Smarter than me, honestly. He’s already asking questions I don’t have answers to. And Terra…”

His voice shifts when he says her name, subtler, more grounded.

“She’s got Eve’s heart. Mine too, unfortunately. Stubborn as hell. But sweet. Loyal.”

You smile, something warm unfurling in your chest.

“Sounds like they have a lot of you in them.”

Mark looks at you, more serious now. “I hope they end up better than me.”

You tilt your head again, teasing gently. “Tough standard to beat. Galaxy-saving Emperor. Former war hero. Probably strong enough to lift a starship.”

He scoffs. “Now you’re just flattering me.”

“I don’t flatter.”

The look he gives you then, half grin, half dare, sends a ripple of heat down your spine.

You let it linger. Then, slowly, you set your glass on the railing.

“Tell me something.”

Mark raises an eyebrow.

“You’ve gone toe-to-toe with Thragg. Led battles across half the known systems. Rebuilt an empire.” You smile, sly now. “But how are you with a blade?”

That gets a real reaction. He leans in a little, not enough to touch, but close enough that you feel the shift in air, the quiet flare of something waking up between you.

“Depends on who’s holding the other one,” he says.

“I’m not just a ceremonial warrior,” you murmur. “I’ve trained since I could walk. My sword’s seen more battlefields than most living people.”

Mark’s eyes flicker. Not in doubt. In recognition.

“And I’ve never sparred with a Viltrumite before,” you continue. “Not properly.”

Mark’s grin is sharp now. Not cruel. Just excited.

“So you’re asking if I want to fight you?”

“I’m asking,” you say, stepping a breath closer, “if you’re willing to see what happens when you stop holding back.”

The tension tightens instantly, like a line pulled taut between your bodies.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t answer right away.

But his gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. Then back up to your eyes. His voice, when it comes, is lower than before.

“You sure that’s the reason you want to spar?”

You meet his stare evenly, your pulse loud now behind your ribs.

“You tell me.”

Mark lets the silence hang.

“I’ll clear the training deck.”

And the way he says it, quiet, calm, already certain, makes your breath catch.

Not because you’re nervous.

Because you want him to stop holding back, too.

Because you're starting to want to see what he looks like when he's not guarding every edge of himself.

The training deck is silent except for the low hum of the containment field overhead and the soft creak of your heels against the reinforced metal floor. You're already moving with purpose, cape trailing behind you, gold boots gleaming with each step. The Sword of Protection rests against your shoulder, humming faintly, pulsing with the quiet, living energy of Eternia itself. You stand tall, chin lifted, body relaxed, though every muscle is ready to spring.

Across the chamber, Mark watches you, not leering, not even appraising in the usual way. No, his gaze is different. Analytical. Focused. The way a tactician watches the moment before battle, measuring the distance between two stars before launching a war.

You don’t shy away from that look. If anything, you meet it head-on.

“Don’t worry,” you say with a light smile. “This isn’t a duel to the death. Unless Viltrumite diplomacy has changed since I read your files.”

Mark doesn’t smile, but there’s a faint flicker of amusement behind his expression. “We don’t kill our guests,” he says, tone flat but not unkind. “Unless they give us a reason.”

You laugh, stepping onto the center mat. “Good thing I’m here to be friendly, then. Think of this as... a cultural exchange.”

Mark steps forward, his cape fluttering faintly behind him. He’s not wearing armor, doesn’t need to. The fabric of his suit stretches tightly over his shoulders and chest, every inch of him built for destruction and survival. His pace is steady, deliberate.

“You’re stronger than you look,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “And you already look strong. What exactly are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing,” you reply, turning your sword once in your grip before lowering it to your side. “But I figure if we're going to talk about trust, we should start with what really matters. Power. Control. How far each of us can go without hurting the other.”

His eyes narrow. That gets his attention.

You hold up your free hand. “Don’t worry. No magic tricks. Just strength.”

He nods once. “Alright. Friendly.”

You don’t shake hands. There’s no countdown. No signal. Just a moment of silence, and then motion.

He comes at you first, no frills, no speed tricks. Just a clean, straight jab aimed at your midsection. You block it with your forearm, steel bracing against his strength. The impact jolts up your spine. He’s holding back. You can feel it.

You push off, driving your shoulder forward to counter, and he steps aside with a short, efficient pivot. His movements are tight, experienced. There’s no wasted motion. You’ve sparred with knights, sorcerers, even demi-gods, but this is different. Mark fights like someone who’s been training since he was a kid, someone who’s seen the cost of losing too many times to accept it now.

You slash the blade upward, not to cut, but to test his speed. He ducks, pivots around you, and you feel the rush of air behind your back as he circles close.

“Faster than I thought,” he mutters.

“Careful,” you say, spinning, sword back in guard position. “Flattery makes me want to win more.”

He chuckles once, a dry sound. “Good. I want to see what winning even looks like for you.”

This time you both move at once.

Your sword meets his forearm with a sharp clang, and he grabs the flat of the blade, stopping it with sheer strength. The force of the collision sends a ripple of vibration down your arms, but you don’t pull back. You twist, wrench the blade free, and slide forward with a low kick aimed at sweeping him off his feet. He hops it easily, flips back, and lands in a crouch.

You take a breath. So does he. No one’s bleeding. No one’s bruised. Yet.

“I’m surprised,” he says, rising again. “You’ve got finesse. You’re not just swinging that thing around.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I trained with swordmasters. Learned how to disarm someone without leaving a blow.”

Mark straightens, rolling one shoulder. “Viltrumites don’t learn that way. You either survive the training or you don’t.”

You frown slightly. “That sounds... lonely.”

He pauses. “It is.”

There’s something in his voice, quiet, buried under layers of command and duty. But it’s there. You store that away, then flash him a grin.

“Well then,” you say. “Let’s make this less lonely.”

You dart in again, sword high, feinting left then spinning low. He catches the trick, but you still manage to close the distance, the flat of your blade pressing lightly against the base of his throat before he can fully recover. It’s not a win. But it’s a point.

He looks down at the edge of your sword, then back up to meet your eyes.

“Nice,” he says. “Didn’t expect you to close in like that.”

“Part of the charm,” you say, stepping back and lowering the blade. “Care to go another round?”

He straightens, brushing his thumb against the spot your blade had rested. “Yeah,” he says, a slow smile forming at last. “I think I do.”

And so it continues, back and forth, blow for blow, parry for parry. Neither of you looking to dominate, just to understand. Each clash is a wordless sentence, a question and a response. The test of strength becomes a conversation, and in every strike, you learn something new.

About him.

About yourself.

Your heels slide lightly across the polished Viltrumite alloy, the hum of the containment field above now a familiar pulse at the edge of your hearing. The Sword of Protection gleams faintly in your hand, though you haven’t needed to strike with it in minutes. You’re already winning, slowly, piece by piece, without ever landing a decisive blow.

And Mark knows it.

He won’t say it, of course. He’s still standing tall, chin up, posture measured with the ease of someone who’s been Invincible too long to imagine losing. But his attacks are sharper now. Less precise. His counters a fraction late. That slight exhale he just released? Frustration.

You pace across from him again, chest rising and falling with controlled breath, strands of hair stuck to the sweat across your forehead. The high-cut white dress clings tighter now, but you don’t notice. You’re too focused. Reading every shift in his stance. Every twitch of muscle under his royal uniform.

Mark rolls his shoulders slowly, not to loosen up, just to buy time. “You’re not fighting like anyone I’ve sparred with before.”

You tilt your head. “Good.”

“No strategy. No formations. But you’re wanting to trap me, aren’t you?”

You shrug. “I’m aiming to learn.”

He gives you a look, the kind that’s not quite skeptical, not quite annoyed. “You’re baiting me. You know that?”

You blink at him, genuinely confused. “Is that bad?”

There’s a pause, longer than it should be. His mouth opens just slightly, then shuts again. Whatever he expected you to say, it wasn’t that.

You step in, fast, and he reacts late. Just enough. The edge of your sword slips under his guard, brushing the inside of his thigh before you pull back. A clean, disarming move. He tenses, not in pain, but in awareness. You don’t even realize what you’ve done until you see his eyes flick downward.

“Oh,” you say quietly. “Was that–rude?”

Mark’s jaw clenches. “No,” he says tightly. “It was effective.”

You back off, uncertain, brow furrowed. “You keep looking at me like I’m doing something wrong.”

“I’m not,” he says. He sounds too fast. Too even. “You’re not.”

You hesitate, sword lowering just slightly. “Then why do you look... distracted?”

He meets your eyes. Dead on. “Because I am.”

You stare at him. The air between you is heavy. Stretched.

“I don’t know what that means,” you admit.

Mark exhales through his nose. “It’s not important. Let’s keep going.”

But it feels important. You’re not sure why.

And you launch forward again, harder, cleaner, faster. His guard is stronger now, focus renewed. But there’s something between your motions now. Something unspoken. Something that flows beneath every feint and step.

You still don’t have a name for it.

But it’s there.

And neither of you lets it go.

ִ ࣪✮♛ ♚✮⋆˙

taglist is OPEN. drop a comment in the replies if you wanna be tagged in future updates.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 10.2k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: I AM SOO SCARED TO POST THIS NGL LMAOAO like i said in the warnings i literally. have not played amphoreus yet. idek anything about mydei SDKJH i am so worried i will disappoint everyone who's expressed interest in reading this HAHA i was also. not expecting anyone to do that tbh. BUT thank you all for your kind words on the masterlist and i hope this lives up to expectations at least a bit!!

You spent the day of your wedding with a man made of marble — a stand-in for your new husband, who was off fighting in a war of the kind which had neither cause nor, seemingly, end. The statue was carved in his image and sneered down at you as you whispered to it, swearing vows of duty and obedience and docility, but, in spite or maybe because of its detached lifelessness, you found its presence to be a kindness. What did it say of your husband, that you preferred the company of that dead stone to him? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little. 

He is a generous man, the servants assured you, giggling amongst themselves, exchanging knowing looks as they dragged you into the foreign palace where you would spend the rest of your days. You will want for nothing.

It was draftier than your home, the wind bouncing off of the white walls and nipping at you skin. You spent your time buried under seven-and-twenty layers of furs and fabrics, lying in an unfamiliar bed and flinching away from the shadows upon the ceiling. This was an idle and dull way to waste away your existence, and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything else, trapped in the mire of waiting and waiting for your husband’s return.

He came back in the third month, which was as auspicious as anything. They loved that number here, you had come to find: three, the symbol of fortune and fate, of magic and mischief, of power and punishment. Three vows sworn; three blessings granted; three months passed before you finally met the man you had married.

There was much fanfare about his arrival. When you peered out of the window, you saw that the streets were stuffed to the bursting with throngs of people shoving one another around, hissing and biting as they craned their necks. At first it surprised you — was he truly so loved here, even when he was elsewhere despised? — but then you realized that it was not your husband upon his charger that they were all lined up to meet. Rather, it was the procession following him which captured their interests, the spoils of war which he displayed with a juvenile, worthless pride.

A triad of elephants covered in finely wrought armor, their heads hung low and resigned, their plodding walks spiritless and lame. A herd of sheep with silver wool, dotting the dark cobblestones like a cluster of stars, stumbling along at the prodding of a soldier-turned-shepherd. A wagon filled with spears and swords, ostensibly once neatly stacked, now a matted mess of steel and bronze. Vases carried in the arms of the younger men, overflowing with coins that trailed after them like breadcrumbs, snatched up by the most daring of the onlookers, who did not fear rebuke. And, finally, in a place so honorable it could only have been mocking—

“Lady,” a soft voice said. You drew your coat tighter around you, although today was, by all accounts, warm for the season, and pretended like you did not hear the girl. She sighed and then tugged on your arm insistently; perhaps it was improper, but there wasn’t anyone who would chide her for it. “You have been summoned by his majesty.”

Hadn’t you known this would happen eventually? Hadn’t you expected it? You had had your time to come to terms with it, which was more than most got, and so there was no excuse for the reluctance which choked your throat and stilled your footsteps. This was your duty, this was what you had sworn, and so — and so you could not hesitate.

“Lady…” the girl said with another sigh. You pretended to be all-consumed with the action of closing the curtains, your back to her as you struggled to force a smile onto your face. When you deemed your expression acceptable, you spun around and nodded at her.

“It will not do to keep him waiting,” you said, motioning for her to lead the way. She did so without complaint, perhaps relieved that you were not giving her further trouble; even now, the servants did not know what to think of you, could not quite fathom what category of being you were. Some were fond of you, but most treated you with a careful distrust that you could not blame them for, even though you sometimes wanted to.

The grand entrance hall of the palace opened to the mouth of the road, which swelled out into a sprawling courtyard. Its centerpiece was an enormous fountain which sprayed a fine, cool mist into the air no matter the time of year, and it was by this fountain that you waited, wringing your hands as your husband drew nearer and nearer. Belatedly, you thought that you should try to conceal your distress, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The best you could do was say, if you were asked, that it was simply the joy of a bride faced with the prospect of a reunion with her beloved. Nobody would question that, although then again, nobody questioned you very much in general, so it was doubtful that you’d even have to use the quick excuse.

Your husband’s warhorse was a sprightly, slender beast, its coat the dappled grey of royalty, its face pretty and dished in the way of the Eastern breeds. When it paused in front of you, it shoved its black muzzle into your shoulder, nearly knocking you down, and then it stomped its hoof when your husband tightened the reins, pulling it back before dismounting and handing it off to a waiting stableboy. 

“My apologies, dear lady,” he said, bowing before you with as much gallantry as you had been told he possessed. His voice was gentle and amused, his face even more handsome in flesh than it had been in stone; you should’ve, by all rights, felt pleased. You were married to this man. You belonged to him. How many women wished to be in your place? Yet all you could muster was fear, throttling and all-consuming. He was beautiful in the way of a snake, and you knew without knowing that he was poised, in some way, to strike.

“It is alright,” you said, disguising the tremble of your voice with a broad, false grin. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance…my lord.”

The address was unfamiliar on your tongue. What would your younger self, that girl who had never known subservience nor strife, say if she saw you ducking your head in defeated compliance? How she would laugh! How she would pity you! My lord. But he was exactly that.

“The sentiment is returned in full,” he said, and then he extended his arms in a grand, sweeping motion. “Indeed, to celebrate this momentous occasion, I have arranged for you a gift!”

“A gift?” you repeated. Certainly, you had asked for no such thing, and you did not have the time to school your face into neutrality, naked surprise flashing across it. Your husband chuckled at the sight, nodding at you.

“I have brought the finest of plunders for you, dear lady,” he said, and your stomach twisted into knots at the familiarity with which he spoke to you, as if you were affable lovers instead of strangers. “Even your father’s treasures, vast and bountiful as they may be, cannot compare to this!”

The mention of your father stabbed at your heart, and hidden in the folds of your coat, you clenched your fists. Your father, the richest man in the world…and yet your husband dared compare his meager gift to that? You wanted to spit in his face that for your third birthday, your father had gifted you a villa made of gold, the walls inlaid with gemstones and painted with flowers. Indeed, you might’ve goaded him in such a way if you had the capabilities, but then you noticed what the army-men were bringing forth and your mouth suddenly refused to move.

It was the prisoner, the one kept in a place of honor by your husband and his soldiers, the one who the entire empire had ridiculed as he had been paraded through it like a champion hound. He was tall, towering over the army-men flanking him, and although his eyes drooped nearly shut, there was a heat to his demeanor, a severe, ferocious anger which shone through his exhaustion. He seemed like more of a half-tamed jungle cat than a man, and indeed when he halted before you, you half-expected him to snarl, to bare bloody fangs and lunge at your throat with fingers like claws, like swords, tearing through your neck as if it were paper.

“When he’s like this, you almost forget what a monster he can be,” your husband mused, reaching out and flicking the man on the forehead with a snicker. “Isn’t he all but lovely? Oh, don’t worry, dear lady, he can’t do anything to you. He’s under the influence of a sleeping draught at the moment, and anyways, those chains are thrice-blessed. It’s perfectly safe.”

The chains he spoke of were as gold as the man’s hair, looping around his wrists and forearms, curling over the red marks emblazoned on his shimmering skin, weaving in between his legs and around his torso. They were sturdy and gleamed with the power of their three blessings, and although you still understood little about this strange place with its strange power, you could tell that it would take a great force, greater than was possessed by any mere man or deity, to break them.

“He’s the prince of Kremnos,” your husband said when your shock stretched on. “A right beast, I’ll say. We almost fell to his efforts, but in the end, we bested him — as you can see. What do you think? Do you like him?”

“He’s — it’s — horrible,” you said, your skin crawling the longer and longer you stared at the prince, your words a jumble, your head spinning. You wanted to be anywhere but in this courtyard, in front of this fallen man, who was kept alive for — for what? For amusement? For play? As a gift?

“Isn’t he?” your husband said, patting you on the shoulder with a grim smile. “And now he is yours.”

The thrice-blessed chains flashed in the sun, and you shook your head, both in refusal and to clear your vision of the blinding, searing spots they left in it.

“I have no need of a prisoner,” you said, and although your tone remained ever-muted, you spoke as cuttingly as you could manage to. “What will I do with him? Why do you torture him so? You bested him; if he was as fierce an opponent as you claim, then the least you owe him is a death with dignity. Kill him and be done with the matter. Why have you brought him all this way? I don’t want him.”

“He will die, eventually,” my husband said. “I shall execute him myself when it comes to it, but the time is not yet right. I don’t expect you to understand such matters, and neither should you trouble yourself with doing so…but know this, dear lady: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You can do what you’d like with him now that he is yours, but you cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs were conducted in your backwards land, but here it is not so.”

You wanted my land, you longed to say. You took me from my father and wed me to a statue in search of it. And still you call it backward? But you could not, so instead, you turned away — away from the prince, who was close to crumpling and only remained standing out of sheer will, and away from your husband, who beamed as if he had done something great or wonderful.

“I will retire now,” you said. Do not follow me. This remained implied, unsaid, but a fool your husband was not, and so he only hummed in agreement.

“Be well, dear lady,” he said. “My messengers have told me that you are having difficulties adjusting to the climate here. I shall be sure to pray for your feeble constitution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said, stiffly, primly. It scratched like bile and you hated every minute of it, but you had no recourse for the matter, so you swallowed it down, as you always did and always would.

“And what of the prisoner?” he said. “Shall I send him to a jail? Do you think he is better suited for deprivation or pain?”

They meant to make him shatter, to methodically yank him apart until he faced death with the dull eyes and swayed back of an over-aged broodmare. You supposed to them it was meaningless — why should they show consideration or kindness to a man who would never show them the same? — but you were no warmonger, and that apathy did not cling to you yet. The prince was a beast born of sun, a wild, vicious creature, and if he really was slated to die, then you wanted him to meet his end as just that, nothing less. 

“Leave him be,” you said. “Treat him as well as you are able.”

“He would’ve killed me,” your husband said, a low note of warning in his voice. You shrank into the safety of your clothes, as if they were a shield against his vexation.

“But instead you will kill him,” you said. “So how does it matter? You said I could do as I like; well, this is what pleases me. Don’t prolong this anymore than necessary.”

You darted back into the palace without waiting to hear his answer, your jaw burning and your footsteps heavy against the mosaic floor as you ran all of the way to your chambers and slammed the door shut behind you.

For three days and three nights you did not leave your room, taking all your meals in seclusion, refusing any visitors that might attempt entry. You could not help it; the thought of seeing your husband or any of the soldiers made you want to weep — you! Who never wept, even as a baby! So you claimed that you were terribly unwell, that you could not stand for fear of collapse, and that managed to ward away your husband without incurring his wrath, even though it was only a temporary solution.

As the sun set on the fourth day, there was a knock on your door, and you were about to call out that you had no interest in conversation when someone hissed through the crack in the entrance: “Lady, I come not on your husband’s behalf but another’s. There is trouble, and you must attend to it.”

“What?” you said, scrambling to your feet, crouching by the entrance, pressing your ear to the wooden door without opening it. “Who is this? Who are you? Speak plainly, so that we may understand one another!”

There was a shuffling sound, and then an exhale. You worried with the collar of your shirt as you waited for them to continue, your arms pulled tightly around yourself, your brows furrowing together as you chewed on your lower lip.

“The prince of Kremnos,” they whispered. “He calls for you.”

“Are they mistreating him?” you said, straightening and flinging the door open. “The prince, are they — hello?”

The hallway was devoid of life. You peered down it, craning your neck this way and that, but it was placid, showing no signs of having been disturbed. Shutting the door slowly, you leaned against it, holding your head in your hands. Was this place driving you to insanity, then? And if it was, then why could you not have thought of something more pleasant than summons from a prisoner — prisoner!

Wasn’t it your duty to make sure your husband had held good on his word? The prisoner was yours, though the notion of ownership sent unpleasant shivers down your spine and didn’t feel quite right — perhaps a better way to think of it, then, was responsibility. He was your responsibility, and maybe the strange vision had been nothing more than a reminder of what you owed the man.

You waited until it was midnight, when you could be certain that your husband would not rise from his slumber at the sound of your activity, and then you donned a pair of slippers and a cloak, throwing the hood on and retreating into the billowing depths of the fabric, so that your face was obscured from prying eyes. Of course, there would not be very many of those, not at such a late hour, but you did not want to risk even one person recognizing you and reporting back to your husband, whose reaction to this escapade you could not foretell.

Although you were not so familiar with the palace’s layout, as you had never spent much time exploring it, most constructions of this nature followed a similar plan, and you had grown up in exactly such a grand, sweeping home, so you found the doorway to the cellar in record time. As the palace had no towers, the cellar was the only logical option for the keeping of such a dangerous prisoner, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was where you would find the prince, if he was still somewhere that you could find him.

The half-moon was your only witness as you fumbled with the lock, trying every key in your possession until one finally slotted into place and turned. Wincing as the door heaved open with a profound creak, you yanked it shut behind you quickly, without ceremony, lighting a small candle and using it to guide your way down the dark stairs, rushing so that you were out of sight in case someone came to investigate.

You did not know how long you walked for, but eventually the stairway ended, giving way to cool, damp earth. The must of uncut stone permeated the thick, heavy air, and the adjustment of your eyes to the surrounding blackness was slow, the pain of it only alleviated somewhat by the little candle’s valiant flame.

“Come to toss scraps at me?” The voice was rumbling and low; in spite of its weakness, you could hear a sneer in it, a disdain in the rough baritone. “You needn’t try again. Like I told you, I won’t eat your trash.”

“No,” you said. “I’ve brought nothing with me.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “You sound different than the others.”

“This tongue is foreign to me, as it is to you,” you said. “I cannot speak it in the same way as those who were born here. Verily I have been instructed in the art since I was but a child, for my father must have known in that manner of his what would eventually become of me, but I will never lay claim to it the way that a native of this empire would.”

“You’re his wife.” Chains clanked, the harsh drag of metal against stone reverberating in the cellar, and then you felt more than saw his looming countenance, filling what you had mistakenly believed upon arrival to be an empty room. Swinging your candle before you so that it was close to your heart, you gasped when it reflected in a pair of eyes glaring at you from mere paces away, the irises possessing a hollow and impossible brilliance in the way a pair of fading embers might. 

The chains now only encircled his left leg, binding him to the wall but leaving him otherwise free to move as he liked within the length of his confines. He had been stripped of armament and adornment alike, his mane of hair tangled and falling lank about his broad shoulders, yet for all of these injustices, you had no doubt in your mind that he was anything but a prince. He had a dignity to him, a hard-won pride to the straightness of his back and the firmness of his gaze; before you could chase it away, the thought came to you that there was far more intrinsic nobility to this man than there was even your husband.

“I suppose that I am,” you said.

“Have you come to gloat about your craven lord’s cowardly victory, then?” he said. The chains were pulled taut, so he could come no closer to you than he already was — you were sure of this, but you were still a slave to your instincts, which urged you farther and farther from him with every second. He watched you go with some measure of delight, like he was relishing in this power which you had inadvertently gifted him, and when you skittered to a stop, he huffed. “There is nothing to be proud of, and you look a fool for suggesting there might be.”

“I was just…” you trailed off, because it suddenly felt entirely absurd to suggest that you were inquiring after his wellbeing. What did it mean, the wellbeing of a doomed man? What reason would he have to believe your intentions? “What is your name?”

“My name?” he said with a brittle, incredulous laugh that rapidly descended into a cough. “Why? Do you wish to curse your husband with it? Does your language not have gods you can swear on?”

“You’re sickly,” you said, frowning and ignoring his jabs.

“You have torn me from the sun and chained me in this dingy room, and yet you have the gall to be surprised by that?” he said, scoffing. “You’re more of an idiot than that husband of yours.”

“I did no such thing!” you said. The defiance took you by surprise. You had forgotten what it felt like to defy someone, to disagree and resist their words, to feel alive with resentment and bad-temper. “I didn’t wish for this. I didn’t wish to keep you here anymore than you wished to be kept!”

“Is that so?” he said, and then he grinned at you, but it was less of a smile and more of a threat. “Then free me.”

“What?” you said.

“If you don’t want me, then free me,” he said.

“You’ll kill me if I do,” you said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. 

“I give you my word that I will spare you,” he said, placing a solemn hand over his heart. 

“Not the others?” you said.

He did not respond, which in and of itself was a response. It was one you shouldn’t have liked as much as you did, but in truth the prospect of such a slaughter made your fingers twitch towards him. Only for a moment, and immediately, you shoved your hands behind your back, but it was too late — he had seen, and he raised his eyebrows at you in return.

“Well, anyways, it doesn’t matter,” you said hastily, hoping to distract him before he could comment on the treason. “I couldn’t free you even if I wanted to. Your chains are thrice-blessed. I didn’t know what that meant until recently, but now that I do, I understand why you have been kept without even a permanent guard.”

“Blessings,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you put genuine stock into that drivel.”

“Perhaps the gods of other lands have forsaken their subjects, but this empire is known as the birthplace of every divine act, and so deities still sometimes glance upon its people and offer up their favor. Thrice-blessed chains are one such offering, for they are in fact more like contracts than they truly are chains,” you said. When he did not interrupt you with any snide remarks, you were emboldened to continue. “They can restrain anything, even a god, but this strength comes at a cost: they are conditional. If their captive can understand this condition and meet it, they will crumble into dust, but until then, the chains remain unbreakable.”

“What is it?” he said insistently, reaching out his hands like he was going to grab you and shake the answer out. He fell short, grasping at empty air, his muscles straining against the chains which, true to legend, did not falter. “This condition. Whatever it is, I will do it. You only need to tell me and I will do it!”

“I don’t know,” you said. His lip curled, and you shook your head frantically. “No, no, I’m telling you the truth, I really don’t know! Only the wielder and the gods he prayed to can know for certain. The conditions are decided arbitrarily, without trend or reason. It could be anything from singing a song to moving a mountain! At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the little I’ve read on the topic.”

“The wielder — your husband, then? That’s easy enough. Bid him to tell you, and then relay to me his answer,” he said.

“Easy enough? Not in the slightest. He would just as soon do your bidding as he would mine,” you said. The prince squinted at you, and evidently he must’ve determined that you were serious, for he broke into that awful laugh again, the one that must’ve once been handsome and full-bodied but now was little more than a rattling plea for air. 

“You are pitiful,” he said. “I thought that you must be some great, fearsome empress, as wicked as your husband, but you are just a frightened mouse of a girl. You would not survive a day in Kremnos, you know. It would crush you.”

Duty. Obedience. Docility. They were branded onto you, swirling letters that you had unwittingly carved into yourself with every wedding vow you spoke, and you could not escape them any more than the prince could escape his chains. If only you could argue with him, tell him that once upon a time, you had been someone unrecognizable from who you were now…but already, you had tested their limits. Your tongue was frozen in your mouth, refusing to move in anything but accordance with your oaths, and so you only clasped your hands together.

“If you say it is so, then it really must be the case,” you said. “Farewell, prince of Kremnos.”

“Farewell,” he said, but it was clear he did not mean it. “Dear lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said, recognizing the provocation for what it was. “You are not my husband, nor do I wish for you to be.”

“Then what should I refer to you as?” he said. “Your excellency? Your grace? Your most exalted highness? Your holiness, the saint of the realm?”

“Here, I am only known as lady,” you said quietly. “But I bore a different name before. I cannot…I cannot say it anymore, but if you ever come to know of it by other means, then please call me as such.”

Morning brought with it a freezing palm pressed to your brow. It startled you to consciousness both because of its temperature and its temerity, for you could not fathom who had dared to enter your room without your permission, and while you were asleep, at that! In the haze of your sleep-addled mind, a rebuke rose to your lips, but then someone clicked their tongue and you fell silent even as you clambered to a more alert state.

“Your fever has finally broken, dear lady! You do not know how overjoyed I am to hear it,” your husband said, helping you into a sitting position, one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other holding up a glass. You blinked, trying to clear the fog from your vision, swallowing down the water he poured down your throat without objection.

“Fever?” you said.

“The ailment you have been suffering from,” he said. “I was told it was a fever of some sorts. I bore it quietly, the prospect of your malaise, but today I could not stop myself from checking on you. I had some dreams of playing the nurse, but here you are, entirely well! Such a miraculous recovery.”

His grandiose words masked suspicion with affection, but he did not make any further accusations, for just as you had sworn to heed him, so too had he promised to trust you. His vows had been made to a portrait of yours, as well as written in pig’s-blood and sent to you in a sealed envelope. You could recall them with perfect clarity, the way the stench of iron clung to the parchment as you unfolded it and rang your fingers over the lines, which were grouped in stanzas of three. 

Trust. Favor. Companionship.

You spent the entire day with your husband, although you had neither the desire nor the will for it. You hardly ever had the desire or the will to do anything, of course, not nowadays, but this was the worst of all, because your husband was not just a reminder but the very reason for everything which had happened to you. Still, you could not refuse, so you trotted along at his side, motionless as he showed you off to his officers, his advisors, and even, at one point, his cousin, who could not be less interested in you if he tried.

“Brother,” he said boredly, for indeed he and your husband were the only children of their respective fathers, and so were more like siblings than anything, “you have better things to be doing than showing off a woman who doesn’t bear showing off in the first place.”

“Are you saying that she is somehow deficient?” your husband said, swelling up with righteous indignation. Anyone else might’ve lost their head for the statement, especially given how blandly he had said it, but his cousin was above reproach, being the only person he really loved.

“I’m saying that she looks ill with misery,” his cousin said, and then he sighed, returning to his book. “I’m not so sure the lady has recovered from her illness. You ought to be more cautious with her, that’s all.”

His cousin was younger and handsomer than he, and as the two of you walked away, you thought that you would not have minded marrying him as much. Though perhaps this was a paradox — after all, if he had taken you in the manner that your husband had, then you would have hated him, too. It was your lot in life, then; always you would detest whoever you wed, whoever stole your freedom in that way and bound you to them with the cruel ropes of matrimony.

The hall where you took your dinner was like an enormous cavern, so large that you felt like your voice might echo if you spoke. You and your husband were the only ones in it, which heightened the effect, and every clank of his silverware against his porcelain dishes resounded in your ears like discordant bells.

“My prisoner,” you said after a long time had passed wherein the two of you discussed nothing. Your voice was dry with disuse, and you pushed the food on your plate around without attempting to eat, although it was all appetizing and you were certainly hungry.

“What?” your husband said, covering his mouth with his hand as he chewed.

“My prisoner,” you said, clearing your throat but keeping your gaze trained firmly on your food. “The prince of Kremnos. Is he well?”

“You’re asking after his health?” your husband said with a chuckle. When you did not laugh or otherwise indicate that you were joking, he frowned at you. “You needn’t fret. As you requested, I am treating him as well as I am able. Far better than he deserves.”

The image of the prince, chained and kept in darkness, the only sound his persistent cough and unsteady breathing, given scraps for sustenance and mice for company, flashed across your mind. 

“I wish to see him,” you said. There was a warning in the back of your head — duty, obedience, docility — but you ignored it as best as you could, stabbing oversharp fingernails into your thighs, hard enough to draw blood and distract you from the dangerous line you tread. “My lord, I wish to see the prince and ensure that he is alright with my own eyes.”

At this your husband did not even pretend to humor you. He burst into a raucous fit of cackles, his fork and knife clattering to the table, his eyes watering at the corners. You waited for him to stop, picking your own cutlery up in vain before setting it down and folding your hands in your lap.

“No,” he said. “I am afraid that I cannot allow that, dear lady.”

“You cannot—” you began, but it was too much, you had stepped over that precarious boundary, and now you were frozen. Gulping, you counted to five before continuing. “He is mine. He is mine, you said it yourself, so why — can’t — I — see — him?”

Each word dug into you like gravel, and you knew that you had lost this argument before you could even attempt to have it. How could you ever win? When you had sworn thrice over that you would be tractable, how could you ever try to be anything else? Your intentions did not matter as much as the execution, not to the number three and the power it lent this empire.

“How obstinate,” your husband said, appraising you with a new eye. “I am sorry, dear lady, but as my cousin said, you are still weak. It will do you no good to be faced with such a base creature. You can see him again on the day of his execution.”

“Yes,” you said through gritted teeth, which was not as much as you wanted to do but was as much as you could, at present, manage. “Might I be excused?”

“Excused? You haven’t eaten anything,” he said, pointing at your plate. True to his word, it was untouched, and you picked it up, holding it close to your chest as you stood. 

“My stomach is protesting,” you said. “I will take it to my room and eat it later. If it pleases you.”

“Very well,” he said, waving at you. “I shall pray for your health, dear lady. Sleep as late as you’d like tomorrow, but once you are awake, I implore you to join me in my preparations. There is a grand celebration in the afternoon, as a marker of our victory against Kremnos, and I have been summoned to speak; if you could muster some words as well, it might hearten the people and warm them to you.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said. “I shall think of something.”

“See to it that you do,” he said, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face as you left, your footsteps growing faster and faster until you were all but racing to your room, your head spinning and palms clammy like you had gotten away with some great crime. 

Tonight, there were no strange voices beckoning you, but that did not stop you from staying awake far past the moon’s rise, waiting until it hung over the clocktower before picking your way back to the cellar, your heart pounding as you crept back down those dark, endless stairs, an actual lantern in one hand and your plate in the other.

The prince was still there. You had half-expected him to have disappeared, to have turned out to be some figment of your imagination, but he was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his lips pursed as he watched the light of your lantern approach. When he realized it was you, his eyes narrowed, and he tucked his chin to his chest in what you could only assume was a stubborn display of the meager strength he had left.

“I brought food for you,” you said, setting the lantern on the last stair and presenting the plate before you. “Please eat it.”

“What do you think I am?” he said. “Some kind of a dog, such that I am eager for  you to foist your refuse on me? Hardly. Take it and leave me at once.”

“You’ll waste away,” you said. “You are only doing yourself a disservice! This is my own dinner, which I have gone without so that I could bring it to you. Does that make it easier to stomach?”

“Shall I sit on the floor, then, and eat it with my hands?” he said with a disparaging smile. “Will that amuse you? Is that why you’ve come? I heard your husband, you know. ‘Do what you’d like with him now that he is yours.’ How joyless your life must be, to think that this is what you entertain yourself with!”

“It is joyless,” you bit back, and your eyes widened at the freedom of the declaration. “It is! But you are not my — you are not some kind of amusement, I resent that you — I even spoke against my husband for you, and you say that! Fine, then. Starve, you thoughtless simpleton! Starve and die for all the good it’ll do me!”

You turned on your heel and stomped towards the stairs with the graceless irascibility of a child, not even sparing a glance over your shoulder at the prince. He was quiet, but you knew from the heavy weight of his stare on your back that there was something like turmoil brewing in his mind, a turmoil which weakened your resolve with every step you took away from him.

It was to your credit that you made it all of the way to where the lantern was sitting before you wavered, your stride shortening until you halted in place. Scrunching up your face, wondering when you had developed this love for punishment, for strife and conflict, you allowed your shoulders to sag in acceptance.

“Dispose of this before anyone comes to see you,” you said, shoving the plate into his hands before he could protest. “I suppose it matters little how you do it, but you must, or else I will be convicted of treason, and where will that leave us? Imprisoned side by side and left to rot together.”

He did not respond until you were almost out of earshot entirely, and then he coughed. You could not tell whether it was to capture your attention or to clear his voice of any residual hesitance; regardless, he accomplished both objectives, as you lingered for a moment longer than you would’ve.

“Ten,” he said. “That’s how many times I could’ve killed you in the time you’ve been here. But I—”

You continued walking before you could hear the rest of it.

You woke up the next day in better spirits than you had in some time, and in fact when a servant announced that you had a visitor, you opened the door with a new vigor. Upon realizing that the man in front of you was not your husband but rather his cousin, you thought that you might die from the glee of it all. Taking his arm, you allowed him to escort you to where the imperial contingent was setting up for the festival, at a grand stage which took up most of the square and was already laden with visitors at its base.

“It is a relief to see you recovering so well,” your husband’s cousin said. “The rumors in the palace are that you’ve contracted some illness of the chronic variety; in truth I believed them, especially after our meeting yesterday, but today I see that you have been revitalized. Did you rest well last night, then? I heard that you did not eat your dinner, but you must’ve taken it in your room, yes?”

You had done neither of those things, and his questioning did make you pause. What was the cause of your good mood? You had gone to sleep for only a short time, without much of anything in your stomach, and your situation had not improved any, so why did you feel, even if only marginally, as if you were something like yourself again?

“I suppose it must be something like love,” he mused, without waiting for your answer. 

“Ah, pardon?” you said, startled from the winding turns and byways of your thoughts at the strange declaration.

“To think that even a day in your husband’s presence has cured you to such an extent,” he explained. “Surely it is love? I cannot think of any other name for it…but I apologize! It is not my place to inquire, nor to speculate. I trust you will not tell my cousin about this?”

He had, in the taken-aback blink of your eyes and the pinch of your brow, found what he was seeking: a demure shyness which he could only comprehend as a lack of affection. You knew, then, that you had passed the test of the man, who had not believed any more than your husband that you were truly ill.

“I will take your leave,” he said, and then his palm clamped down on your shoulder. “But I trust you know this: however much you may love your husband, he is a difficult man to be loved by in return. If ever you are in search of solace…there are places you may turn to, dear lady.”

“What did he say to you?” your husband said, appearing at your side with his expression arranged into something like a frown. “I could not hear. Was he bothering you? I am sorry if he was. He has always been headstrong.”

“He was not bothering me,” you said, incapable of lying to your husband with any great skill but remaining certain that it was absolutely imperative you did not divulge his cousin’s secrets to him. “We spoke as family members might.”

If he recognized your evasive language, he did not comment on it. Instead, he stroked his chin in thought, and then he directed his attention towards the stage, where one of his generals was beckoning him — and, by extension, you.

The sun hung high in the sky as you ascended to the podium, though its rays did not dare touch you, disguised in your husband’s shadow as you were. Your vows tied more than your tongue, after all; your entire being, everything but your heart and your mind, were trained and twisted into the picture of submission, and soon those, too, would fall, leaving you a husk which could do nothing but nod and follow along.

Your husband did not need to start with any address. His mere presence was enough to silence the gathered empire, every single onlooker leaning towards the stage in eager anticipation of his words. From your vantage point, it was like the swell of a tide, crushing and suffocating, inescapable in its overwhelming intensity, but where you withdrew, your husband brightened at the weight, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders.

“Mydeimos,” he said, over-enunciating every syllable. The word, unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, had a rhythmic, marching cadence, more suited to a battle-cry than a formal declaration, and it seemed you were not alone in your thinking, for it had all the effect of one on the crowd.

A heckling clamor burst from them, the individual words indecipherable but for brief snippets. Demon. Monster. Warmonger. Kill. Curse. Blood. Kill. Kill. Kill! Your husband waited for them to quiet of their own volition, and only then did he venture to continue, this time with a wide, beaming grin.

“Mydeimos has fallen. The prince of terrors is no more!” he shouted, raising his fist in the air to thunderous applause. “Without him to lead the army, Kremnos will surely follow suit. Their lands will be ours within the year, of this much I assure you! Our empire will soon be the most prosperous in all the world. Even the great lands of the Southern Sea will pale in comparison!”

Your heart twinged at the mention of the Southern Sea. You could envision it even now, the streaks of salt left on the cliffs where the water lapped at them, the ripples in the placid blue where the balmy winds skimmed along the surface, the moon-white sand as it clung to the crevices of your feet and hands.

When you were younger, your father would take you on his boat and dip his fingers into it, urging you to do the same. You would ask him why and he would answer, always with a laugh or a smile: of all the jewels in my treasury, my darling, the Southern Sea is the second-loveliest. Then you would ask him which could be the first, if even the sea was not its equal, and he’d press his damp hands to your cheeks and kiss your hair and say you, my darling, you and only you.

“What a horrible thing he was,” your husband said. “Mydeimos. That wretched excuse of a man…the world is all the better now that he is locked away. I watched him — watched him, good citizens, with my own eyes — tear out a man’s heart with naught but his nails and teeth! Even now I can imagine it…the tips of his canines dark with pierced flesh…bits of entrails coating his fingers…the heart still beating in his palms…he looked the proper part of a devil, and I was certain that I had died and found damnation!

“But as I said, he is no more. Our army prevailed, as we always have, and as we always will; I made Mydeimos beg for mercy with my sword at his throat and my foot upon his inhuman heart, and then I dragged him back so that all of you could see what he has been relegated to — a chained puppy, given to my dear lady as a pet and kept as a servant until the day of his execution.

“For the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!”

Your husband concluded his speech and pulled you forward simultaneously, with a great flourish which invited praise and drew attention to you both. You swallowed, your mind racing at breakneck speed, far too quickly for you to make any sense of the things you were saying until you were saying them.

“I have not seen the prince of Kremnos — Mydeimos — since the day that he was brought to me,” you said. The applause that had begun faded as soon as the soft words sparkled into existence, and the many eyes of the audience blurred together until you could pretend like you were alone, like you were speaking to nothing but small, bright stones reflecting your own sentiments. “But as my lord husband said, he was proud. I feel as though I have never seen a man prouder. Even after his loss, he remained proud. Even with nothing else left, he clung to that pride, that assurance…I remember thinking to myself that it was, in its own way, admirable. That he was admirable.”

Your husband’s arm around your waist grew tighter with unspoken warning, though it needn’t have. You had said all that you wanted, all that you could, and now there was nothing left but the judgement of the collective.

“Lady!” someone shouted, the singular soul brave enough to speak. She was a woman — you wondered if this was what bolstered her confidence, a perceived kinship between the two of you for that fact alone. “Do you fear the prince?”

“No,” you said, and although you had meant it only as a vague and empty placation, you were surprised to find that it rang true. You were not afraid of him, and it wasn’t his chains or his infirmity which caused this emotion to surge in you; rather, it was what he had told you last night, that declaration he had made with the utmost of seriousness, which you had not even allowed him to complete. “I am not. He cannot harm me.”

You knew your words would be interpreted as faith in your husband and the empire, and furthermore that this misinterpretation would curry favor with your subjects and your lord alike, so you did nothing to correct it. Yet you would know, and would hold close to your heart the knowing, that it was not your husband who you held faith in: it was Mydeimos, the prince of Kremnos, who might’ve killed you ten times over but had instead let you live.

“You have much to improve in terms of your orating,” your husband said coldly as the three of you — him, his cousin, and yourself — returned to the palace.

“I thought her speech was excellent,” his cousin said, shooting you a sly smile behind his back. “Very concise, and of a good style. It’s a gift to be able to convey meaning so succinctly. You ought to nurture it.”

“She certainly conveyed a meaning,” your husband said. “It remains to be said what value that meaning truly holds.”

“Is that for you to decide? Ah, brother, don’t be a curmudgeon, I am only teasing you! You spent so much of our childhood poking fun at me, so how can you fault me for paying you back in kind?” his cousin said.

“You need some lessons in respect,” your husband said, but without any real bite behind it. His cousin snickered before sobering, shifting his weight toward you.

“Will you take your dinner in your chambers again, lady?” he said. You nodded.

“If it does not offend,” you said. 

“Do as you please,” your husband said. “Though I expect you’ll do that anyways, sworn to me or not. Isn’t that right, dear lady?”

You couldn’t think of any response which would be satisfactory, so you said nothing, allowing the two of them to escort you to your room, where you waited with bated breath until the night fell and you could return to the cellar.

The entire way down the stairs, you turned the name over in your mind, polishing it in the way waves polished driftwood, battering it with incessant worry until it shone, uncanny and unrecognizable. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. The prince of terrors. The man who had torn a heart out with his teeth. What did it say of you, that you were making your way to exactly such a knave? With trepidation, of course, but what did it say that you were still doing it anyways? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

“There is an odd pattern to your footsteps,” he said before you could even greet him. He stood as he always did, prepared for a battle that he would never again see. “Or perhaps it is your breathing, or something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” you said, putting your lantern and the dinner down in the space between you both. “I walk and breathe as I always have, as others do.”

“I know you,” he said, disgust mingling with the barest traces of awe in his tone. “The door to this cellar opens frequently. All manner of men come to visit me, to mock me from their places at the bottom of the stairs, lambasting me from the safety of their distance. I recognize few, and  I remember fewer — nor do I have any great desire to — but when it is you, I know. From your very step, from the very creak of the door, I know. I cannot understand how or why, but I know.”

“My husband told me your name,” you said after a pause, when it became clear he was not expecting a reaction from you. Motioning towards the food in a gesture you hoped he took to kindly, you continued: “I did not ask him, but he mentioned it in passing, so naturally now I know it.”

“I see,” he said, and although his gaze flicked towards the ground, he did not move. You remembered, then, what else your husband had said in that speech of his, the vainglorious words echoing in your ears: for the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!

“Mydeimos,” you said, and then you sat on the floor, which was made of a cold stone that shot chills down the backs of your legs. Resting your elbows atop your thighs and your chin in your hands, you blinked up at him. “That is what he called you. ‘The prince of terrors.’”

“How unimaginative,” he said, and you suppressed a shudder at his glare, which was baleful and acute as it settled upon you. “My-deimos. Many-terrors. Yes, that is my name, though that ridiculous nickname is of his own invention. The Kremnoans would laugh if they heard it.”

“He said that he watched you tear out a man’s heart with your nails,” you said, and then you glanced at his lips, simultaneously and unconsciously wetting your own with the tip of your tongue. “And your teeth.”

He bared those very teeth, white and glinting, in a barking laugh — as much an expression of warning as it was humor. “My teeth! Your husband is one for fiction.”

“And — and he spoke of how he defeated you,” you said. At this, anything resembling mirth vanished from Mydeimos, and he grew curiously immobile — you almost thought that you had frightened him into the grips of memory, but then you realized that he was not frozen as much as he was waiting.

“Did he?” he said. “And what did your husband say of my defeat, dear lady?”

“He  made you beg for mercy with his sword at your throat and his foot upon your inhuman — upon your heart,” you said, correcting yourself for the slip of the tongue, finding no merit in telling him about that particular detail. “And then he dragged you back here.”

The longer Mydeimos remained silent, the shallower your breaths became, a cold fist forming around your heart and squeezing, the muscles in your arms and legs contracting, protesting their inactivity. You needed to run. If you were wiser, if you had anything resembling self-preservation, you would run, would flee and hope that you were fast enough to make it to the stairs before he pounced. 

You supposed you lacked both wisdom and self-preservation in spades, for you remained on the floor, peering up at him and praying that he could not read your mind, could not comprehend the depths of your thoughts.

“So that is his story,” he said. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t tell his people the truth.”

“He made it up,” you said rhetorically.

“You don’t sound surprised,” he noted.

“It is not — it is not —” You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, trying to come up with some way to circumvent your wedding vows, some way you could impress upon him what you were trying to say. “When we were wed, it was said that I loved him madly and completely, that I bawled to my father until he allowed me to come here.”

“Then it is not his first time dabbling in such falsehoods,” Mydeimos completed. When you nodded, he snorted. “You cannot speak ill of him, can you? Is it magic?”

“In the way of this land,” you said with a shrug.

“What an emperor,” he said. “So he can neither bed his wife nor win his battles without the use of tricks and obfuscation? Where I come from, they have a word for those like that, but as it is foul, I will not trouble you with hearing it.”

“What do you mean?” you said. “Ah, not by the foul word…that is, what tricks do you refer to? If the story he told is inaccurate, then how did he really defeat you? For surely he must have, or else you would not be here.”

“He did not defeat me,” he said. “Believe it or not, but that is the truth.”

“How?” you pressed, for you had already eschewed wisdom once and did not mind doing so again.

For a moment, it was as if the sun shone down upon him again. You saw him as he was on the day he met you, or perhaps even before — the prince of Kremnos, sleek and powerful and indomitable, red marks blooming in place of the scars he would never receive, eyes ablaze in his hollow face, hair as wild and untamed as his spirit.

“He surrendered,” Mydeimos said, scowling. “Our numbers were smaller, but Kremnoans have never cared for things like odds. We were winning, indubitably we were winning, and your husband knew it as well as we did. They attacked us in our own territory, fought us with our own weapons…how could we have lost? We would’ve wiped them out, but your husband and his men raised their white flags, and so we ceased to attack them.

“I went to parley with them, to negotiate the terms of their surrender. In a show of goodwill, I agreed to your husband’s request to come unaccompanied. His men were exhausted, and I found it honorable that he was putting their wellbeing first, so I ignored my instincts and the warnings of my advisors, going forth alone, leaving my armor and weapons as I was instructed to.

“That was my mistake. I should never have expected honor from a serpent, whose nature it is to bite. The surrender was a ploy; I was met by hordes of guards, each with a spear pointed at my heart. Even then, I fought. Do not think I met my end willingly, dear lady — I fought and killed as many men as he threw at me. I could’ve killed them all, I would’ve killed them all, but right as I was about to, he threw these chains at me from the corner where he hid. It should not have worked, his aim and the strength behind it were both lacking, but it was as if the metal had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I was bound.”

“As I told you, they are thrice-blessed,” you said. “Divine. They long to fulfill their purpose, and will do anything to that end. If it defies the laws of nature, well, what are those laws compared to the ones who wrote them? Those men were only a distraction. Once my husband received these chains, there was nothing which could’ve changed your fate.”

“What sort of a god favors a man who feigns surrender?” Mydeimos said. “What kind of deity loves perfidy?”

“I have often asked myself the same questions,” you admitted, half-expecting yourself to be unable and closing your eyes in relief when you weren't. “Why is it that he is the one they champion? What justice is there in that? He must have been a saint in his past life, to be treated as he is. A saint, or a martyr, or something like that. Something wonderful to the point of deserving so many miracles in this next iteration of his.”

You chose your speech carefully, injecting as much resentment into it as was needed to convey to the prince what you really meant, but not enough that you seized up into inaction. Not enough that you strained against the hold that your vows held over you.

You heard him exhale, and at this, you allowed your eyes to flutter open once more, peeking up at him and immediately wishing you hadn’t.

Whatever had briefly rallied in him, whatever fervor and fire he had briefly regained…it was gone. It was gone, leaving him fractured and bereft, forlorn instead of fearsome, prisoner instead of prince. Your husband had done that to him. Your husband had destroyed him, as he had destroyed you, and it was this reflection of your own fate which tore at you the most.

Breaking off a piece of bread, you dipped it in the long-cooled sauce pooled in the corner of the plate, and, without a word, held it out to him. He eyed it suspiciously, and for a moment you thought he might refuse it. The beginnings of an argument bubbled to the surface, but it never had the chance to take shape — before your lips could so much as part, he knelt across from you and took your proffered hand by the wrist.

Holding it in place, his thumb digging into your pulse like a reminder that he didn’t want this, didn’t want to accept your help, he used his free hand to swipe the bread from your palm. Then, his brows heavy, low over his eyes with mistrust and reluctance, he shoved it into his mouth and ate it.

taglist (comment/send an ask to be added): @mikashisus @ivana013-blog @mizukiqr @shehrazadekey @simp-simp-no-mi @reapersan @casualgalaxystrawberry @secretive3amramenmaker [if your tag does not show up in grey, that means tumblr had an issue with it, sorry! sometimes it does that sadly]

[blueheron15]

TOO SOON TO TELL YOU I LOVE YOU

pairing: jj x fem!routledge!reader

summary: jj navigating his childhood and adolescence while seeing john b as a brother, but y/n as something… more.

warnings: flangst, suggested smut

a/n: wow this was longer than i thought it was gonna be and thats why i am edging yall with the ending... THERE WILL BE A PART TWO

jj and john b had been brothers since third grade. it was common knowledge for everyone on the island. don't cross john b unless you wanted to deal with jj, too, or vice versa. it was a well-known fact.

they began playing together at recess, and soon, john b came back home talking about his new friend. he would eventually begin bringing two lunches to school with him so jj could actually eat.

the first time they hung out outside of school, they went fishing off of the ocean at the chateau. they were called inside for lunch by the ringing of a bell.

"wut was that?" jj asked in his southern drawl, toothless mouth quirking in confusion as he dropped a minnow back into the water.

"my daddy's callin' us back for lunch." john b explained, beginning to pull up the anchor of the johnboat.

"is your daddy nice?" jj asked, helping his friend gather the ropes.

"he's just a normal dad." john b shrugged, adjusting his hat before starting the motor.

"my dad hates me." jj explained, as if it were a simple fact of life. he sat down.

"well, i think mine'll like you."

from that day on, jj had practically been adopted into the routledge family. the littlest sibling, y/n routledge, was only five when they met, and was relatively closed off at first. while the four of them ate at the table that day, big john had shown an affection towards his son and jj, but made no effort to include his daughter in the conversation.

the age gap, which seemed significant at first, slowly dwindled away as john b's friend group expanded to the rest of the pogues. y/n hung out with them sometimes, too.

jj had always thought she was nice, and he enjoyed getting a rise out of her, but his best friend for life was her brother. that's who he was looking for on the night he happened to fall in love with her.

y/n was 12, and jj was 14. he knew john b was at a small party kiara was throwing (a farewell party to kildare high school, if you will), but he was hoping he would be back by one am. jj stumbled into the chateau, tripping over the step into the house.

"shit!" he cursed, his already bruised cheek making contact with the dusty hardwood floor. "ugghhhh" he groaned, slowly hoisting himself up.

"jj?" he heard a voice mumble.

his head snapped up, finding y/n standing in the kitchen. suddenly, his cheeks flushed as he looked at his star wars pajama pants, embarrassed that she was seeing him like this. "uh, yeah." he cleared his throat, taking a step further into the dimly lit house. "hey, y/n."

he could have sworn he heard her sniffle, but she too took a step forward, flicking on the living room light.

"isn't it passed your bedtime?" jj asked, at the same time y/n said "what happened to you?"

his hand made it's way to the back of his neck, scratching. "nuthing." he said dismissively. "just got inta an argument with my old man."

her face contorted into a frown, walking up to him and grabbing his arm. as she lead him into the bathroom, he had a strange thought that she looked adorable in her polka dot pajama pants and one of pope's old t shirts.

"why'd he do this to you?" she asked softly, grabbing disinfecting ointment from the cabinet. "sit on the toilet so i can clean you up."

jj rolled his eyes, deflecting. "i dont need you to clean me up. was lookin' for your brother anyway."

"well," she started, confirming his previous thought. "john b's not here, and neither is my dad cuz he never is, and in case you didn't know, it's been 10 years since my mama left, and i'm all alone, and i'd really not like to be alone right now so could you please just sit?"

she finished her rant with a stray tear leaking down her cheek, a red face, and a huff of air. jj tried not to let his grin show. they way she got so flustered, the way she annunciated each word, made his heart flutter despite the heaviness of the situation. "hold your horses, i'll stay." he said, raising his hands up in surrender.

he sat down on the toilet lid as she tended to his busted lip, cut under eye, and bruised cheek. she worked in silence for a little while.

"he did this to me cuz im a piece of shit." he eventually muttered.

"you're not." she insisted, shaking her head.

"you only think that because i'm john b's friend." he scoffed. "maybe he's right, anyway. he caught me stealin from the gas station. maybe i deserved this."

she looked at him. jesus, jj thought, when did her eyes become so... pretty? "you didn't think we're friends?"

jj looked down at the floor, before bashfully meeting her gaze. "guess we are now."

jj slept over, obviously, and they sat together on the couch as she showed him the only existing photo of her and her mother.

"i wonder if she would like me if she knew me now." y/n thought out loud.

jj took it upon himself to use humor to make her feel better. "pretend im your mom." he shrugged.

"what?" she squeaked, looking at him like he was crazy.

he cleared his throat before raising it an octave to make him sound like a woman. "oh, y/n!" he exclaimed, grabbing the ends of her hair. "my daughter, you're sooo beautiful!"

"ew!" she she giggled as jj got closer and closer to her. "get off me jj!" she laughed, playfully shoving him away.

"you don't want some lovin' from your mama?" he teased, still in a girly voice.

she kicked him gently, squealing in delight at his antics. "you're not my mama!" she insisted.

they began wrestling playfully, jj pushing her so she was laying on the couch, pinning her down. and, when john b walked in, he thought it was nothing more than some classic routledge and maybank sibling bonding.

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

from that moment on, there was an undeniable shift between the two of them. somehow, y/n had gone from nice, to adorable, to pretty at her thirteenth birthday party. the pogues and some of her girlfriends from school had been invited to the chill hang out at the chateau.

she was talking to some of her other friends, in a lovely white sundress and brown cow boy boots, when jj nearly choked on the vodka he had added into his lemonade.

"i never realized how pretty y/n was." pope commented, swinging on the hammock.

"what?!" jj shrieked, spitting out his drink.

"ew, dude." kiara said, rolling her eyes.

"don't you think she looks nice?" pope inquired.

"uh, well, i mean, um" jj stuttered. "what?"

"that's all i'm sayin, dude. y/n is-"

"y/n is what?" john b asked, joining them.

"pope's got a lil crush." kie said, smirking.

"t-this is outrageous!" jj exclaimed.

"why do you even care?" asked kie.

"b-because-"

"obviously because she's like a sister to him and it's gross." john b explained, rolling his eyes. "new rule. no macking on my sister."

"you got that pope?" jj asked seriously, pointing an accusatory finger.

"i wasn't planning on macking on her!" pope cried, defending himself.

jj huffed. "good." he muttered under his breath. he definitely did think pope macking on y/n would be gross. but not for the reason john b had said. something stirred within his chest. it was a gross, green feeling.

...was he jealous?

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

when jj was sixteen and when y/n was fourteen, the "no macking on y/n" rule had been transformed into the "no pogue on pogue macking" rule. this was due to both y/n and kiara being mature enough to wear bikinis. like, proper bikinis.

it was the first day of summer break. kiara was back from the kook academy, jj didn't have to deal with fucking geometry anymore, he snuck off the previous night with some touron older girl and had his first time behind a tree, and holy hell life was good. the pogues joined some other students at the beach for surfing and a bonfire.

but his eyes were on y/n.

shit, was he a pervert? after all, she was only 14, and one of his best friends. she came fishing with him and john b even though she didn’t particularly enjoy the activity. they were constantly play wrestling, or giving each other sea shells as little gifts. and, jj constantly called her mama, much to john b’s demise. it was one of their inside jokes.

she had just looked so good in her blue bikini and she was actually growing boobs. as jj sat on the sand, watching her surf, he barely noticed kiara and another girl approach him.

“hey, j!” kie called.

“‘sup?” he asked, not taking his eyes off of y/n. she was an amazing surfer, but he was ready to jump into action if she happened to wipe out.

“this is lacy.” kiara said, motioning to the girl next to him. she had a nice rack and a sexy body, with beautiful blonde hair. “i went to the look academy with her.”

“oh?” jj said, raising a brow. “a kook, huh? watchu doin’ on this side of the island, princess?” he shamelessly flirted. kie rolled her eyes in disgust, but lacy placed her palm against a tree, leaning in seductively.

“everyone on figure eight thinks they’re too proper to have fun for a night.” she shrugged.

jj grinned. he was catching her drift, alright.

he brought her back to chateau and fucked her good. well, at least he tried to. but with the image of y/n in his mind, he came in like 15 seconds. he made it up to her by eating her out, which was divine, pleasing her in the way he believed every woman should be.

lacy left, and after jj cleaned himself up and put on a fresh pair of boxers and gray sweatpants, he exited big john’s room, which was now practically his after the man’s disappearance, to get a drink.

he stopped dead in his tracks when he saw y/n sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. she gave him a knowing look, rolling her eyes as the tears fell.

“shit.” he cursed, walking up to her. “uh. you heard that?”

she scoffed. “everyone heard it. i don’t care about that, though. it’s just… i… do you think i’m pretty, jj?”

“what’re you talkin about?”

she hiccuped. “am i pretty?” she repeated. he let out a breath. shit, how was he supposed to answer that? hell yeah, she was pretty. but she took his silence as a no. “i know i’m not. but it’s not fair that everyone sees me as just some little kid.” she explained. “none of the guys in my grade want to date me. i h-haven’t even kissed anybody yet, and you guys are all having sex, and it’s not fair!”

he tentatively sat down on a stool next to her. “you’re still young.”

“so that means i’m ugly?” she retorted.

“i think yer the prettiest girl on this whole damn island.” jj explained. he was so vulnerable, wide blue eyes staring into hers.

“… you do?”

“i do.” he said softly, nodding. he extended a hand, tucking a stray frizzy and sun dried lock of hair behind her hair. “i really do, mama.” he wondered out loud.

“well…” her heart was beating out of her chest as she took in a shaky breath. “thank you.” she grinned cheekily, cheeks beat red.

“you’re welcome.” he said, tailing a finger down her cheek before going to get up.

“wait” she said in a distressed tone. she grabbed his arm, stood up, and quickly pulled him foreword, pressing her lips to his.

it barely lasted two seconds, and jj didn’t even have time to close his eyes before y/n was pulling away.

she stepped back, staring at him. he brought a hand up to ghost over his lips. he had never felt so much electricity. his lips were literally buzzing.

“kie told me her first kiss made her want to puke.” y/n stated. “um. are all first kisses supposed to be that good?” she asked, clearing her throat.

“uh.” he said, voice hoarse. “mine sure as hell wasn’t.”

“oh.”

“yeah… oh.”

“okay. um, g’night jay!” she squeaked, retreating into her room.

jj was doomed.

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

y/n routledge had ruined every other girl for jj. he was absolutely besotted with her.

but, the problem was, he couldn't have her. john b would forbid it.

"it's just like, fuckin gross, man!" john b complained, laying on the hammock as he mindlessly threw a hackey sack in the air, catching it. "like, i don't wanna see you macking on my little sister, sorry."

"she's her own person, man." jj said, waxing his board. "just let her be."

"he's a douche." john b insisted. he wasn't very fond of y/n's first ever boyfriend. "she's only 15, why does she even need a boyfriend?"

"i got a feelin' you'll hate anyone she dates." jj replied with an eye roll.

"probably." john b cringed.

jj fought back a shudder. would he hate me if i dated her?

suddenly, y/n came speeding around the corner on her bike, pushing it to the ground and ditching it, sprinting into the house.

"what the hell?" jj asked. him and john b were immediately following her inside.

"y/n?" john b asked, swiftly approaching her. "what's wrong?"

she stood in the middle of the living room, her body wracking with sobs. "h-he... he..." she couldn't even get the words out as she covered her hand with her mouth.

"did he hurt you? what's happenin?" jj asked, concerned. he placed a hand on each of her shoulders, craning his neck down so they were at eye level with each other.

her lips quivered as she sighed, and jj's heart broke.

"he broke up w-with me." she finally managed to get out.

jj recoiled, and him and john b shared a look.

"he's dead."

that night, after the three of them laid together in bed (a y/n sandwich, with her in the middle of the two boys) and did all the girly post break up shit u see in movies together, it was nearing two am when they decided to call it a night.

jj sat on the edge of her bed for a little while, watching her tuck herself in tight underneath the covers.

"you gonna be okay?" he asked.

she hiked up a shoulder. "i'm gonna have to be."

a beat of silence passed. "he's a fuckin idiot for fumbling you." she snorted. "it's true!" jj insisted, his voice growing higher in insistence.

y/n smiled sadly. "thanks, jay."

he gave her a solute. "well, goodnight, mama." he went to get up, but she reached out.

"wait. um. i don't really wanna be alone tonight."

"oh. you want me to get jb, or...?"

in a small and vulnerable voice, she asked. "can you stay?"

"uh, y/n, im not sure how good of an-" he protested, running a hand through his messy blonde locks.

"please, jj." she begged, her voice cracking.

jj didn't stand a chance. "you know i can't say no to you." he whispered, a soft smile on his face.

y/n reached behind her, grabbing an extra pillow and handing it to him. he grabbed the extra blanket on the edge of her bed, getting comfortable on the floor.

they laid in silence for a few moments, just listening to the hum of the crickets and the crashing of the waves in the distance. jj was 99% sure she was asleep, and moved to get up, when she finally spoke.

"he broke up with me because he kept trying to force me to have sex but i didn't want to." she confessed, her words awkwardly cutting through the silence.

"are you fucking kidding me?" jj asked, disgusted.

"please don't kill him." she sighed.

"please don't kill him," jj repeated, mocking her tone. "nah, fuck that. what's this guys address? i swear, i'm gonna-"

"you're gonna do what, jj?" she retorted.

"egg his house, slash his tires, beat him up, i don't know! the point is, that was a dick move. and that's not okay to do. especially to you. cuz your-"

he stopped himself. in the midst of their heated conversation, they had both propped themselves up on their elbows, y/n looking down at jj and him looking up at her. they lowered themselves back down in to a recumbent position.

"i'm what?" y/n whispered.

jj thought for a moment. you’re my girl. you’re so incredibly special. that’s what his mind was thinking. but he couldn’t say that. could he?

“because you’re like a sister to me.” he choked out. he didn’t sound believable at all.

“am i really though?” she pressed.

jj wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all. “we can’t, y/n.” he forced himself to say.

“…i know.” she conceded. “but maybe…” she thought out loud. she let a hand dangle down, off the edge of the bed. “friends can hold hands, right?”

he intertwined their fingers together, holding his arm up for her. “yeah. they can.”

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

jj and y/n continued to find loopholes in order to be able to act on some of their feelings while not making it obvious for john b.

friends kissed each others cheeks. friends took naps together, bodies intertwined in the hammocks. friends got jealous of flirting. friends called each other nick names like “mama” or “baby” or “bub.”

right?

y/n was providing light in jj’s fucked up life, which become increasingly worse with this search for gold.

jj knew that y/n was having a hard time with her brother following in her fathers footsteps. this made them grow closer, as the barrier that was john b was less and less present, constantly on the go or with sarah cameron.

for fucks sake, they were held at gun point today by barry, who jj knew bc he used to sell coke to his dad.

who, speaking of which, beat him to shit. jj didn’t know how to deal with everything and so he bought a hot tub.

he couldn’t be bothered at pope and kie lecturing him. he couldn’t be bothered that he blew the money. but when y/n stepped inside the hot tub upon seeing the bruises on his abdomen, holding him tight against her chest and stroking his hair, he finally broke down.

he allowed her to dry him off and get him into some clothes. they lay together in her room, this time, both together on her bed as jj needed the physical affection.

he was practically on top of her, his face nuzzled into her neck, but she didn’t mind. she ran her fingers through his hair and up and down his back, to the point where he was practically purring and melting completely into her, mending their bodies together as one.

he was never so vulnerable, not with anyone else.

“thank you,” he croaked out. “for dealing with me.”

“hey.” she gently reprimanded. “don’t say it like it’s some kind of chore. i want to be able to help you, bub. we all do.”

he nodded, to tired to put up a fight. “only want your help tho.”

she smiled into his temple. “i feel like you’re the only person who actually gets me.“ she admitted.

“me too.”

that morning, upon waking up, the two of them had shifted to jj spooning her from behind, holding on tightly. and y/n didn’t mind one bit.

“morning,” she whispered sleepily, intertwining their legs together.

he groaned, stretching his legs out, but not separating them from hers. “mornin’”

“i gotta show ya somethin” he said after a few minutes of laying there admiring y/n. she looked so serene and peaceful in his arms, the sunlight streaming in from the windows and making her look like an angel.

“uh oh what did you steal?” she joked.

“i didn’t steal anything.” he said with an eye roll, sitting up and walking out of the room momentarily. he returned with something shiny in his hands. “i got u somethin when i splurged on the hot tub.”

“jj” she gently chided, propping herself up on her elbows.

“it’s fine.” he protested. “everyone knows the cats ass is dope as fuck. here.”

he held out a gold chain with a small j on it.

y/n held it in her hands, smiling down at it, then looking up at him.

“j as in…” she trailed off, smirking. “jj?”

he nodded and unspoken words passed between them. he put in on her neck, and she thought to herself that she would never take it off.

-`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´--`✮´-

the night of john b and sarah’s “death” was the best and worst night of y/n and jj’s lives.

“we… we lost em.” shoupe said, his words echoed by the booming thunder. “i’m sorry.”

“you lost them? what do you mean you lost them? like they’re gone? what are you talking about?” pope tried to frantically clarify.

jj’s jaw clenched. kiara’s face dropped. and y/n just stood there, numb as her heart plummeted into a deep abyss.

“they took an open boat into a tropical depression, pope.” the officer explained.

“so they’re dead?” kie asked.

“we don’t know.” said shoupe.

jj’s anger took over. “you drove em straight into the storm, man! are you kidding me?! come here!” he growled, pummeling shoupe.

“jj, stop!” kiara cried.

“get over here! i’m gonna kill you you bastard! you killed them!” he said, trying to fight off the other cops who were restraining him.

pope tried to reason with shoupe, and kiara was begging for it all to stop.

everything was going in slow motion for y/n. her brother… her brother was dead. there was no way he and sarah could have made it through that storm.

as kiara’s parents enveloped her into a hug, and as pope’s parents came in, extremely worried for their son and his friends, jj and y/n made eye contact.

all they had left was each other.

jj calmed down, and when he ripped himself out of the police’s grip, he walked toward y/n who ran and jumped up into his arms. he held her tight, silent tears running down his cheeks as she wailed.

“no, no!” she whimpered, clinging to jj as if they were the last two people on earth.

“i know baby.” he tried to comfort. “i know.”

they found themselves in the porch the chateau, each sitting on an opposite end of the couch, staring outside. jj was smoking his weed and y/n took the occasion puff.

both of their voices were hoarse and eyes were puffy from crying.

“what am i gonna do?” she wondered, voice cracking. “you can’t let them take me away, jj. y-you can’t.”

“and i won’t.” he promised. “i swear. no one is gonna take you, or hurt you. ever. okay? if they do it’s gonna be over my dead body.”

he scooted closer towards her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her into him.

“my brother.” jj said solemnly, shaking his head and exhaling a puff of weed. “john b was, is, my brother. i don’t know, man… do you think he’s really dead?”

“i don’t know. i don’t know anything anymore.” she whispered.

“well, there’s one thing i do know.” he said. “with everything happening… shit, who knows? who knows what’ll happen to us? i just… i-i gotta tell ya… john b may be like a brother to me, but you were never like a sister to me.”

with wide eyes, she turned her head towards him. “jj… what are you saying?”

“i’m sayin that… y/n i’ve never seen you as just jb’s lil sister. i’ve always seen you as- as you. you know i’m not good at expressing my feelings.” he took a deep breath, nervous. but he looked into her eyes. “but i want to try.”

she smiled, for the first time all night.

“you’re cute, but somehow sexy at the same time. you make me wanna actually open up to you, and be vulnerable, and be better. a-and, you’re so fucking funny too, dude. i know you’ve always struggled with separating yourself from your dad and john b. and maybe sometimes you think that nobody notices you. but y/n, you’re all i notice. you’re everywhere, all the time, and it’s so scary. but… what’s scarier is the fact that i could lose you like john b and you would always think i saw you as a little sister.”

she snorted at that through the tears. she was rendered speechless.

jj let out a shaky breath. she closed the small distance between the two of them, straddling his hips as they kissed with the taste of weed, perfume, and salty tears invading their senses.

they kept crying hard, but kept kissing harder.

“i love you.” jj said. and once it left his lips, it’s like the damn burst. “fuck i love you so much y/n. i love you so much. we’re gonna be okay. i got you. i got you, mama.”

“i love you” she said, nodding her head. “i love you too, jj.”

so it was safe to say that jj loved each of the routledge siblings.

but y/n?

that was his girl. his person.

(and, when john b came back from the dead, he’d be grossed out to see jj and his little sister macking. but he knew jj would do anything for her.

so, when y/n routledge became y/n maybank a few years later, john b and jj would actually be brothers.)

it was always gonna be P4L, but it was routledge and maybank first.

he used a hand to hold her back, gently flipping them over so that he was hovering on top of her, his beautiful biceps caging her in.

he slid his tongue over her bottom lip and she granted him entrance as they made out. wanting, needing to be closer, she hooked her ankles around his lower back, arching into him and feeling his erection.

"fuck" he panted. he trailed his kisses lower, nipping her ear lobe, sucking on her neck.

"mm r-remember when my first boyfriend broke up with me?" she said through whimpers. "i didn't wanna have sex with him. n-not because i wasn't ready, but because... i always wanted it to be you."

he let out a groan. "jesus, y/n..." he detached his lips from her neck, loving the hickey that had formed there.

"jj... please. i need you." she said, tears staining her cheeks.

he kissed them away. "i need you too, mama." he breathed. they looked into each other's eyes. "ive never needed anyone so bad. all those other girls... they were to distract me from you because i never thought this would happen."

"john b made it a rule to not mack on you." he continued.

she smiled, but it was quickly replaced by a sob at the mention of her brother.

"let me take care of you.. i can't stand to see you hurtin like this."

"please" she whimpered.

and so, she let her legs fall to each side of jj's torso, and he began shimmying down her shorts...

taglist:

@4jjsbank @mkcolon1 @agnxstic @groovypeanutoperatorzonk @starsval @sollamimi @obxcc @onelonelybitch @tv-girllover07

[sierrale8ne]

AMERICAN WEDDING 001. THE WIN you’ll probably leave later anyways, that’s love made in the usa. pairing paige bueckers x black!oc ( kayden kennedy ) warnings 3.7k words, flashback, brief mentions of homophobia lena talks chapter one finally here! enjoy, more coming soon xx

present day april 2025

When Kayden Kennedy was nine, she sat on her fathers lap on a plane ride to Kolkata. She looked over the water, wondering to herself why there was so much ocean. A year later, it was Baghdad, then Istanbul. She couldn’t remember a solid second where she wasn’t moving— where she wasn’t running off and following her father on the journey of his career.

It’s where she grew her love for history.

The large statues, the Seven Wonders of The World, the history. Many would see these places and be star-struck, amazed by the beauty in front of them. But Kayden was different, she was delighted by the how. How did these people get here, how were they brought up, how did they believe that this— this pyramid or this ancient pot— was a symbol of their culture. As she grew older it developed into why they were colonized. And then as she really learned the meaning of the word war, why did these people fight back. Or even, why did they give up.

The rich history of the world interested her always. Like this morning. 

She had woken up at six. The gym waited for her at seven-thirty, where she very attentively listened to an NPR podcast about the tragedies in Gaza. When she got home—nine-thirty on the dot— she changed, showered, ate her breakfast of toast and avocado and sausage while reading The Women by Kristen Hannah. 

By 11 she was cleaning the kitchen and at one she was seated on her couch, laptop open as she began to grade the last of her student’s fourth quarter projects: The Mexican-American War.

Kayden would like to think it wasn’t on purpose, how her job seemingly found its way into every aspect of her life when she wasn’t even trying. But then again, she sought out the knowledge. She wanted to grow her brain, fill it with as much information as she could until she was like a human encyclopedia. Which in all honesty she was, thanks to her eidetic memory.

But something about knowing everything and yet still knowing nothing at all excited her, as nerdy as it seemed. It allowed her to imagine another universe where things changed, where lives could be different.

Like how maybe, in another life, she’s watching her ex girlfriend play in person, and not on the comfort of her couch.

In a strange turn of events, the once persistent and completely attentive Kayden was distracted by something greater. Something heavier that weighed on her moral scale. Something she couldn’t quite name, but could feel on her chest. Almost like a boulder.

Kayden pushed buttons, almost like a second nature. 

Guide. Channels. ABC. 2025 NCAA Women’s tournament championship game.

Kayden had watched here and there. The burn of the bold UCONN letters ate her alive from time to time. She should’ve been there. In the stands cheering or in the library helping Paige study. That was the plan. Their plan. 

There were times when she let her mind wonder. To how Paige was doing, or if she’d thought about her as much as Kayden tended to think about her. When Paige got injured sophomore year, Kayden had hurt a bit. And when she tore her ACL she wanted to wrap Paige in her arms like when they were young and just tell her that it would be okay. 

She’d never say it out loud, though.

Kayden watched the whole game. Not missing a second. She felt like a high school student again, forced between a sweaty guy who didn’t care and a sweatier one who cared way too much. 

She saved face. Never faltering with a smile or a loud cheer. More for herself than anyone else (as she was alone in her apartment).

A Google Slides presentation is open on the coffee table in front of her, red pen balanced on top, forgotten. Because this, this is way more important. Even if she promised for these grades to be finalized by the start of class tomorrow. Paige, who’s having just a bit of an off shooting game, is playing in a game that could define the rest of her career and that just just occupies a larger place in her brain than James Polk and Ulysses S. Grant. 

So Kayden curled up on the couch in an oversized hoodie, her glasses slipping a little down her nose. A bottle of water sweats on the side table. And the game should make her sweat too but she couldn’t. Not even close.

By the start of the fourth quarter– the one of the game she’s been pretending not to watch, but has been glued to for the last hour– the Huskies are leading by 22. Paige’s teammates are killing it. A Sarah Strong layup here, an Azzi Fudd three there (which she does cheer for because she remembers talking to the girl about this dream in hotel room in 2018).

And then she hears the broadcast loud and clear. “Bueckers back door… puts it in! Plus the foul! It’s raining blue in Tampa.” Kayden’s eyes snap to the screen. Her breath catches.

Not because of her name, or even the fact that she just contorted her body and got the bucket. 

But the weight of this, the impending win. The fact that the woman she’d once married, is about to have her dreams come true all these years later, just makes Kayden’s heart swell a bit more. Beat a bit faster. 

The screen flashes in slow motion: celebrating fans, screaming teammates, Paige on the floor with a grin that hasn’t changed in five years. Kayden doesn’t smile. She exhales like she’s been holding that breath since the day she walked out.

flashback july 2019

My hands fumble with my phone, simultaneously trying to slip my feet into the confines of my black Doc Martens. My socks stick out loosely, white, frills on the edges. Just enough innocence to really make the moment. 

pb 🪼 I’m down the street Hurry before your mom starts asking questions

At that, I scramble. Pen, check. Change of clothes, check. Proper lie shoved into my back pocket, double check. I brush over my skirt, tugging down the hem of my tight white shirt in an attempt to cover the tiny stick and poke tattoo that came from drunk dares and an adventurous summer evening with Paige and Jalen.

k 🔐 coming!

I shove open my bedroom door, shoes heavy against the hardwood floor. The summer sun spills in against the grain, soft breeze blowing through the curtains. It’s beautiful, which only makes me speed up to get outside to an impossibly more beautiful girl. The kitchen smells like burnt coffee and lemon-scented cleaner, which makes me all the more excited to get out into the real world outside of this house.

“Where you headed?” 

My mom Marianne’s voice cuts in through the hum of the kitchen. She sits on the couch, legs outstretched with reading glasses perched on her nose and a book resting in her lap. She doesn’t look up, her voice doesn’t even have its usual lilt to it. And I know I’m in the clear.

“The Lake. Then Lauren’s house.” I lie, only partially though, because going to Paige’s cousin’s house after was part of our well thought out plan.

She hums, eyes glued to the book. “You sure that’s a good idea? I heard it was supposed to rain.” That’s code for Marianne Kennedy doesn’t want her daughter to go out at all. She’d rather I stay home where she can monitor me.

My voice trembles in the way that it does when I know I’m about to lie to her. “It’s fine. Paige is picking me up. She thinks we can beat it.” I shrug like it’s no big deal.

“Boys gonna be there?” She asks.

Her voice is filled with something else, and I know exactly what she means. She’s really asking if I'm hanging out with the only girl my age that the entire neighborhood knows is gay, or can she feel comfortable knowing that I’ll talk to a boy here and there. But she’d never say that outright, no, because my mother has an image to uphold. So she’ll ask it like that, and then throw a diss in a few seconds. 

You know, the usual lowkey homophobia.

“Yeah. Jalen and Chet are going, and some other guys in my homeroom too.” I continue. It’s the half truth. There might be boys somewhere, though I’m hoping to get married and dip before they get there. I’m not that interested in sticking around long enough to find out. My eyes dart out the window, seeing the blonde’s beat up red Cadillac sit parked against the sidewalk. 

Mom hums again, thoughtfully this time. Like she herself is thinking about whether or not she believes me or not. “Not that I’m worried about boys, with Paige around.” There it is, that diss I could feel coming like a spidey-sense of mine. I was a superhero, fighting off homophobia one mom at a time. “That girl’s always been… a little wild, no?”

Her words make me flinch and I get defensive fast. Like mom is a girl at school throwing darts and looking to hurt the one person who seems to understand me better than I try to understand myself.

“She’s just not fake.” I say.

I watch my mom put the book face down in her lap, interlocking her fingers to look at me. She’s so blinded by hate that she can’t even notice my choice of attire is ill-fitting for the lake. “There’s a difference between being real and being lost, Kayden.” 

“Ma, I—”

“You’re not like her. I raised you better than that.” She raises an eyebrow. Using that damn code language of hers to say check yourself.

My stomach knots. I shift my bag higher onto my shoulder, needing to move, needing to get out of here before I let her words break me and I crack. Paige is outside with a wedding license in hand and I’m here listening to my mother call her all the underlying homophobic names in the book.

I get quiet. “We’re just friends. I have to go.”

“Good.” Mom nods, flipping the book back around. “You’re a good girl. Don’t let anyone confuse you about that.” She says and I dart for the door handle. I grab my house keys from the hook, bidding her a goodbye like she didn’t just stab me and twist the knife.

The car ride was silent—talking wise. Lil Baby blasts from the speaker and the wind rushes in and out of the car so fast I feel like I’m free flying through the air.

Paige sat next to me, her hand occasionally brushing against my knee as if she wanted to see if I was still there. If I was still in it. I was. Who was I kidding? It’s the girl of my dreams sitting next to me with the brightest light in her blue eyes and the biggest smile, probably bigger than the one she shot me after winning state this year. 

She’s calm, like this isn’t the craziest idea in the world. Which in turn makes me calm, makes me throw everything that happened with my mom an hour ago out the window.

But now, sunlight flashes across the tile and I stand awkwardly against the wall. A courtroom clerk in front of me. The room is smaller than I thought it would be. Which is crazy considering the biggest event of my young 17 year old life is taking place here. 

She notices, she always does. Her keys hang from the pocket of her shorts. The marriage license folded clean in half on the other hand. 

“You sure about this?” Paige asks, her back pressing against the wall, shoulder snug against mine. She’s warm with the kind of heat that feels like she could set me on fire. 

I huff. “We’ve already driven this far. Lied to our parents.” The series of events bats around in my head. Then I look over to her, as calm as could be. Honestly, I don’t remember the last time Paige let me see her be even just a bit nervous. She’s always walking around with that attitude and confidence that made it seem like the world was hers.

She stares straight ahead, branding the courtroom into her brain. “Baby, I don’t wanna… force you into anything. If you wanna go home, tell me. We can get ice cream on the way back or something.” Paige rations trying to help me make sense of it all. It makes me laugh when I think about the cliche; I help her make sense of the real textbook stuff and she helps me when it comes to all the other impulsive things.

“Then we’d have to tell people we just talked about it. This is way more dramatic.” I joke, peering up at the 6’0 athlete with wide eyes and a grin. “I want to do this. Especially with you.” I admit. The clerk digs his eyes at the both of us. I can assume he’s thinking of how much he’s not getting paid enough to entertain two 17 year old girls with a marriage license.

I grab her hand, dragging us to the clerk. Adrenaline runs through my veins like a fire. Paige slides the sheet over the counter, and he looks over it all disinterested but prepared to let us go through with it anyway. 

“Sign here.” He orders, flipping the sheet over like it means nothing. 

I look up at my girlfriend, suddenly realizing that after this I get to call Paige Bueckers my wife. I’ll slide a cheap thrifted ring on her finger and then go to college with her in a year from now. It’s all going to happen the way we planned it. 

So I reach into my bag for the black pen I had brought from my stationary. My hand trembles slightly, everyday handwriting coming in a bit rough as the weight of it settles in my chest like something permanent. Then I hand it to Paige, who’s full of no nerves and a simple confidence to her. 

She takes it before looking down at me. “You sure you’re not gonna chicken out?” Paige had asked, half-grinning, half-terrified— but she’d never let me know that.

I squeezed her hand, grinning back. “I want to be yours.” I didn’t say forever — we didn’t talk about the future much. It was too scary. Too far away. Too… uncertain. Especially with a meddling mom and a girl who might love basketball more than her gir—wife.

The clerk speaks again in his low monotone. “By the authority vested in me by the state of Minnesota, I pronounce you wife and wife.” He stamps the sheet lazily, handing it over to Paige again and right then it hits me like a blow. I was really married.

To her.

And then she kisses me, slow and breathless, like she’s never done it before. She didn’t care about the eyes, and the feeling of her hands on my cheeks stopped me from caring either. My nose brushes against hers as Paige pulls back first, forehead pressed to mine.

“I—I have um. This.” I hold the ring box in my hand, square and suede. It’s a bit dirty from years of it belonging to someone else. But, I don’t care. The box cracks open under my pressure, the dull silver still gleaming in the light. “I figured rings make this, y’know. Official.” I stutter, sliding the ring onto Paige’s finger without hesitation.

“You’re really doing this with me?” Paige asks, her voice so small it almost broke my heart if she wasn’t so perfect.

I nodded. “Always.” 

“Good. Because I got you one too. It’s in the car.”

Later, after she put a pandora ring that she’d spent all her summer savings on, on my finger. We drove like nothing happened. Like we didn’t just make a lifelong commitment. Like my mom wasn’t at home praying that the reality of sin didn’t brush onto me from her. 

We split cash on Ice cream, her dad sent her some money for gas. Everything was perfect. Even the cicadas that screamed in our ears as Paige drove down the straight road. 

Lauren’s house came into view over the hills. The neighborhood was empty enough for us to pull in unnoticed. So Paige parks at the field a block behind the house, climbing into the trunk of the car and pushing the seats back to watch the stars come out. 

It’s where we sit now.

She manipulates her long legs so she fits perfectly. I fit into the curve of her body, my skirt occasionally brushing up in the late night breeze. Paige’s fingers trace lazy shapes over my shoulder.

The stars are bright tonight, twinkling like precious diamonds in rubble. I look over my shoulder at Paige, at how you can see the occasional gleam across her irises.

“Paige?” 

She blinks languidly, the deep brown of her lashes brush over the apples of her cheeks. Dusting them like a thousand little paint brushes. 

“Yeah, baby?” She responds. Voice as deep as a teenage girl could really have. It’s sultry, but full of that kind of love and energy I’ve been subjected to since we were younger.

“You think we’re gonna regret it?” I ask, half-asleep, voice thick with warmth.

Paige had smiled into my skin. “Maybe. Probably. Who cares? At least I’m doin’ it with you, right?” She hums. 

And then, as if nothing else in the world exists, she kisses me again. Softer. Quicker. For the hundredth time today. I smile, against her lips, laughter spilling between us like a river flow. 

Young. Dumb. Untouchable. And for a while, it felt like the whole world really did belong to us and no one else.

present day april 2025

Kayden’s chest ached with the memory of the past and the imagination of a different one too.

Her laptop had been pushed off to the side alongside stacks of rubrics, messily marked and written on—she'd been prepared to be completely focused, but she wasn’t ready for how long it would really take.

Or how easily she would get distracted.

The channel had only been changed once from ABC to SportsCenter. She sat frozen on her couch, the championship celebration playing out in front of her. Without her.

Paige was in the middle of it all — standing on the black platform, hat on her head and shirt hugging her damp and sweaty arms. The confetti stuck to her hair and skin, glittering like stars against her blonde. She was beaming, electric, so full of life that Kayden felt her own chest hollow out just watching her.

Kayden should have looked away. Should have turned the TV off and finished grading papers like a normal person who didn’t still orbit around a girl she hadn’t touched in five years. Oh but no. She stayed.

She watched as Paige ducked into a hug with her coach as emotional as she’s ever seen her, doing the same with every assistant, every trainer, every teammate. Paige beelined straight for the sidelines, arms open for the family members swarming the court.

Kayden watched, and a stupid, heavy ache twisted low in her stomach.

She couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t explain why she still felt this way — tethered, glued to Paige’s happiness like it had anything to do with her anymore. Which it didn’t. Paige had outgrown the small-town dreams they’d once whispered to each other in the dark. She had built a life bigger and better than anything they ever dared to plan. By the looks of it, she also had someone else to celebrate it with. Azzi. By her side, and grinning the whole time as Paige celebrated a little too hard for national television.

Kayden should have been nothing more than a footnote. A “remember when” if she even crossed Paige’s mind at all.

But sitting there in the flickering blue light, watching Paige take the mic for the post-game interview, Kayden knew the truth she’d never managed to choke down: she really really missed her.

Not all the time, not like an open wound anymore — but here and there, in the quiet spaces. In the slow Sunday mornings and empty passenger seats and songs on the radio that pulled her back without warning. Kayden missed Paige a year ago when she was moving to Dallas, emptying her college apartment, and seeing the ring in the same box it was given to her five years ago. 

She missed her when she saw two girls holding hands without fear. When she heard laughter in the breeze that sounded like the kind they used to share.

But more than anything she missed Paige now. Worse than she had in a long time.

On screen, Paige was laughing through tears, her voice still a little hoarse from shouting and ungodly amounts of celebration, when the reporter asked what she’d tell her younger self. Kayden leaned in without thinking, like the answer mattered more than it should.

“I’d tell her to hold on,” Paige said, smiling. “And trust that even the stupid stuff or the little things might matter more than she thinks.” The words that were simple, obvious even, landed like a punch straight to Kayden’s ribs.

She shut the TV off mid-response, plunging the room into thick, echoing silence.

Kayden stayed there for a long time, staring into the blank screen, the ghost of Paige’s smile burned into her mind.

Still married, a small voice inside her said.

Still hers, if she wanted to be.

Kayden buried her face in her hands, realizing that no matter what; that wasn’t her life anymore. It couldn’t be. And it was no one’s fault but her own. Maybe if she wasn’t so listening, so scared, so uniquely Kayden Kennedy. 

And yet, somewhere deep inside he — in the parts she’d spent five years trying to bury— she wondered if Paige had ever missed her too.

🔖 @thaatdigitaldiary @bueckersbitch @pboogerswbb @xxloveralways14 @ykylalex @ohmybueckers @avvwritesstufff @flipthepaige @cherryswisherz @lupinqs @vamptizm @bueckers555 @omg-imtumbling @courtsidewithlani @mariahthealchemist @authentic-girl03 @kissamiyahh @rebecca-woso @angryflowerwitch @rhianthebest @paigebaby5 @rishofkf @xoxosierralane @urantisocialgay @issilovesherself @your-local-bi-panic @nicebellee @elalfywhore @cowboybueckers

[snapewife-divorce-lawyer]

counting down the top 10 sexiest droids in star wars.

i’m 100% serious btw. this is based solely on my memory so if i forgot your fav, feel free to comment

#10

this guys from a new hope! now i must somewhat shamefully admit that this is based entirely on looks. but i mean come on look at it. instantly clocked it as a freek

#9

these annoying fuckers from clone wars. this goofy ass attempt to make battledroids more intimidating did at least produce a droid i wouldn’t mind coming home to every night. these guys are huge brats too. excited to see how that plays out in more intimate settings

#8

it’s just something about it. i can’t put my finger on. its so resolute and sinister, and yet it is not unlike a a wild rabbit. its delicate hands and big eyes make me want to care for it. i want this thing to call me mommy.

#7

the ferryman from the mandalorian. he is so dutiful. a powerful aura. he looks like he could hold me tight in those big strong arms

#6

i could fix him

#5

look we all knew this was coming. his powerful sexual presence it’s simply undeniable. the baddest bitch in star wars just barely beating lando. i’ve chosen the sexiest picture of him that i could find. enjoy.

#4

battle droids but specifically the ones with paint on them. i think these would have the closest analogue to human intimacy of any on this list. and even then, kissing them is an exciting geometric chalenge

#3

sexiest picture in this post by far. oh my god these look inside books. should i be tagging this as nsfw? this diabolical baddie even deploys one of my favorite droids ever. making her the only droid milf that i can think of.

#2

gonk droids. but specifically gonky from the bad batch. i think this one is probably the most indescribable. i can say little details like how he kinda reminds me of 80s computers and i love 80s computers, or how the simplest shape can sometimes be the best, or how cute it is when he kicks his feet in the air while he is being used for weightlifting, but none of it really adds up to how i feel

and the number one sexiest droid in star wars (and it’s not even close) is:

chopper. obviously.

dilf dot com. this guy has such an attractive personality. beyond words how wonderful his design is. one of my favorite star wars characters and one of the best droid designs

[lakemojave]

Friday, July 19th @ 5pm Pacific: FALLOUT 76 FOR THE PCRF!!!

My channel is running another charity stream! Back in January we raised more than $2,000 for the Palestine Children's Relief Fund, and we're hoping to do something like that again! Instead of the horror and pain that was Resident Evil 6, we're going into the forsaken spinoff of a different beloved franchise: Fallout 76! @radiofreederry and I are gonna put some rubber boots and gas masks on and wade into live service sandbox hell to support this cause and send some aid to those who need it! See y'all then!

Donate here!!!

OUR GOALS:

Every $50 Dot and I will do character voices of our choice for 5 minutes!

$100: Jordan has promised to recite Fallout Flow. It's like Dracula Flow. But for Fallout

$200: I "personal pan" Dot (I send her a personal pan pizza at a time of my choosing)

$300: Dot and I promise to play the extremely mid and tech intensive Halo 5: Guardians for our playthrough series

$400, $800, and $1200: I take a break to do a tier list of my choosing! (Including the one I promised to do from the last charity stream y'all did!)

$500: Dot "personal pans" me (as explained above)

$600: I will suck it up and do that ABO video essay I promised

$1000: I will commit to running a live tabletop campaign on my channel! If you like our BG3 roleplay series or the Star Wars tabletop series, you're gonna wanna see me attempt to GM a game for real this time!

$1,250: This October I will produce a complete history video about the Amnesia series!

$1,500: I jump into the lake.

[stvolanis]

i loveeeeee ur writing ah!!!!! just read ur most recent farleigh one and i was foaming at the mouth <3 idk if ur reqs are open but i cant stop thinking about being in a situationship with farleigh and finally getting sick of it, u break up with him and hes like ‘?? whatever’ thinking that u will come back but when u dont after a few days/weeks he starts lowkey panicking and basically begging u to take him back… just need him crying begging and being pathetic <3 rlly making him beg for it and purposely making him jealous with other guys just to make him suffer :p then when u finally decide to forgive him he fucks u crazy good and RAW 💕

Thank you so much! Also, sorry if this isn’t like EXACTLY what you wanted D:

Love & War

PAIRINGS: Farleigh Start! X Fem! Reader

WARNINGS: foul language, situationship, toxic! Farleigh, mentions of drugs & alcohol, angst, possessiveness, jealousy, crying

NSFW WARNINGS: Switch! Farleigh, Switch! Reader, choking, spitting, tummy bulge, face sitting, breath play, slight size kink, slapping, degradation, praise, dumbification

˚ ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ˚

Farleigh Start was a cunning, asshole of a man. You’d know, because you’ve been in love with him since you’re late highschool days.

Well—you didn’t know him personally till you both started attending Oxford. You admired him from a distance, as did many other people. You were never popular enough to bask in his limelight. You only ever dreamed of being with someone as amazing as him.

You thought Farleigh had no idea who you were, and truth be told, he didn’t. But he knew of you. He seen you everywhere, always somehow where he was. You were pretty, probably the most prettiest girl he’d ever seen; you were just so quiet. He knew that the people he hung around would eat you alive. You wouldn’t survive in his world.

So, he never dragged you into it. He watched you from afar for years, both of you unknowingly having feelings for each other. Deep down inside, Farleigh knew his friends weren’t the only reason he couldn’t be with you. He, himself had many issues of his own. One of the worst ones being his fear of rejection, and the second runner up; his pride. Always held so high, never coming down for anyone. It would get him hurt one day, but he’d have to realize that on his own.

When you began attending Oxford, you became friends with Oliver, who had become friends with Felix. He was your ticket into the “in crowd”, as you liked to call it.

You attended parties, stuck around for drinks and quickly grew popularity of your own. This didn’t go unnoticed by Farleigh, who you finally, after years of silence, began to talk to.

It was everything you imagined. He was nice, funny, a bit of a bitch in just the right way. Even when you were in a group of people, your eyes somehow always found his. The two of you would sneak away together, talk about nothing aimlessly for hours on end. Counting stars as you rambled about your favorite constellation.

At night, you’d meet at the bridge, sit on the edge in complete silence just to be in each others presence. Your hands would meet, and electricity sparked through your body. He made you feel like you were walking on clouds, and there was never a dim day when you were with him.

He was charismatic, confident, charming—everything you wanted to be. You were complete opposites of each other, but in just the right way to balance each other out. He noted every little thing about you, so much so that he began to do some of the things you did.

He’d use the dorky slang you used subconsciously when talking to other people, or start playing with the pretty rings on his finger like you told him you did when you got nervous. He listened to the music you recommend him, and connected the dots as to why you liked those songs. It all made sense, they explained you perfectly.

Everything was going great, till it wasn’t.

You didn’t know how it happened, or why, or maybe even what you could’ve done that changed him—but suddenly, he started acting different around you. The time you spent together was shortening and as were his touched and glances.

And the worst part about it? You weren’t in a relationship. You never where, but everyone just kinda knew that you were Farleighs’, and Farleigh was yours. No one ever questioned it, not even you, till now.

As you sat across Farleigh at the pub, playing with the flimsy black straw in your cocktail. You were so tired of him and his hot and cold actions and words. First moment he wanted you, and the next, he acts like he doesn’t even know you. It hurts, and you were sick of it.

Farleigh was talking to Felix about their home in Saltburn and stupid stories of how they used to throw these ‘amazingly grand’ parties during the summer and breaks they had. You huffed, standing up before harshly pushing in your chair. Why did you have to sit here and deal with this fuckary if you didn’t have to? You deserved better than the half-assed shit he was barely even offering.

As you walked away from the table full of people, a certain pair of eyes followed you, but you’d rather have died than look back. You heard footsteps follow hastily behind you as you exited the pub, the cold air welcoming you as you shivered.

“What’s your problem?” He shouted from behind you. You laughed dryly, spinning around to face him on your heel. “Oh you must be fucking kidding.” You laughed out. “My problem? No, what the fuck is your problem?” You yelled back at him.

“You’re the one who stormed off like a damn toddler! So enlighten me.” He fired back at you with furrowed brows. You felt your eyes water. God, you didn’t want to cry in front of him, but it hurt so badly. “Farleigh…why are you being like this?” You muttered.

He groaned as he ran a hand down is face. “Jesus, what are you on about?” He yelled out. “You keep leading me on!! I don’t understand it. You want me one second and the next you don’t!” You yelled back, pausing for a moment.

“You act like you love me and leave me the next second and it hurts, Farleigh. You hurt me!” You sobbed out, wiping your tears from your cheeks with your sleeve. He was taken aback for a moment, his mouth opening and closing. Almost as it he was at a loss for words. “That’s not—no, I didn’t—“ he started, but you cut him off as he reached to grab you.

“No. We’re done. Whatever we had is done. It’s over.” You said as you back away from him. Something inside of him snapped, and you could see it in the way his jaw clenched and eyes hardened. “Fine. Go on then. See if I give a fuck.” He chuckled out, shrugging his shoulders.

You couldn’t believe him. You couldn’t believe the words that were coming out his mouth. After everything you’ve said and done together, he has the audacity to act like he’s the superior one in this situation? It was the icing on the cake for you.

Tears ran down your face, and as they hit the ground, Farleigh felt his heart clench. Never did he wanna hurt you, but it’s what he had to do, or so he thought. He was gonna have to leave to go back to Saltburn with Felix in a month, and he couldn’t bring himself to take you.

Yes, he had fun times at Saltburn—but his family was crazy, rich, narcissistic assholes and he didn’t want you around them. More over, he didn’t want someone like Venetia to corrupt you in that way. He didn’t want you to become like her.

He knew he was being a dick, distancing himself from you. And he planned to keep it that way, but god, you made it nearly impossible to stay away. You were so inviting, how could he not succumb to his urges when it comes to you? He knew better, but he felt on top of the world when he was with you and he didn’t wanna let that go.

Watching you walk away from him right now made tears form in his own eyes, but all he could do is watch as you slipped further and further away from him. And he knew it was all his fault. All because he couldn’t communicate to you what the problem with himself was. He felt like such a coward, but he refused to hurt you more than he already had.

It had only been two weeks since you and Farleigh fell off. It was hard for you, and it was the hardest thing you’d ever done, but it was needed. You knew that.

When you stopped talking to him, you continued being friends with Felix and Oliver, but it was a nuisance. You were trying your hardest to forget about the tall, curly haired man and move on with your life, but they nearly made it impossible.

When you would all hang out, other friends included, Farleigh would show up and say act as if nothing had ever happened between the two of you. Felix and Oliver weren’t dumb, Farleigh was the one who came crying to them about what had happened. They seen right through Farleighs facade, acting as if he’s okay.

They were doing this kind of stuff on purpose, casually. Asking you about Farleigh, or bringing him up in conversation. They wanted you to give Farleigh another shot, but you gave him one too many chances to redeem himself, and you weren’t having it.

Felix invited you to one of his little frat parties, and I say little very lightly, because everyone knows the entire campus attends his parties.

You had no interest, but Oliver had insisted on you coming. Making it his mission to drag you out of the comfort of your bed. “You need this.” He insisted as he dug through your clothes. He pulled out an ed-hardy, strapless dress and some red platformed boots. “Oh this is fuckin’ perfect, love.” He smiled as he held it up to you.

“I dunno, Ollie. I don’t think I should go..” you muttered as you sat down on the edge of your bed, bringing your knees to your chest. Oliver sighed. “Cmon, just let loose tonight. You’ve been moping around for like ever!” He huffed out, yet a smile returning to his face as he held up some jewelry. “These’ll go good with it.” He urged.

You groaned and got up, snatching the clothes and jewelry out of his hands. “Out.” You grumbled. Oliver clapped his hands excitedly as he stepped out so you could get dressed.

The ed-hardy dress he chose for you hugged your curves in all the right places, your tits pushed together with the small padding built into the dress. You let Oliver back in and his jaw dropped. “You look fucking edible! Maybe you’ll get laid tonight.” He said, bumping your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes, yet a smile danced on your lips. Oliver always knew how to make the best out of a bad situation, and you loved him for that. “Let’s go before I change my mind.” You laughed, he nodded his head.

When you arrived to the party, the lights were flashing different colors. Red, blue, green, etc. it reflected off of Felixs’ shirt as he approached you, Farleigh following next to him. You clicked your tongue and looked around for an exit.

A boy caught your eye. You’d seen him around the campus, he was friends with Felix a while ago but Farleigh didn’t like him, which ended with Felix ending their friendship. Nathan, was his name, you thought as you approached him.

His eyes trailed up and down your body, stopping at your breasts that were spilling out of the thin top part of your dress. “Hey.” You purred, batting your lashes up at him. He smiled. He was handsome, you had to admit—but no where near as handsome as Farleigh.

You shook your head from the thought, directing your attention back to the mediocre boy in front of you. “Hey, baby.” He whistled out. You giggled, obviously fake, but he couldn’t tell; most likely strung out on cocaine and alcohol.

His hands snaked around your waist and he pulled you to him. He was disgustingly sweaty and reeked of cheap cologne, almost as if he poured the whole bottle on himself. Sickeningly too strong, making you gag. You forced yourself to ignore it, instead focusing on the way his hands cupped your ass in your dress.

You turned around, your back pressed to his front, only to be met with Farleighs eyes from across the body-filled room. He was staring at you, then down to the hands around your waist, and his jaw clenched. Anger, betrayal and hurt was all Farleigh felt as he watched some stranger feel you up.

But he couldn’t do anything about it. He brought this upon himself, and he knew that. But he also knew he’d do anything for your forgiveness, so he marched his way over to where you stood. You knew you should have ran away, but you didn’t.

You let him rip you away from the stranger holding you. You let him drag you all the way back to your dorm silently, a painfully tight grip on your upper arm the whole way there. You knew this was wrong, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care anymore.

Once you reached your dorm, he slammed you against the door that was now shut. “What the fuck was that, hm?” He muttered. But something was different. His voice, still hard, wavered and you noticed tears in his eyes threatening to spill over. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You muttered.

All the sudden, he broke down. The tall boy, usually filled with confidence and pride fell to his knees before you with a small, barely noticeable sob. You stood there, unknowing of what to do, or what to say. This was new territory for you.

“M’sorry, baby. Please—“ he said through his tears. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. Know I was I piece of shit, I’m sorry.” He repeated the words you longed to hear over and over again. “I’m sorry.” He said. Those two words weren’t ever said enough from him, and you basked in every moment he said it. It made you feel a sense of power over him.

You turned his arrogant, cocky ass into a whiney little boy begging for your forgiveness at your feet and, nasty enough, you fucking loved it. You loved that only you were able to bring him to his knees like this.

“Oh, You’re sorry? Hm?” You cooed down at him, running your fingers through his curly hair. He sniffled as he looked up at you, his pretty lashes wet with tears. “So fuckin’ sorry. Promise I’ll be better.” He muttered out, hugging your stomach.

“Prove it.” You told him. He rubbed his eyes with one of his hands as he looked up at you again. “What?” He muttered. You smiled. “Get on the bed.” was all you said.

He nodded before climbing onto the bed, laying on his back. “What—“ he started, but you didn’t let him finish. “Eat my pussy good, make me cum with your mouth and then I’ll forgive you.” You said. He sat up on his elbows and watched you undress through hooded eyes, till you were wearing absolutely nothing.

Your nipples grew hard under the cold air, and the wetness between your thighs he could see from where he lied on your bed; it glistened in the dim light of your bedroom. Your lips were glossy and plump as your tongue glided over them, and he felt his cock harden in his pants.

You climbed on top of him, hovering your pussy over his face. His mouth watered at the sight, and he gripped his cock through his pants. Your lowered yourself onto him till your full weight rested on his face.

He began lapping at your cunt with everything he had. Licking and slurping at your juices that ran down his chin. You tasted like heaven on his tongue, and he couldn’t get enough. You were the drug in him, and he was going fucking wild.

He was a starved man, and it had been too long since he had you like this. He whined when you lifted off of his face, pushing his head back down when he tries to extend his neck to connect his mouth to your pussy again desperately.

You click your tongue. “So desperate, hm?” You mocked with a laugh. Farleigh played nice long enough, you were holding up his meal, and he didn’t like it. “M’not fuckin done.” He growled out. You let out a gasp as his arms wrapped around your thighs, slamming you back down onto his mouth.

You moaned out as his tongue swirled around your bundle of nerves. “Farleigh!” You yelped. He groaned into your messy cunt, sending vibrations through it that had your head falling back. “Perfect little cunt.” He said, Voice muffled by your pussy.

His laps at your cunt more erratic as your moans became more high pitched, signaling that you were on the verge of your orgasm. Your hips moved against his face, your hands entangling themselves in his hair as you glided your cunt across his tongue.

“M’gonna cum, oh my god—“ you moaned out as you squeezed your breast. Farleigh moaned. “Cum on my fuckin’ tongue. Good girl” He grumbled against you as you felt a wave of pleasure roll off of you. The little pinch in your stomach finally releasing into that delicious orgasm you were so desperately chasing.

Farleigh was drowning in your juices, slurping and licking, taking everything you had to offer. He let you ride out your orgasm, your little clit bumping his nose in just the right way, your moans growing lower as you came down from your high breathlessly.

“M not done with you. Actin like a fuckin slut, letting that motherfucker touch you.” He said through clenched teeth as flipped you around onto your back, hoisting your legs over his shoulders.

He lined his cock to your entrance, clenching around nothing. He smeared his pre-cum around your folds before slowly, almost teasingly, sinking into you. You felt him fill you so full of him, almost painfully. The sting was so agonizingly good, and you wanted more.

When he bottomed out in you, his bottom lip was between his teeth, biting down so hard he nearly drew blood. You yelped when he lifted his hips before harshly slamming himself back into you, over and over again.

His pace began to pick up, his balls slapping against the flesh of your ass loudly. You gripped around him firmly, so much so that he could barely pull out of you. It made him wince, but he wanted this more than anything. He’s been craving this since you left him; he jacked himself off at night to the thought of being in your warmth.

His hand found it’s way to your throat, gripping tightly. “Take this cock, baby. Know this slutty pussy can take it.” He muttered as pried your mouth open with his thumb. He spit into your mouth, lightly slapping the side of your face, signaling for you to swallow, to which you did.

You felt so small beneath him as he pounded relentlessly into you, the grip on your throat never wavering. His groans were like music to your ear, and the sudden flip in him turned you on to no extent. It was fucking perfect how he could be so needy in two different ways. First, begging for anything you’ll give him, and the next, taking what he wanted from you desperately.

“You with me, honey?” He moaned out against your ear. You mumbled incoherently, your words slurring together. You couldn’t focus enough to form a sentence with the way he was fucking you, your mind going blank. “Fucked you dumb. My stupid little whore.” He mocked as his hips stuttered against yours.

You knew he was close by the way he throbbed and swelled inside you, squeezing down onto him more as he hit that bundle of nerves inside of you with each thrust. Your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you gripped onto Farleighs wrist that held your neck, heels digging into his back.

His breathing was uneven and both of your bodies were sweaty messes together, but what really had you in a chokehold was the way that even when he was dominating you, his whimpers never stopped. Still so needy for your cunt as you let him take what he needed from you helplessly.

He came deep inside of you, painting your gummy walls white with his seed. His hips stilled against you, making sure to stuff you full of his cum, not wanting any of it to go to waste. When he finally released your neck, you looked down to where you were connected but your eyes froze on the sight before you.

His tamed mound of hair above his cock was soaked with your juices, but what really got you, was the evident bulge showing through your stomach. He grabbed your hand, holding it onto your stomach where the bulge of his cock was. “Feel that? Remember, only I can fuck you this good.” He spat out as he pressed down, and you released a moan at the sensation.

His free hand traveled down to your clit, rubbing harshly and fast. “Gonna cum, please, can I cum?” You whimpered out as you clenched the sheets beneath you. Farleigh nodded feverishly. “Cum for me, be a good girl.” He muttered as he slowly fucked his cock into you at just the right pace.

The way he dragged along your walls, paired with the stimulation on your swollen clit, deprived clit had you reaching for the moon as you came for a second time tonight. Your mouth hung agape, not a word slipping out as a breathless moan slid past your plump lips. You needed this. You’d been craving this, and you finally got it.

Farleigh nestled himself in you, leaning his head down till his forehead was pressed against yours. Your hair was matted to your forehead from sweat, as was Farleighs, but you didn’t care. It was the least of your concerns. All you wanted was him, and you finally had him again, and this time it actually felt right.

But the words he spoke was what sealed the deal for you.

“I love you, y/n. From the moment I seen you sitting alone at lunch when we we’re sophomores back in Highschool, I’ve loved you. I loved you when you were small, shy and quiet, barely knowing anyone; and I love you now when you’re the socialist butterfly I know. I love you when you laugh, when you smile, when you speak, and even when you cry.” He said, tears running down your face.

“I will always love you.” He finished, kissing the tears that fell onto your rosy cheeks.

˚ ꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ˚

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[munsonsreputation]

the tiger

steve harrington x fem!reader

word count: [5.4K]

warnings: warnings: semi proof-read, no use of y/n, established relationship, reader has *secret survival skills,* k!lling the guards who are attacking stevie + friends, fire, mentions of blood and death (don't worry it ends with fluff <3), (partly inspired by 'dot' in fargo s5)

Summary: Thrusted into the unknown of the Upside Down and otherworldly creatures that came with it, you finally had a reason to let the tiger out of its cage and to everyone’s surprise they never thought you had it in you to save their lives and the world.

“You have five fucking seconds to tell me where they’re coming from!”

Your voice clamored vociferously, standing above one of the obviously now dead guards that had been tracking your boyfriend and his friends around Star Court for god knows how long.

Had Steve not left the stupid walkie talkie on, you wouldn’t have heard the beseeching cries and shouts that had rung through the device while you were sitting at home having a day to yourself as you waited for him to clock out of work.

The second you heard the code red, your fight or flight activated, hopping onto the channel as you tried to get filled in on what was happening. Perhaps a robbery or even a lockdown, but what you didn’t expect was to hear your boyfriend tell you that there was a secret Russian Base under Star Court and the girl he babysat was now their prime target.

They were coming for the ones you loved and you’d be damned if they even laid a finger on any of them, let alone the love of your life.

You were a woman of many skills: you knew how to cook up a good roast dinner, could play a few songs on the piano if you tried hard enough, and you even knew how to hot wire a car in case of emergencies.

But you were also a woman with many tricks up her sleeves: guns hidden in the floorboards, a deadly mean quick hand, and most of all a tiger that had been kept in its cage for too long and now the perfect time to set her free.

Steve’s mouth was held agape, staring up at you shellshocked and confused, as did everyone else. The last thing they expect was for you to throw yourself into danger with them, and most of all to see you with a gun in your hands ready to go to war—a war where one enemy's life was already taken.

“W—what….baby, what, I, h-how?” He stammered weakly, pulling himself to sit against the wall, limbs still aching after all the torment he endured.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think it was the drugs still in his system, making him see things. But sure enough, this was real life, and you just killed a man right before his eyes.

“Y-you just killed him.” He swallowed thickly, watching the floor pool with blood, which got progressively bigger, prompting everyone to scoot away.

You wrung your neck, lowering the gun to your side, nudging the corpse with your foot just to be sure he was really gone.

“He tried to kill you all first.” You defended, shaking your head at the scene, still in disbelief that this was the circumstances.

Time wasn’t on your side and clearly neither was the slim hallway they were hiding in. Despite everyone’s consternation, you knew it wasn’t the right time to explain any of this on your behalf. Every second counted, and you needed to get moving before the enemies zeroed in.

You stepped over to Steve, stooping down to his level, your eyes locked with his softly. Sympathy leaking from them knowing he went through hell, but your voice was a grim contrast that was needed for the moment.

“Look, you need to tell me where they’re coming from so I can help. I can’t get us to safety if I don’t know where they’re coming from. Tell me, Steve… now.”

You thumbed his chin mildly ordering him to focus on you and not the dead body on the ground.

His jaw trembling in your touch, eyes moving from side to side checking the halls.

“T—the back exits. We tried to get out but then we had to backtrack because that guy found us.” He gulped, hurtling his eyes to the body.

You took a deep breath, dragging his face back to you to begin surveying his injuries. His lip was busted open, dried blood coating the skin around his mouth and making a trail all the way down to his neck. The skin around his eye was swollen, a pale yellow settling against his tan skin that would surely turn all sorts of blue and purples.

“They did a number on you, huh?” You whispered, glancing down at his knuckles where fresh blood clung to the skin. He obviously put up a good fight before you arrived.

“But he finally won a fight! He knocked one of the guards out!” Dustin expressed, somehow still a little jubilant despite the mere fact that their lives were on the line.

You huffed out a weak laugh, dropping your hand from his face and turning to survey everyone else. Robin looked to sustain the same injuries as Steve yet a little less severe. Unlike Steve, she was still high on whatever drugs they had given her. You could tell by her dilated pupils alone.

For the most part, all the kids seemed to be in good shape physically. They showed no signs of injury, just sweat dripping down their foreheads and chests that were breathing heavily still disturbed up by the chaos.

But it was El whose pant leg was saturated with blood that instantly had you concerned. She sat with her back against the wall, weakly resting her head on Max’s shoulder while Mike clasped her hand. She looked about ready to drop, weak and drained of all her might.

“What happened to your leg?” You jutted your chin out, inching over to her and silently asking for permission, which she granted, and you swiftly tugged on the cuff of her jeans.

Lucas scratched his neck, face twisting when you exposed the gory laceration.

“A Demogorgon kinda attached itself to her and when we tried to get it off, it took some skin with it.”

“A demo what?” You asked bewildered, looking around at everyone for some sort of explanation that they clearly couldn’t give you right now.

“It’s basically the big evil creature that’s out to get El.” Will clarified, saving you from the technicalities of it all.

“But there’s also Demodogs and the Mind Flayer, which is out to get us…or actually, specifically El, right now,” Dustin reminded, as if you would know what any of that meant.

“I have so many questions,” you mumbled, eyes closing, trying to fathom the absurdity before opening them wide and taking a deep breath.

“But right now, I need to dress this wound before she bleeds out.”

Everyone agreed, moving close to get a good look but enough to give El space to breathe. You looked around, wondering who would best to stay on lookout while you were busy. Steve was obviously still rattled, and you were positive Robin nor Jonathan would be good with a gun, so you decided on Nancy.

She surprisingly knew a lot about guns, a suspicious amount to make you think she knew exactly how to use one.

“Can you use this?” You looked over at her, holding the weapon up as she nodded with confidence, holding her hand out for it.

“Watch both ways and if you see anyone, shoot until you’re sure they are dead.” You advised, handing it off to her before you crawled towards the dead guard.

They kept their eyes on you, observing you work the belt through the pant loops and take the pen from his shirt pocket, scurrying back to El. Contorting the belt into a loop around her leg, you fastened it tightly, apologizing under your breath when she whimpered, trying to keep her cries muted.

You tucked the excess leather around, taking a deep breath when you looked up at her after wedging the pen between the material and her skin. This part was always the worst, but it was for the greater good of her health.

“It’s gonna hurt, but I need to do this to make sure you don’t bleed out anymore than you already did, alright?”

She nodded, readying herself against the wall, closing her eyes tightly, reaching for Max’s hand and gripping it tightly You gave her a quiet countdown before beginning to twist. They all hushed her cries all while you didn’t stop until it was sheath-like, knowing it was the only way for the blood to clot and temporarily seal the wound.

“All done.” You patted her calf, dusting your hands and standing up.

With how much time you all had already wasted, it was only a matter of time before the rest of the guards found you in the only place they hadn’t searched. You had to think quick, walking over to the corpse and working the sling of the gun off his torso and draping it over yourself before you searched the rest of his pockets.

“Jonathan, here.” You shook a taser in the air, tossing it to him.

“Robin, this is for you.” A mace spray was put into her hands and the long distance aspect was going to be great.

“And baby, this is all yours.” You reached into your own back pocket where another gun was hidden, holding it out for him as he took it, inspecting the weapon and looking up at you surprised.

“Where did you even get this?” He gawked perplexed, somehow searching for answers instead of focusing on making it out alive to ask said questions when your lives weren’t on the line.

“It’s a long story, but I’ll catch you up when we make it out here, yeah?”

“What about us?” Dustin declared, arms held out wide wanting to get a super duper cool weapon like everyone else.

You reached around your waist, slipping off the walkie and tossing it at him. “Get on the emergency channel and give them our location and say there’s been a fire at Star Court and that we’re locked in.”

“A fire? Wouldn’t it be easier to just radio for Hop?” Max suggested, but you shook your head with a heavy sigh, giving everyone the unfortunate news that the easy way out wasn’t a possibility anymore.

“I called the station before I got here and Hop is nowhere to be found. The rest of the staff thought I was having a psychotic breakdown. I doubt they’re gonna believe Russians and some enormous creature are trying to take over Hawkins.”

Hope began to fade from their faces, but you knew you could get everyone out despite the odds—they just had to trust you.

“Look, I’m gonna lead and make sure it’s clear. When I say clear, I want you to run straight as fast as you can and when I say duck, you get down where you are and you do not move. Understood?”

They all nodded, beginning to move themselves off the ground, ready for your command. You led the pack, crouching low to hide behind walls peeking around the corner ensuring it was clear to which it was.

“Clear,” you whisper shouted, stepping out of the way and ushering all of them to keep moving, shuffling against the floors and doing their best to keep their movements fluid and quick.

“Duck,” you shouted a little louder, successfully making it to the main floor of the food court.

“I can hear them,” Erica muttered, eyes darting up, signaling that they were close by, and continuing to move would blow your cover.

“Give me something.” You mouthed, holding your palm out towards Lucas who speedily reached into his back pocked providing you with a slingshot and a small pebble.

“What are you doing?” Steve whispered.

“Causing a distraction and getting us back in the clear.” You murmured, attempting to get your aim just perfect.

Pulling the rubber band back, you held the rock securely, steering it towards the second floor, hoping it would reach far enough, only having one take. Before you could second guess yourself, you let it rip, watching the rock soar through the air, just barely making it over the railing and clanging against the metal, causing the shouts of the guards to echo in the empty mall.

With them distracted in the opposite direction, you gestured to everyone to stick close, needing to get as far away as possible.

“C’mon, follow me,” you whispered, crouching as you crawled toward the food court.

Steve followed closely behind you, gun cocked and ready to fire if there was a sudden attack, but his mind was clearly still trying to process everything in front of him.

“I can’t believe this is happening. Are you like a spy or something?” Steve hissed from behind you, causing you to turn your head over your shoulder, glaring at his outrageous question.

“No, I’m not a spy Steven.” You jeered, shaking your head before diverting your attention back in front of you to lead the pack.

“Then—then how do you know all about this stuff?” He argued still trying to keep his voice low despite the gnawing fear and uncertainty lingering in his mind.

You two had been together for quite sometime, and Steve figured he would have at least an inkling of knowledge that his girlfriend had the survival skills of a trained professional, let alone having the ability to kill someone cold blooded.

“I told you I was a girl scout when I was younger.” You retorted.

“Girl scouts sell cookies! They don’t know how to work guns or survive through a world takeover.” He remarked unbelievably.

Lucas who lurked too closely behind his beloved babysitter, nudged at his neck, eyes going wide as he spoke in defense of you.

“Are you really questioning her skills right now? She just killed that guard and saved our lives.” He argued, narrowing his eyes at Steve wondering how he could think this was the right moment to debate you.

Steve swallowed, shaking his head and catching up to you. “I’m sorry okay! I’m just confused and lost and—”

“Duck!” you shouted, pulling Steve's arm and throwing yourself onto the ground as gunfire started, screams and shouts ringing out as you covered your head and tried to shield yourself from any stray bullets.

“Oh, my god! We’re gonna die! We’re so gonna die!” Robin shouted, holding her hands over her ears, pinching her eyes shut tight, as if her last moments on Earth would take place any second.

“Robin shut up! You’re not helping!” Max scolded, clamping her hand over her mouth to keep her quiet as the gunshots slowly quieted and their voices faded.

“Stay here!” You demanded quietly, gesturing at all of them to stay low and close.

Listening in, the guards diverted towards the opposite direction, giving you all a moment to breathe and recoup for a few seconds.

Dustin looked over at El, quickly spitting out top secret information. “El can help, she has powers!”

At that point, you didn’t know what was real life and fantasy anymore. The lines were blurred and no matter how much you wanted to wake up and believe it was all just a surreal dream you knew their lives and yours were at stake for you to waste any time questioning the boy.

You sucked in a deep breath, eyeing the girl who sat weak and defeated, eyes communicating the want to help, but she physically couldn’t.

“She has a messed up leg. I doubt we want to put her in more danger by letting her use her… powers.” You reasoned with a sigh, passing her an understanding look. Everyone hopelessly agreed.

There was no time to waste and the best bet you had at escaping was eliminating as many of the enemies as you could. Tugging at the strap of the gun around your body, you quickly released the magazine, checking the bullets and debating your choices.

They watched you carefully, as if you were doing mental match before you clicked the magazine back into placed and nodded to yourself.

You glanced at everyone, beginning to brief them on the plan.

“In the meantime, call for help and everybody else stay here and do not move until I say clear. Got it?” You said, watched as Dustin picked up the walkie, whisper-shouting for help as everyone else nodded.

“W-What about me?” Steve gulped, eyes twinkling with a need to know how he could help—or it could’ve been the aftereffects of the drugs making him hallucinate.

You reached out, patting his cheek fondly despite the circumstances.

“Watch my back and don’t let me die.” You responded.

“Yeah, I can do that.” He nodded promptly, holding the gun into position, a little more confidently this time knowing he couldn’t let anything happen to you.

With no more time to spare, you scrambled off your feet, leaving them behind the protection of the counter whilst you stayed hidden behind a concrete pillar.

With the mess of debris on the floor, you stomped hard on a Coca-Cola can and kicked it away. The sound of aluminum screeching across the floors and grabbing the attention of the guards who you were trying to lure onto lower ground to be on your playing field.

Your friends winced at the sound, but they didn’t let out a peep, following your directions carefully. They listened intently, picking up a few voices from the top floor muttering as their footsteps pounded against with every step, trying to figure out where the sound had come from.

“Stay down.” You mouthed to them, giving them a final warning as you took a deep breath.

If you were correct, their blocking would be in a single file row, hoping to cover as much ground as they could and spread the gunfire as opposed to clumping up. You had to be stealthy and fast—and boy, were you good at that.

“Over here, assholes!”

Firing a single shot into the air, footsteps and shouts traveled down the broken escalators, bullets and gunfire echoed through the mall as you held your breath and braced yourself.

You kept the gun parallel to your shoulder, finger steady over the trigger as you ducked down and away from the pillar, moving left to right as you fired in quick sequences, watching as their bodies dropped in tandem with each bullet that pierced through them.

Steve couldn’t see any of the damage you had done with counter acting as an obstructed view, but he could see your every move. The curl of your lip and the squinting of your eyes as you moved across the floors smoothly, as if this wasn’t your first time.

If he didn’t know any better, he would think he was falling in love again.

“Holy shit!” Dustin exclaimed, immediately standing up when the gunfire came to a halt, forgetting that he was supposed to wait for your all clear.

“Bitch!” A gruff voice spat harshly, from the floor, a wounded guard who was inching towards his gun causing everyone else to scream panicked.

“Shit!” Lucas cursed, reaching for his friend’s arm to pull him down.

“Get down, you dumbass!” Max added, tugging harshly at his leg, until he fall on top of their bodies causing groans.

“Relax!” you shouted, firing off a single bullet—your last one, as you finally stood up straight.

“Now he’s dead.” You said, letting your chest fall with a relieved breath as you made your way over to the scene, nudging the guard with your foot once more just to be sure he was decimated.

Slowly your friends creeped up from their hiding spot, mouths falling open and foreheads creasing with disbelief as the guards laid lifeless as if it wasn’t a fair fight. You were unharmed, in perfectly mint condition, gesturing your friends to come out while you made your rounds and seized the weapons from the dead.

“So this mind flayer thing that after El…” You huffed, bending down to flip over a guard and remove his rifle from his body.

“How do we kill it?” You asked, hurling the empty gun away from your body and replacing it with the new one.

Your question fell on deaf ears, as they were too caught in trying to process what the hell just happened, and the fact that you were acting so normal about it.

“Are we really skipping over the fact that there’s about a dozen dead Russian spies laying on the ground right now, that you killed?” Mike finally broke the silence, threading his hands through his hair trying not to throw up at the scene.

You glanced back at them, still rummaging through the pockets and creating a pile of weapons for them to pick through and use.

“Yes, I killed them.” You rolled your eyes, standing up straight and crossing your arms over your chest. “Now can we move on and find a way out of here, because I’d really like to avoid another gunfight.”

“Fire. It doesn’t like heat.” Nancy replied hastily, ignoring her little brother’s attitude, as she went towards the pile, picking out her own weaponry knowing you were right.

“Okay, well, does anyone have any ideas?” You diverted your eyes towards everyone else, happy that at least Nancy was at least attempting to get into the right headspace.

“Is the professional killer really asking us?” Mike retorted crudely, looking you up and down as if you were supposed to solve every problem in the world.

“Oh my god, would you just stop!” You snapped back, prompting the rest of the kids to smack their friend over the head, chiding at his indifference.

“You need to stop being a smartass. She just saved your girlfriend’s life and all of our asses, too.” Erica retorted, shaking her head as she walked off, picking up a taser from the pile, and smirking down at it.

You closed your eyes tightly, fighting off a migraine that was surely going to take full effect soon, not having the patience to prepare yourself for a deadly monster commie battle on a Friday afternoon.

“Guy’s focus, we need to find a way to kill this thing and then get out,” Jonathan interjected, snapping everyone back into reality, beginning to brainstorm.

Steve’s eyes darted towards the top level of the hall, the bright red letters catching his attention, and soon enough the idea sparked like a light bulb.

“Babe…the Supercuts.” He spoke quickly, pointing upstairs as everyone else tried to put together what he was getting at.

“What?” You furrowed your brows, waiting for him to explain.

“Hairspray, it’s flammable, and they’ve gotta have like a gazillion cans in there, right?” He laughed half-heartedly, hoping he wasn’t just being a dingus.

A smile creeped onto your face, thankful that his obsession with his hair had another purpose.

“I never thought I’d say this, but you’re a genius, Harrington.” Robin sighed out with a weak laugh, running her hands through her hair as she walked in circles, waiting for you to give them directions.

“We’ll split up. One group will go get the hairsprays and the others will go find lighters.”

You and Steve raced up the broken escalator steps, with some of the kids following behind you both. While Nancy and Jonathan went off to find the fire source.

It was like an assembly line, you and Steve picking up boxes of the hairspray and sending it along as each kid passed it down to the ground floor, wanting to reduce the amount of trips taken up and down.

Jonathan and Nancy were able to find a few lighters hidden in the jackets of the guards, though they surely were disgusted with the thought of basically robbing the dead. Even Dustin and Erica managed to rip apart some of the concession stands, lugging out the propane tanks, knowing they would help tremendously if they wanted to burn the Mind Flayer to ash.

El, despite her injury, aided in opening the boxes of hairspray. Running a pocketknife along the taped seam and pouring out the bottles for easy access. It only took a couple of minutes before you all finished up with the task of gathering the materials and other helpful stuff that was scattered across the dirty mall floor, waiting for the game plan.

“How do we lure this thing in?” You caught your breath, brushing back your hair, hoping this supposed monster wasn’t too scary to handle.

“Blood, but I don’t think using El would be smart right now. She’s low on energy and her powers might not be as strong as they were before.”

Mike looked down at his girlfriend’s leg that was still in obvious pain as she apologetically smiled at everyone desperately wishing she could help.

You reassured her with a gentle nod, sticking your hand out towards her, asking for the pocketknife that she apprehensively handed over to you, well aware of what you were going to use it for.

Holding it in your dominant hand, you held your breath, ready to slice through the palm of your opposite hand.

“What are you doing?” Steve’s eyes widened, immediately grabbing your wrist and stopping you.

You shook your head at him obliviously, trying to wiggle out of his grasp.

“What does it look like? I’m going to lure him in.”

“You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m going to let my girlfriend be the bait for this monster.”

“Steve, I’m going to be fin—”

“Look as much as this lovers quarrel is a bit entertaining and slightly endearing, we have very little time left and if we don’t get a head start on killing this thing, then there’s no way in hell any of us is making it out of here alive.” Dustin interrupted, tapping his foot on the ground and holding up his wristwatch.

You sighed, relaxing in Steve’s hold. Your eyes softening as he met yours doubtfully not wanting to put you in danger more than you already had. But deep inside, you and Steve both knew that the best bet of getting out alive was letting you take the lead, and you needed him to trust you.

“Let me do this, please? You’re always playing hero and fixing everything. Let me take over for once okay? I trust that you won’t let anything happen to me, so if you see me struggling, I give you full permission to step in. But please, just let me have a go first.”

You brows pulled together, attempting to get through to him despite understanding his justified resistance.

Shutting his eyes tightly, and letting out a deep breath, his fingertips loosened over your wrists before he nodded and looked at you once more.

“F-fine, okay! But the second, I don’t feel comfortable, I’m stepping in and no one better stop me.” He turned around, pointing a stern finger at everyone else who nodded without a second thought.

“Let’s get this rodeo on the road.”

The kids were instructed to move to higher ground, none of you wanting them to be harmed in the crossfire to come. They were equipped with a few bottles of hairspray, lighters, and duct tape to create their own version of a hybrid flamethrower-molotov that they would chuck down at the Mind Flayer.

Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan were behind the same Orange Julius counter that shielded them a short while ago, while Steve insisted that he stick a few feet closer to you but still hidden behind the concrete planters.

There was no time to die.

Sucking in a deep breath and holding it, you slide the knife across your palm, watching as the blood began to pool and your arm started to tremor.

“Come and get me you asshole!” You shouted, wincing while you held your arm out, attempting to lure the monster in with the smell of your blood.

It came like a rolling thunder from a distance, a loud roar crushing through your eardrums causing you to drop the knife, bending down to pick up your gun while the mall lights began to flicker and the deafening screeches came closer before the glass shattered above you.

“Fuck,” you grimaced, throwing yourself onto the ground, clutching your arms around your head, attempting to shield yourself from the falling debris.

But the glass was quickly the least of your worries with the sight of a subhuman creature stomping towards you. It looked beyond barbaric, mottled skin of some sort dripping with an icky substance as its razor blade like mouth opened and resounded something frightful in the air.

You had to kill it…or at least try.

Struggling to grip the gun tightly with your injured hand, you did what you could, firing multiple shots into the mouth of the creature, watching as it shrieked sharply and its legs jerked into the air. But despite not letting up on the trigger, the monster didn’t seem phased, still stalking its way towards you and running out of bullets you knew you didn’t have enough time to reload the magazine.

“Fire!” you shouted, throwing the gun away and crawling towards safety where Steve was holding a hand out to you.

“Come on!” Steve yelled, rushing out into the open without thinking, tightly grabbing your hands and essentially pulling you across the floors before the fire could swallow you whole.

You could feel the heat just a few feet away, the mixture of the flamethrower-molotovs combined with the gunfire being set off created an infero that popped and sizzled away at the monster with each cry resulting in a limb being weakened and dropping to the ground.

While you were too busy watching the scene in front of you, Steve was more worried about you, just nearly escaping a death trap that he would have never forgiven himself for. His back hit a stop, sliding down the wall as he wrapped his arms around your frame, shielding you from the wreckage as the monster’s cries slowly died out with the heat burning it to ash.

“We need to go!” a voice yelled from the top floor, the children racing down the escalator steps with El being carried out by Max and Mike.

“This place is going to burn down, let’s go!” Robin slid out from behind the counter towards you and Steve, tugging the both of you up, before running towards the nearest exit.

“I got you, baby. Come on.” Steve whispered, hauling your body into his arms, hurrying towards the doors where Jonathan and Nancy held it open, waving their hands and shouting for you both to hurry.

His footsteps didn’t halt against the pavements, wanting to get as far away as he possibly could, worried the Mind Flayer would somehow survive the blazes and come back for you now that you were the new target. Running across the street, they all collapsed onto the ground, eyes widening as the entire mall became engulfed in flames and sirens began ringing through the open air.

Steve managed to set you down on a patch of dying grass, hands traveling across your clothing and skin, trying to make sure you weren’t hurt.

“Are you okay? Did that thing hurt you anywhere? Talk to me, c’mon.” He pleaded, clutching your cheeks in his hands.

Your lips push out harsh breaths, eyes filling with tears as you coughed out roughly.

“I—I’m fine,” you whispered, swallowing through the dryness in your throat.

“Just a little cut…see?” You managed to crack a joke, weakly holding your bloodied hand up as you blinked and the tears flowed down your cheeks.

Steve huffed out a wobbly chuckle, shaking his head at you before kissing your lips, not minding the sting in his open wound, focused on the relief that you made it out alive. You kissed back passionately, not knowing what you’d do with yourself if you found out Steve or any of your friends were hurt badly, let alone killed in Star Court.

The sirens got closer, a helicopter radioing in from above you, causing you both to pull away and look up at the flashing lights with soldiers being airlifted down.

Everything was going to be ok.

“You’re going to tell me how you’re so good at saving my ass and killing, right?” He asked, diverting his eyes back to yours twinkling with a slight bit of tease.

“As long as you tell me everything about this Upside Down crap?” You replied, with a languid push on his chest not caring about the bloody stain you left on his Scoops uniform.

“Promise.” He nodded with a grin, pulling you in for another kiss that drowned out the sounds of the emergency personnel attempting to get to you both.

They just had no idea…you were for real, a tiger.

💌 reblogs, tags, comments, + likes are greatly appreciated! leave a comment and let me know if want to be added to my taglist!! 💌

a/n: i'm back bitches!!! happy fall and im so sorry for keeping you all waiting since FOREVER! I hope you guys like this one and thanks for sticking around--it means the world to me 🥹💘✨

taglist: @translatemunson @kennedy-brooke @manda-panda-monium @tvserie-s-world @givemeth @steveharringtonswife @astolenkiss @loving-and-dreaming @awkotaco24 @engenelxver @elfiaaaa @pbs-theundeadmaggot @johnricharddeacy @gaysludge @keerysfolklore @micheledawn1975 @ihatepeanutss @bakugouswh0r3

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Do not give them Toys

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

When the human government wished to initiate trade with the Filthrax Conglomerate the Filthrax were understandably cautious. They had always been sensitive when it came to sharing technology with other species. To that end they had an extensive amount of restrictions on what could and couldn’t be traded; excluding much of their more advanced technology from ever reaching the market.

The humans in comparison were technologically inferior to the Filthrax in nearly every aspect so they pictured the humans to heavily lobby for advanced technology to be made available. So it was with some surprise that when negotiations began the humans did not lobby for advanced technology, they instead seemed deeply invested in obtaining the Filthrax toys.

This was not something the negotiators had expected. Research into human culture had showed a deep rooted sense of aggression, towards outsiders and themselves when promoted, which made them believe that the first opening bid would be towards military grade technology.

Sensing the discord, the human diplomats explained that while they would like more advanced technology to be an option, they understood the hesitance and reluctance to trade such dangerous items. They said they would be fine earning the Filthrax’s trust over an extended period of time through trade. It seemed that several human enterprises had their eyes on Filthrax toys and they seemed like a safe enough items to begin trade. The Filthrax agreed and so trade lines were opened between the great powers.

What the aliens saw as a harmless deal was in fact the first foot in the door that could never be closed.

Several million orders for toys were placed almost overnight and the economic boon was felt overnight throughout the Filthrax Conglomerate. None of them understood the fascination humans had with their trinkets but if they were willing to pay then they would be more than happy to sell. It wasn’t until the Nexus Wars began that the Filthrax would come to understand their folly.

The “Nexus” was a series of star systems that held the majority of trade lanes between the core worlds and the far flung resource rich outer zones. Trade through these lanes was deemed to be the most stable for long distance transportation so whoever controlled these regions would make considerable wealth from their stewardship.

Current stewardship fell to the Omicron Empire who had held the systems for the last several hundred years and as such used the profits it generated to fund their empires expansion. The humans wished to control these routes to fund their own imperial ambitions but had never leveled the playing field with the Omicron military to make such a transgression possible.

Then, without warning, the human military launched a series of strikes against Omicron bases and fleets in the Nexus systems triggering the “Nexus War”. The Omicrons raised their fleets and armies and dispatched them to the systems with the full intention of repelling the humans and then carrying on their counter offensive into human space. What they met however was a suddenly technologically advanced human military spouting drastic advances in military equipment not seen.

Human soldiers now carried portable shielding units that blocked everything less than a direct hit from a hover tank, while their ships launched fusion bombs carrying a heavy enough payload to shatter Timbar class battleships in half.

With this new technology, the human military had taken control of half of the Nexus systems within five months of the wars start. Other powers dotting the stars took notice of the sudden prowess of the human military, as well as the calculations predicting that within another five months the Omicron Empire would be driven from the Nexus systems. Some cheered at seeing their old rivals in the Omicron’s brought low, others sent delegations to the human government pledging alliances and treaties, many more came to join the war effort now sensing blood amongst the stars; but to the Filthrax, they quickly came to realize the part they had played in this war.

While Filthrax toys were rather unremarkable, they were unique in the way that their power sources could last an entire lifetime. Through controlled energy distribution, the Filthrax had created a rudimentary power source that, while considered basic in their society, was light years ahead of any neighboring species.

The humans were well aware of this feature.

They knew before negotiations even began that the Filthrax would never part with their advanced weaponry or technology, but they would be willing to part with something they considered nothing more than a toy. Toys that were then torn apart to get to the power source, reverse engineered, and then used to power weapons and machines of human design.

Filthrax toys were now forming the basis for a new galactic power, and they had been fooled into giving them away for nothing more than currency.

The sudden realization sent shockwaves through the upper echelons of the Filthrax. If they admitted this they would be not only be publically humiliated on a galactic scale; but also be portrayed as cobelligerents in the war. Not only that, it would invalidate their own standing treaties with other species which specifically stated they would not trade anything that could be repurposed for war. They could see trade agreements torn asunder for a dozen species with even embargos placed upon their territories. Worse yet was if they did cease trading with the humans the human government could release the information and still black list them to the wider galaxy.

So they sat and watched the war from the sidelines, contemplating that their bobbles may have very well just doomed the universe.

[shahaddhlan1]

I will never say goodbye..🇵🇸🌿

I let my thoughts run wild this morning. I sat before a boundless space, not a galaxy filled with planets and stars, but a pure blue sky, dotted with a pink sun, a flock of birds flying lightly, and trees unlike any other...

These are the kenya trees, dearest to my heart, captivating my eyes, and the only refuge for my weary soul.

Those trees, with their solid trunks rooted in the earth and their branches touching the edges of the sky, seem to embrace the entire universe, embracing the sun when it rises and whispering to the winds on cold nights. As the birds swayed above them, playing with the branches as if singing to them,

I sat there...

Amazed by the beauty of the moment, I listened to the song "Birds of a Feather." I only write when music flows in my blood, pushing me toward the words like the wind pushes the waves toward the shore.

And today, for the first time since the beginning of the war,

I didn't see the rubble!!

I didn't feel its presence, and I didn't pay attention.

It was as if it had evaporated into thin air, or as if nature, in all its glory, had decided to hide it from my sight.

Yes, spring has arrived, and with it has come everything beautiful.

Something like a dream, soft, gentle, as if it were wiping the wounds of the earth with the lightness of the breeze.

But I wonder...

Have I fallen in love with this land again?

Are these the signs of beautiful beginnings?

I hope so, indeed I hope with all my heart...

That this is the beginning of endings, the end of pain, the end of the ache that has clung to us like a shadow that won't leave.

Despite everything that has happened...

Despite the devastation that has befallen everything...

There remains something inside me that still resists, still blooms like a wildflower between the cracks in the walls.

Whenever I try to convince myself to leave, the earth calls out to me, whispering to me like the sound of the wind, seducing me once again.

So I refuse, clinging to it like the deep roots of Kenya. It is unshaken by storms, nor uprooted by wars.

I now realize that I am faced with only two choices: to leave or to stay...

But my heart had already decided a long time ago.

I am truly in love with it, clinging to it to the core.

It is the certain inevitability of love that has never left me alone since my birth.

So how can I say goodbye?

How can I leave it behind?

How dare they force us to leave?!

Brother... I am not a traveler, and my land is not a bag to be carried on shoulders.

I am here, I am staying...

I will never say goodbye.

It's over.

These are the usual fleeting words, I called them...

"I will never say goodbye to this land."

I'm happy to be writing. I've become much better than before thanks to it. I'm here to write my blogs and whatever comes to my mind.

May they leave an impact on you and help spread the word about my fundraising campaign to help my little family and rescue them from the horrors of war.

We need your support here 🫂💜☮️👇🏻

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #502 )✅️ & @bilal-salah0

GAZA 🇵🇸🍉🌿

[amorchai]

𝐈𝐓’𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄.

written for my old blog but never posted!

pairing(s): eddie munson x reader

words: 1180

warnings/tags: first date awkwardness, eddie dressing smart for a casual date because he has no idea what he’s doing, star wars references.

you didn’t expect eddie munson to be such a damn gentlemen on your first date. but then again, you never expected to be on a date with eddie munson.

seven o’clock on the dot, your front door knocked, just the time eddie had promised. and once you opened the door, previously wiping your hands from sweat and fixing your outfit to look perfect, you were met with the curly haired boy.

only, he was dressed up. you didn’t know what you presumed he would wear, knowing for a first date his ‘hellfire club’ top will be a bit too casual. but a brown dress shirt and nice trousers, you could hardly tear your eyes from him.

“left my leather jacket in the car, i didn’t know whether to wear it or not,” he splutters firstly, not even a ‘hello’ as his eyes are wide and wild in front of you, and you try to look around where his hands are suspiciously hidden behind his back.

“you look nice,” you state, smiling up at him, both nervously staring at one another before he replies, “me? i look nice? you! look at you, the prettiest person to walk hawkin’s town.” 

“is that what i think it is? hidden behind your back?” you tease lightly, trying to get another glimpse. eddie nods sheepishly, “these are for you,” bringing out the overly stuffed bouquet of flowers, emitting a gasp of appreciation from your throat as you gaze over the disorderly state.

emitting in pure eddie fashion, the one you grew to really like.

“i—uh, harrington told me that roses are the flowers representing ‘romance’, and buckley told me pale red carnations were a better representation of ‘love and affection’ so i got both and put them together."

before you can respond, eddie continues, watching as you gently pry them out of his hands and into yours to look over fondly, “which i don’t really understand, she said pale red, but isn’t pale red just pink? she said it’s not.”

you open your mouth to reply, any effort to try and calm down his rambling voice, but again, he starts talking, “anyways, they’re a mess, i can just take them back, i’ll bring you better ones next time.”

next time, you think. how cute is he?

“no! i love them, thank you!” you lean up to kiss his cheek before leaving a blushing eddie to place the flowers into a watered vase. his fingers graze the spot you just kissed, leaning forward to look into his reflection against the pan of glass of your door, fixing his hair over his forehead.

he jumps back when you step across the hall, as if waiting patiently for your return and guides you towards his truck, holding the door open for you, and shutting it after.

you didn’t know what a date with eddie would be like, he was much different than anyone else, and while you hadn’t been on a date before, you knew what the cliché romance novels would predict.

eddie took you to a drive-thru movie, paying for your ticket and popcorn, ever the gentlemen that he’s quickly living up to. and finds the best spot he could, off to the side but in good view of the screen.

he turns to you periodically, arriving to the lot early and therefore having to wait some time for it to start. it’s a little awkward to begin with, unsure with what to talk about at the start. you had been friends, not as close as others, more-so through robin. but you knew a lot about each other.

eddie asks a few shameful questions when the tape starts, lousy trailers playing before the actual movie, questions about your day or plans from the past week but after exchanging the answers between one another, nerves further arise.

however, you turn to eddie when you reach for a handful of popcorn, his hand bumping yours clumsily as he looks to you with a quick apology. you stare at each other for a moment before bursting into laughter, the tension suddenly breaking as you both realise how stupid it is.

“i’m sorry, i’ve never done this before,” eddie admits, “me neither.” his eyes trail off, down your body quickly before towards the front of the car in thought, clearly confused, “you’re telling me you’ve never been on a date?”.

“correct, munson. why? is that hard to believe?” you joke, reaching for your next handful of popcorn, ignoring the fact that star wars: a new hope finally begins to play upon the big screen. “very, i mean— have you seen or spoke to you?”.

“couple of times, never really strikes up a good conversation, unfortunately.”

eddie laughs, beaming towards you at the change of tone, the conversation already flowing more easily and the edge gone into a more comfortable nature, the way he already knew with you, and why he had asked you on a date in the first place.

“but what about you, nobody else in hawkin’s able to catch wind of the munson charm?” you ask, and eddie shrugs, glancing to the movie as he chews on the buttery snack. “nah, funnily enough, being the weirdo of hawkin’s high doesn’t score you any dates. never asked and never been asked.”

he sounds like he doesn’t mind, which makes your heart flutter in thought. maybe he didn’t really think about dating until you came along.

you fall into another silence, this time comfortable, as you watch the beginning of the fantasy movie. your hand hovers the popcorn box resting on the console, deliberately enticing eddie to hold your hand which he falls for instantly.

his hands are warm and big, engulfing yours with his rings pressing against your skin when he rests them in front of the popcorn.

“you know, i’ve never seen this movie,” you say, tilting your head to the side, unaware of the way eddie looks over, shocked. “you’ve never seen star wars? your house didn’t look like a rock from the outside, how can you have not seen them?”.

“charming, thank you,” you giggle in response.

his hand tugs yours slightly, moving them closer to his lap when he speaks again, leaning forward towards your face, “well, i’ll be sure to hold you when the big battle scene comes on, even after luke destroys the death star.”

“eddie…” you trail off, using your intertwined hands to nudge the side of his thigh, “spoiler alert.”

he cringes, “shit, sorry! i’m so sorry,” eddie begins, eyes anxious as he tries to redeem himself, not noticing your amused expression, “at least it’s not the next one where you find out darth vader is—” before he can finish, you lean over to press your fingers over his lips, laughter falling from yours.

“eddie, eddie. let’s say you don’t tell me the entire plotline of the star war trilogy and we can watch the next movie on our next date?” you offer through giggles, pulling away to allow him to reply.

next date, eddie thinks. i’m losing my mind.

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amorchai © ─ all rights reserved. no reposting/translating/copying will be tolerated.

[ririright]

“Hayden vs. Technology: PeePaw Mode Activated”

Husband! Hayden x Wife Reader (Headcannons)

Part. 1 — Part. 2 — Part. 3

✦ His phone is always on full brightness.

At night, it’s like a flashlight in bed.

You wake up to see him scrolling, his face lit up like a ghost.

“Babe, can you turn that down?”

“But then I can’t see it!”

✦ His phone has a pop socket with a Star Wars design.

He’s got a little Darth Vader helmet on it, and he loves showing it off.

“Look, it’s functional and cool.”

He fidgets with it constantly, flipping it in his hand while he talks.

✦ He scrolls with his pointer finger.

The phone is held way out, almost at arm’s length, reading glasses on.

He squints, tapping so carefully like the screen is going to bite him.

“You know you can use your thumb, right?”

“I’ve got it. I’m a pro.”

✦ He used to have a wallet phone case.

Sometimes he looks at his pop socket and sighs.

“Back in the day, I had everything in one place. Cards, phone, ID. Now it’s all separate.”

When you got him a wallet case once, he tried it again but said it was “too bulky now.”

✦ He insists Instagram and TikTok are the same.

“It’s just videos and pictures, right?”

You try to explain the differences, and he waves you off.

“Next thing, they’ll make one called SnapTok or InstaBook.”

✦ He forgets he’s on his private Instagram.

Sometimes he’ll panic, thinking he’s accidentally posted something.

“Wait, did everyone see that?!”

You have to remind him his account is private, and only you and a few friends can see it.

✦ He has a habit of accidentally liking old posts.

Scrolling through your profile, he’ll accidentally like a picture from four years ago.

“Oh no. Oh no. Do they know I did that?”

“Hayden, it’s my account.”

“Oh. Right. Well… it’s still a good picture.”

✦ He has a notification obsession.

Any little red dot on his screen drives him crazy.

“I’ve got three notifications… but what are they?”

Even if it’s a game he hasn’t played in months, he has to clear it.

✦ He tries to read small text without his glasses.

Squints, stretches his phone even further away.

You hand him his glasses, and he groans.

“I swear I could see just fine yesterday.”

✦ He follows the most random accounts.

He’s got a mix of Star Wars fan pages, farm animal rescue accounts, and a few sock enthusiast pages.

“Look, this guy reviews socks. I knew I wasn’t the only one.”

✦ He uses the search bar instead of exploring.

Doesn’t browse the feed. Just types in what he’s looking for.

“Why would I scroll for hours? I just want to see ducks today.”

✦ He keeps his ringer on, but it’s always on maximum volume.

So even if it’s just a notification, it’s like a tiny explosion.

His text tone is a lightsaber hum, which makes you jump every time.

[moonlight-joy]

Coming Home

Fandom: Yellowstone

Summary: Kayce Dutton returns to Yellowstone Ranch burdened by the weight of war and loss, but in a quiet moment of connection, you offer him a lifeline of understanding and hope, starting the long journey toward healing and belonging.

Pairing: Reader/Kayce Dutton

The cool Montana breeze carried the scent of pine and freshly tilled soil as the truck pulled up to Yellowstone Ranch. You stood on the porch, arms crossed, your heart pounding as the engine cut off and Kayce Dutton stepped out. The familiar figure, broad-shouldered and quiet, looked the same in some ways—but his eyes told a different story. They were sharper, darker, and carried the weight of experiences you could only imagine.

He looked up at you as he closed the truck door, his lips twitching into a faint, almost hesitant smile. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“Hey yourself,” you replied, forcing a smile as you descended the steps. “Long time, no see.”

Kayce’s smile faltered slightly, his eyes flicking away from yours as though the words stung. “Yeah. Guess it’s been a while.”

You closed the distance between you, and before he could say anything else, you pulled him into a hug. He stiffened at first, but after a moment, his arms wrapped around you, and you felt some of the tension in his shoulders ease.

“It’s good to have you back,” you murmured, your voice soft.

Kayce didn’t respond, but his grip tightened for a moment before he let go and stepped back. “Good to be back,” he said, though the words sounded hollow.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, you found Kayce sitting alone by the barn, a bottle of beer in his hand and his gaze fixed on the distant mountains. He didn’t notice you approach until you were standing right beside him.

“Mind if I sit?” you asked.

Kayce glanced up at you, his expression unreadable, before nodding. “Sure.”

You lowered yourself onto the step beside him, the quiet between you comfortable but heavy with unspoken words. He took a sip of his beer, his fingers tightening around the bottle as he set it back down.

“You’ve been quiet,” you said after a while, your voice gentle but pointed.

Kayce let out a short laugh, though there was no humor in it. “What’s there to say?”

“Plenty,” you said, turning to face him. “But I get it. You’re not ready.”

He looked at you then, his dark eyes shadowed but searching. “It’s not that I’m not ready. It’s just... hard to figure out where to start.”

“Start with what’s on your mind,” you said simply.

Kayce’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Coming back here... it feels like stepping into a different life. Like I don’t belong here anymore.”

“You do,” you said firmly. “This is your home, Kayce. It always has been.”

He shook his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. “Doesn’t feel like it. Feels like I left part of myself over there—and what came back is just... what’s left.”

The rawness of his words made your chest ache, but you didn’t look away. “Then let’s find the rest of you,” you said, your voice steady. “You don’t have to do it alone.”

Kayce let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“You start small,” you said, reaching out to place a hand on his. “One day at a time. One piece at a time.”

He looked down at your hand, his fingers twitching slightly before he turned his hand over and intertwined his fingers with yours. The gesture was hesitant but meaningful, a silent acknowledgment that he didn’t have to carry it all on his own.

“Thanks,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Just let me help.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore—it was full of understanding, of quiet promises. As the stars began to dot the night sky, you sat there with Kayce, your hand in his, knowing that this was only the beginning of his journey home. But you’d be there for every step of it, no matter how long it took.

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[tea-biscuits-books]

teddy

bruce banner x avenger!reader

🤎🧸🍂♡

Summary: Bruce is just a big teddy bear with anger issues

word count: 2047

song: love story - taylor swift

🤎🧸🍂♡

The quinjet buzzes with quiet murmurs as you walk tentatively around, eyes glued to your phone. You grunt suddenly as you bump into something, looking up immediately apologetically.

“oh I’m sorry!” a gentle-looking stranger stares at you curiously, before giving you a small, shy smile.

“oh, no it’s all good.” He clears his throat, before sticking his hand out as you pocket your phone, taking in the small details of his thick, black unruly curls which were slightly greying, and the small freckles dotted among his face like stars among the night sky. “Bruce Banner.” You grasp his hand, his large, calloused one enveloping yours like a warm blanket.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” You grin awkwardly, as you stand like that for a few moments, before Bruce glances down and realises he’s still holding your hand. He quickly withdraws it, red flushing from the nape of his neck.

“I, uh,” His nerves are cutely amusing, as you touch his arm, soothing him subtly.

“I’m a big fan of your work Dr Banner.” He grimaces, likely remembering about his green alter ego.

“People say you’re a genius.” Ducking his head, he seems to fold into himself.

“That’s all that people say?” He mumbles, as you reach out an arm, tilting his chin up. Tingles seemed to erupt from where your fingers were placed on his skin, as he stares mesmerised into your eyes.

“That’s all that matters to me.” Your voice is soft and encouraging as you reach out an arm to your new colleague.

“So why did Fury drag you here?” He questions as you begin to walk towards the meeting room, and you chuckle softly, shaking your head.

“I’m enhanced. I have y/p (your powers), and he thinks that’s beneficial, apparently to find the Tesseract.” Bruce smiles down at you, the corner of his eyes crinkling affectionately.

“I think you’ll be a great asset to the team. Have you met the others?” As you turn back, you’re met with the looming shadow of the glass meeting doors. Conversations drift through the door as you swallow nervously.

“I’ve met Tony and Nat before.” The door is pulled open before them and there stands Tony in all his smug glory.

“come in. the meeting is just starting.” He says smirking, eyeing your interlocked arms with mild interest. Flashing the billionare an uncomfortable smile, you step into the room, conversation dying away all eyes turn towards the monitor. You sit at the head of the table, staring down at it as Fury stands menacingly at Loki, who looks nothing less then intruiged as the camera glares into his eyes. Bruce is leaning in, observing intently as Loki begins to speak again, a sneer curling at his lips.

“The mindless beast, makes play he's still a man. How desperate are you, that you call upon such lost creatures to defend you?” Your eyes slowly drift to Bruce.

“How desperate am I? You threaten my world with war. You steal a force you can't hope to control.” Fury spits, walking slowly towards the glass container holding Loki captive.

“You talk about peace and you kill ’cause it's fun. You have made me very desperate. You might not be glad that you did.”

“Ooh. It burns you to come so close. To have the Tesseract, to have power, unlimited power. And for what?” A smirk spreads across his face slowly.

 “A warm light for all mankind to share, and then to be reminded what real power is.” His eyes are cold and calculating, surveying Fury with a superior air.

“Well, you let me know if Real Power wants a magazine or something.” The SHIELD Director says with a scoff, before walking out of the frame. You lean forward, trying to glimpse where he had gone, eyes narrowed as you focus on Loki’s clenched jaw and determined gaze. The screen zips to black as you lean back in your chair as Steve lets out an airy chuckle.

“He really grows on you, doesn’t he?” You remark, turning a sympathetic eye towards Bruce.

“Loki's gonna drag this out. So, Thor, what's his play?” You turn towards the muscly Norse god, eyeing as he simply stands there in stunned silence.

“He has an army called the Chitauri. They're not of Asgard or any world known. He means to lead them against your people. They will win him the earth. In return, I suspect, for the Tesseract.” His booming voice declares, as you shift uncomfortably in your seat.

“An army from outer space?” Steve says incredulously.

“So he’s building another portal. That’s what he needs Eric Selvig for.” Bruce speaks up, removing his glasses. You rub your head, trying to nurse the ache that was building up.

“Okay, I’m too tired for this. Goodbye.” You stand from your chair, flashing Bruce a smile before walking out the door. The breeze is cooler and inviting, as you begin to make your way to the room you were to stay in. As you flop onto the bed, the comforter seems to pull you into the white plush. Kicking off your shoes lazily, you close your eyes, letting sleep pull you under.

“Mummy!” You squeal, chasing her upon your little legs. She turns, her eyes worried as she gasps.

“Darling! Why aren’t you with Daddy! It isn’t safe, you must go now!” Her voice is soft and urgent as she ushers you along. You cross your arms as she picks you up, and begin to cry and kick.

“I don’t want Daddy! I want mummy!” You pout, sniffing miserably as she groans, letting you go. You begin to sob as you hit the ground hard. A thick arm wraps around you as she walks away briskly, not turning her head.

“whose that Lisa?” A sinister voice remarks as you stand still, puffing out your chest.

“I-I’m Y/N Y/L/N.” The man is around thirty, and he gives you an insincere smile, showcasing the rotting teeth that lay in the gums. He turns to your mother, walking towards her menacingly as she seems to cower into herself, pivoting around to face him.

“Well, why didn’t you say you had a daughter? She could be beneficial for the cause!” He says, tilting her chin up as tears begin to stream down her cheeks. You frown. Suddenly, this guy didn’t seem so nice. He seemed mean and scary. He bends down, his hot breath sour in your face.

“P-Please don’t do this! She i-is only 5!” You mother screams as the man picks you up, walking away.

“Don’t worry Lisa, we’ll take great care of her.” Tears dribble into your mouth as you screech as your mother hurries after you. Her heels click against the marbled floors as she runs after the retreating, burly figure.

“Y/N! Y/N!” She yells, sobs caressing her body.

“My baby! Don’t take my baby!” A loud band echoes around the hall before the voice falls silent. Her eyes are widened in shock as she rocks slightly from side to side, before crumpling to the floor, red staining her abdomen. She does not move.

“Mama!” You screech, kicking around upon his shoulder, reaching desperately for your mother.

“shut up you little brat!” the man roars, shaking you as you break down upon his shoulder.

“Mama! Mama!” You wail miserably, as the man rolls his eyes irritably. You make no notice as he shifts you, reaching into his pocket, and pulling out a syringe. It is filled with thick, yellow liquid, the needle point and sharp as he injects it into your neck. Your eyes lull into the back of your head, as you shudder, before sucumbing to the unconciousness.

“hail hydra.” He whispers in your ear.

“rest well little one. You’ll need it.”

You wake up in a sweat, the distant, distraught cries of your mother still echoing in your head. You sit there for a moment, replaying her trembling screams and desperate, frantic grasps for you. You were the reason your mother was dead. Rubbing your eyes, you sat up and slipped out of bed, opening the door and shutting it quietly. Murmurs erupted from the lab as you padded towards it, squinting your eyes, attempting to adjust your eyes to the bright light. All eyes turn to you, as Steve pauses in his step, running a hand down his face. “just…find the cube.” He sighs, giving you a polite nod as he passes. Bruce furrows his eyebrows at you and your drowsy state.

“You should be sleeping.” He says in a concerned tone, absent-mindedly taking a step towards you. You yawn in response, croaking out an answer.

“So should you.” Your voice is raspy and deeper, and Bruce just loves it. He wants to wake up to it every morning, and to hear your sweet little-

“I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.” Tony interrupts Bruce’s spiralling fantasies, who flushes red even though he knows nobody can hear his thoughts. Tony flashes you a lazy smirk, winking.

“Use protection kids.” You groan at the implication as he slips out of the room, whistling merrily in his step and turn to the beet-red doctor in front of you.

“Tony is a pain in the ass.” His throat feels dry, as he merely nods in response.

“so whatcha been up to?” You watch intently as he immedietaly switches into nerd mode, rambling about gamma radiation and physics. Honestly, you don’t understand a word he says, too focused on the way his eyes shine adorably, and his brow crinkles ever so slightly, the way he uses his hands to animate the scenarios.

“And when the light rays come into contact with-” He pauses as you simply stare at him, spaced out, as he panics internally.

“Sorry am I boring you, oh its just nobody asks me about it, and when I’m nervous I start to just talk and I can’t stop-” He blurts, running a hand through his hair frantically. You laugh at his demeanour, smiling at him softly.

“No, it's just, you’re adorable.” He blushes, ducking his head as curls flop onto his forehead.

“You know Bruce, I think Loki’s wrong.” Buce sighs, rubbing his eyes as you tilt your head, taking a step towards him. The tension seemed to crackle in the air, causing anticipating silence to erupt around the empty room.

“How? He was completely right. I am a mindless monster. I’m nothing but dangerous here.” Your brow furrowed as you shook your head slowly. “How can you say that? Bruce,” You stepped forward once, more, so you were face to face with the doctor, touching his cheek tenderly.

“If anything,” You let out a fond chuckle.

“You’re just a big softie,” You grin tenderly, poking his brawny flesh. Bruce scrunches his nose as a little girl would.

“Softie? Me?” He puffs out his chest playfully, crossing his arms. You roll your eyes, smiling.

“Yeah!” You poke out your tongue.

“Like-like,” You pause for a moment, thinking dramatically as you tap a finger to your head.

“A big, soft, plush, teddy bear!” You squeal as he picks you up, his fingers securing onto your waist, levitating you off the ground. Your faces were mere inches apart, your breath fogging up his glasses as time slows, his lashes fluttering slightly. Your cheeks has flushed to a deep red at the close proximity as you fought the edge to squeak.

“still a teddy bear?” His gruff voice rumbles, the vibrations from his chest sending shockwaves throughout your body. You hum, your mouth to dry to form coherent words. Without a word, you lean forward, fingers grasping his chin and tilting his chin up.

“can I kiss you?” He whispers, chocolate eyes boring into yours. His gaze betrays flickers of nervousness and excitement, as you nod slowly. Bringing your lips closer to his, he pauses for a moment, as if double-checking for your confirmation. You groan, before pulling him in, lips connecting and molding together in one, joyous, electrifying kiss. He smiles against your lips, lowering you slowly onto his work table, pushing screwdrivers and papers out of the way, still attatched to you. As you reluctantly break away, gulping in fresh air, you beam at the man in front of you, his eyes still closed in escatasy.

“You’re my favourite teddy bear.”

[muraar]

Precursor

Blissful fools or perhaps it was intentional on thier parts, but something existed between the two of you.

Jiyan x reader. Feat song: like you do- joji

Wc: 2k, gn!reader

Mentions of self-destruction?? i mean its nothing heavy, but the reader is implied to have a destructive resonance ability that causes damage to them as well. 

We're not beating the yearning allegations with this one 🗣🗣🗣

Moonlight seeped over the marred backdrop, bathed in the silvery incandescence, the previously war-torn land looked …serene. 

A quaint stillness presided over the expanse, an aftermath they ever ardently sacrificed for, a respite attained through blood and hardships alike. Vestiges loomed over in memories and corporeality alike, but this night, tonight, languid in its wake, made it all the more absolute what it is that they truly fought for. 

The air felt crisp and clean; a cool breeze blew from the west, carrying with it a scent of wood mingled with earthy dirt and the lingering trace of the campfire. The sky above, clear and bright, held no clouds and offered a magnificent display of stars scattered across the horizon, twinkling against the velvet black void.

 It wasn’t often that the General of the Midnight Rangers found himself in such a peaceful pace, so much so that he allowed his eyes to close momentarily, savoring the sensation before slowly opening them again.

The forested hillside stretched on as far as his eye could see, a dark blanket concealing most of the area beyond, though a few small lights dotted the landscape.

“Come here often?” 

Interposed in your mirthful voice, followed soon after by lazy footsteps as you approached him on a leisurely pace, taking measured steps and being mindful of the support sling over your contused left shoulder. Remnant from the recent clash with Overthrax, one that you hoped to don as a proud medallion one day. 

Startled slightly by the sudden intrusion into his thoughts, Jiyan turned around. His golden eyes met yours, reflecting a mix of surprise and relief at your presence. The moonlight played across his angular features, highlighting the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Despite the weight of recent events, there was a hint of warmth in his expression.

“[Name]”

He acknowledged, a faint frown etched on handsome feathers as he took in your oncoming figure 

“You should be resting” 

His tone was laced with concern that threatened to suggest more than just camaraderie, belying a fierce need to ensure your safety and well-being, which was countered with a light and easygoing chuckle of your own, its timbre reverberating against the tranquil backdrop of the night. 

“You worry too much” 

Came your smooth and curt reply, as you continued your trek toward the teal-haired man, taking nimble footsteps until you stood beside him. Eyes gazing over the expanse laid bare before you, one functional hand reaching out to grip the reinforced railing as you leaned your weight over the cool metal. 

Jiyan watched as you moved towards him, the ease of your gait suggesting a familiarity with pain that made his chest tighten.

“Worry is my duty,”

He responded quietly, turning his attention back to the breathtaking panorama before them

“And perhaps a personal failing.”

His eyes flickered towards you, tracing the curve of your profile against the dark skyline

“Only because you don't seem to worry nearly enough” 

A commonly used and familiar jab at the reckless abandon and lack of self-preservation that followed you every time you set foot in any physical confrontation. You shook your head and let out a sharp breath, smiling inwardly at being chastised like this; it's not like you voluntarily choose to have the resonance power associated with risks. But then again, research directed that resonator abilities were influenced by personal experiences and the subconscious. So perhaps….you weren't completely out of incrimination for these maladaptive tendencies. 

It would be amiss to deny the thrill you felt when your life was on the line, increasingly fluctuating odds fueling adrenaline-infused nerves. There was something incredibly exhilarating about self-destruction. Perhaps the way you could feel your heart racing whenever someone threatened you was a form of excitement, or maybe you were just addicted to the chase and had become so entranced by the thrill of danger you'd given up on ever feeling truly safe and secure-

“It's hard not to care.”

Stern words broke through your impromptu round of introspection and seemed to slip out involuntarily, carrying a weight that surprised even himself. There was another short pause, filled with both contemplative and thoughtful stillness, only broken by the soft rustle of trees against the night wind.

You stood still for just a second or so, facing the moonlight expanse, yet your mind was anything but focused on the twilit spectacle.

“I don't worry…because I don't have to” 

Maneuvering and turning your head slightly, your eyes met his protective depths of golden met with resolute ones of your own. The air seemed to be still, and time slowed even as the moment stretched on. 

“You worry enough for the both of us”

The words left your lips with such ease because, and it was easy, intuitive almost. Somewhere along the lines, along the countless battles faced side by side, it had become second nature for you. Blindly, irrevocably, heading first into the belly of the beast, you threw yourself into the gallows, tested the lines between this world and the nether relm, just like your forte circuit demanded of you.

Danger nipped at skin and mind alike. Each confrontation translated into an intimate play between you and death, and every time you bid farewell to her for a teal-haired anchor that tethered you to the land of the living. 

Was this what people defined as co-dependency? A reckless warrior and a general with concern ingrained into his very being? 

Breaking off the intense eye contact you looked down at the injured limb, cradled underneath meticulous bandage work.

“And I don't regret risking myself” 

The confession was resolute, perhaps careless even as the wind tussled through your wild locks, as if nature acknowledged your tempestuous nature. 

His gaze lingered on your face, studying the lines etched by time and trials, wishing he could somehow protect you from further harm while acknowledging the futility of such thoughts. His mind pondered after a moment's pause, his voice steady despite the turmoil raging inside him.

“But there comes a point when caution becomes necessary for survival.”

He sighed deeply, hands clutching the railing a bit too forcefully.

“I don't want to see you hurt”

The unspoken plea hung heavy in the air between them, a testament to the depth of unspoken words.

“Careful there, General, you might just start graying with how much you stress out.”

Came your lopsided reply, cutting clean through the heaviness of the conversation at hand. 

Jiyan couldn't help but chuckle softly at your jest, the sound rolling off his tongue with surprising ease. Yet, the humor did nothing to dispel the underlying tension that seemed to permeate every aspect of their interaction.

“Better me than you” 

He admitted ruefully, running a hand through his tousled hair.

“But seeing you safe and well is worth every strand of gray.”

His gaze locked onto yours, the sincerity in those golden orbs impossible to miss.

An amused chuckle escaped unsuspecting lips, crescent crinkles emerged around your eyes as you entertained the notion just spoken of.

"That's...awfully sentimental. Tell me, have you been watching those hero plays?"

Using the moment of inquiry, you turned around unsoldierly, leaning back until your shoulder blades rested against the railing that had grown accustomed to supporting your weight.

Jiyan arched an eyebrow at your comment, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.*

“Hardly,”

He retorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Just stating facts.”

He shrugged nonchalantly, though the intensity in his gaze betrayed the casualness of his words.

“We've been through too much together for me not to care about your wellbeing.”

The admission hung heavily between them, punctuating the charged atmosphere with its weighty significance.

His words caused a soft smile to emerge upon your lips, as a foreign warmth bubbled beneath sternum and the organ that rested underneath.

"Been through enough to elicit care and worry...but not enough to have faith in my abilities?"

Jiyan's expression softened at your words, a flicker of guilt flashing across his features before being swiftly concealed behind a mask of stoicism. He leaned into your side, closing the distance between you two, until only a sliver of moonlight escaped from the rift between the parted lips. 

“I do have faith in your abilities,”

He said earnestly, meeting your gaze head-on.

“It's just...hard to watch someone so dear go through pain and suffering.” 

You let out a sharp breath; the air being forced out of your lungs as you felt your chest spasm and convulse, your demeanor tempered by the sheer discipline ingrained in your very being.

“Pain and suffering, huh?”

You mused as the conscious reeled through the twists and turns that led and shaped your life as it is today. 

The life you chose. 

Or was it the one fate forced you to tread on?

All these years on this planet and the real depths of your impulses eluded you still.

“They seem to be the staples of this life though...and better me than some poor innocent soul out there”

But at least there was reassurance that your hands of violence were good for something. At least there was consolation in the fact that your fists weren't merely tools meant to tear apart lives, they were weapons that protected. And if you were destined to die young in battle it was best to die doing your part. To die with honor, a worthy cause.

To die as someone who had earned the privilege of a life worth remembering.

Jiyan nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes. His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered your words.

“You're not wrong”

He conceded after a moment's pause.

“And I suppose it doesn't make sense for me to shield you from everything. And I'm aware of the irrationality of my sentiments. But know this - every time you're hurt or put yourself in danger, it feels like a part of me is ripped away.” 

His voice was heavy with emotion, belying the depth of his feelings for you.

“Then give it to me” 

Words rolled past your lips with no premonition of consideration behind them, instinctual, thoughtless. 

"Join that part with me," 

Your voice a brazen whisper, its emergence a stark act of rebellion against modus vivendi dictated by logic alone. 

"so that it's never ripped away again."

Those words imitated a dare, challenging fate and hearts alike. 

Jiyan's heart raced as he gazed deeply into your eyes, feeling the weight of your words settle heavily upon his soul. A thousand unspoken promises danced between them, their connection forged by shared experiences and a bond that transcended mere camaraderie. Something primal stirred within him - an ancient longing that transcended reason and logic alike.

Then, as if drawn by some invisible force, he leaned forward slowly until his lips brushed lightly against yours. 

“I want to be connected to you…more than anything”

He whispered hoarsely against your mouth, feeling a surge of heat course through his veins at the contact. His eyes fluttered shut as he felt the warmth of your breath ghost across his face, the tantalizing scent of your perfume filling his senses.

Just as lips were about to touch, a shrill beeping sound pierced through the silence. Both of them froze mid-movement. Their Pangu terminal vibrated on both ends. The holographic screen flashed with an urgent message from the city: Incoming threat detected.

The spellbinding moment shattered like fragile glass underfoot, scattering fragments of desire and passion across the floor. Leaving them both gasping for air like fish out of water. Jiyan blinked rapidly, trying to shake off the lingering effects of their near-kiss.

The message was clear: duty called.

Without another word, he turned to face you fully – only to find that you had vanished without a trace, leaving behind a gentle tussle of wind and torn bandages, in your wake.

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

a/n

Jiyan convene fucked me over so badly. i cannot even tell you, because its downright embarrassing.

just know that i have him now, somehow.

mans not getting any happy ending from me 😒😒😒. Keep pining and yearning you mf !!! YOU AINT GETTING LAID !!!