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itsnesss · 6 days ago

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𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | you return to the f1 paddock with a promise to stay away from the drama surrounding red bull—especially max, your father’s biggest rival. hut things don’t go as planned

warnings | wolff!reader, tension, rivalries, romantic, emotional conflict, complex family dynamics, drama, betrayal

word count | 2.7 k

🖇 more mv1 🖇 f1 masterlist

Your last name weighs more than any Formula 1 trophy.

Wolff.

Five letters that open some doors and lock others shut. You weren’t a driver, not officially, though you’d spent more hours in a simulator than most rookies on the grid. But you were the daughter of Toto Wolff—the man who built the Mercedes empire with Austrian discipline, sharp vision… and a rivalry that became legend: Max Verstappen.

You grew up knowing who he was. Red Bull’s wonder boy, chaos in overalls, the guy who had been your father's nemesis since 2021, when the world split between silver and blue.

There were pictures of you as a kid in the paddock, hidden behind a tablet while your father argued loudly with Christian Horner. Max was in the background, younger, with that cocky smile that never seemed to take anything seriously. But you saw him. You always saw him.

And now… you had to see him again.

“You promised to stay out of it,” your father reminded you on the private jet to Silverstone. “I don’t want the media dragging you into any drama with Red Bull. You represent something bigger.”

“I’m just me, Dad. They don’t have to look at me,” you replied, eyes locked on the window—though you knew it was a sweet little lie.

Because everyone looked at you. Especially him.

The paddock was a jungle dressed in carbon fiber and marketing. You walked through it with your pass around your neck, mechanically greeting engineers, Lewis, George. You didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to be tempted.

But fate doesn’t play fair. And neither does Max Verstappen.

You saw him outside the Red Bull hospitality, laughing with Checo. He was leaning against a tall table, water bottle in hand, cap backwards. And he looked at you.

No fear. No filter.

“Well, look who’s back,” he said, like you’d given him the right to speak to you.

You stopped. Stupid. You knew you shouldn’t have.

“Lost your compass, or just got bored hiding in Mercedes' garage?”

“I was just looking for a place without overinflated egos,” you replied, coldly.

Max smirked, sly. He studied you from head to toe like you were a complex equation. There was arrogance in his stance, but also genuine curiosity. As if you were the one variable he hadn’t been able to predict in his perfectly calculated life.

“And did you find that place?” he asked.

“Not with you around.”

You were proud your voice didn’t shake. But your heart… your heart was another story.

“Your father hates me,” he said, lowering his voice, leaning in slightly. Too close. You could smell his cologne—that damn scent of adrenaline and rebellion.

“And for good reason,” you replied, though your tone lacked the firmness it needed.

“And you?”

The question hit like a corner without brakes. You didn’t expect him to be that direct. You didn’t expect him to look at you like that—as if you were more than just the enemy’s daughter. As if you were you.

“I... don’t have time to hate you. I’m busy ignoring you,” you said, turning away before it was too late.

But Max didn’t follow. He didn’t need to.

He’d planted a seed. And you, no matter how much you swore otherwise, had watered it with every accelerated heartbeat.

(Silverstone, Free Practice Friday)

You had promised not to look at him again.

But there he was. Again. Just a few meters away. On the edge of the pit lane.

Max Verstappen didn’t have to try to get attention. Everything about him screamed rebellion. His movements were measured, almost feline, as if the world revolved around him… and maybe it did. But what disturbed you the most wasn’t his confidence, or his fame, or even the fact that he was the damn number 1. It was the electric jolt you felt every time your eyes met his.

"Don’t give him the satisfaction," George whispered beside you, following you with a bottle of water. "That guy feeds off drama. Give him attention and he already feels invincible."

"Do you think I care what Max thinks?" you shot back—too quickly.

George just raised an eyebrow.

You knew he was reading you. Too well.

You spent the day locked in the Mercedes hospitality, reviewing telemetry data as an excuse. In theory, you were there to offer technical support—something informal, symbolic. In reality, you were a satellite under surveillance, a watched daughter. And you knew it.

But what nobody knew… was that there was a private party that night at Lando Norris’s house. And you were going.

Not because of him, you told yourself. For me. Because I deserve it.

Sure, right.

(10:41 PM. At the party.)

Lando’s house was a neon-lit paradise, filled with badly mixed reggaeton and drivers without their fireproof suits. It felt like a refuge where all the paddock egos could breathe without press releases or cameras. Oscar, Charles, Alex were there—even some team members from Ferrari and McLaren.

And, of course, him.

Max.

You saw him the moment you walked in, though you pretended not to. He had a cup in hand, talking to someone you didn’t recognize, but his eyes… his eyes weren’t on them. They were looking for you. And they found you.

He moved first.

"You? Here? I thought you were more of the 'data analysis and early bedtime' type," he said as he approached, beer in hand and that damn accent that turned ordinary phrases into provocations.

"I thought you only smiled when you won. Must be something new," you replied, not looking at him directly.

"Always this sharp? Or just with me?"

"Only with idiots."

He let out a soft laugh. Almost amused. He stepped closer, just enough for his words to be meant only for you.

"You know what’s curious about you?"

"Enlighten me, Verstappen."

"You want to hate me. You really do. But you can’t. And it’s killing you inside."

Your reaction was to turn, intending to walk away. But his hand—warm, firm—brushed against your wrist.

Not to hold you back. Just to say: I’m here.

And that was enough to bring down the wall you had built.

"You’re wrong," you whispered, without moving.

"Yeah?"

"You’re not killing me inside."

"Then why are you trembling?"

You weren’t. At least not consciously. But his closeness was a real threat to everything you’d stood for. Everything you believed in.

"Nothing’s going to happen between us," you finally said, with more desire than conviction.

"Of course not," he replied, with a crooked smile. "Because that would be crazy, right?"

"A complete madness."

But neither of you moved.

And in that silence, in that exact moment where the music became background noise and time slowed down, you realized something you didn’t want to admit:

You were already lost.

The conversation with Max didn’t last long. After your firm (though hesitant) rejection, he walked away, but his eyes never left you. Every time you felt those blue eyes on you, a shiver ran down your spine, though you tried to keep a facade of indifference.

You wandered through the party, looking for a breath of air, but each step felt like it pulled you closer to disaster. The drivers laughed, some let go under the influence of alcohol, and the music kept pulsing against the house walls. Still, your mind couldn't focus on anything but Max. His words kept echoing in your head like an unstoppable loop.

"You’re dying inside."

"Because it would be madness, right?"

Suddenly, you felt watched, as if someone—or something—was lurking inside your darkest thoughts. You turned, and saw him again. Closer this time, talking to Lando and Carlos, but his gaze was fixed on you. A couple of seconds passed, and Max didn’t look away.

It wasn’t a coincidence.

You took a sip from the glass in your hand, but it felt like you were drinking poison. He was tearing you apart slowly, without even touching you. He didn’t even need to speak to throw you off balance.

Finally, Lando approached, interrupting your spiral.

"Hey, everything okay?" he asked, with a slightly concerned smile.

Lando had always been kind to you, like he had a soft spot for people who could hold a conversation without making things awkward.

"No, just…" you replied, but your answer didn’t convince anyone. At that moment, Max came closer too, wearing a smile that froze you inside.

"Everything good?" Max asked, as if your well-being was his top priority. That thought alone irritated you.

"Yeah, of course," you answered, forcing a smile. But before you could say more, Lando stepped in, sensing the tension.

"I get the feeling someone’s trying to be more of a gentleman than he actually is," Lando joked, though his words only deepened the silence between all of you.

You and Max locked eyes for a moment. There was something in that look that went beyond what you could explain. It was a challenge, it was fire. It was a silent war neither of you dared to admit.

"It’s not that I like to complicate my life but…" Max began, glancing at Lando before turning to you again, "I don’t like complicated things. Or complicated people."

Those words… That wordplay.

You stared back at him, feeling a strange mix of anger and attraction. A feeling as intoxicating as the speed of the cars on track.

"Better keep your distance," you replied, louder than expected.

But in that moment, Lando noticed something neither of you wanted to expose: the tension that had grown between you two. Something had shifted in the air. Something beyond words.

Lando made a move to break the tension, but Max didn’t let him. He stepped closer to you, this time directly, almost dangerously. He was challenging you, without saying another word.

"Do you really want me to?" he asked, and this time it wasn’t a game. His tone was low, controlled, like every word was a threat disguised as interest.

An unexpected heat rushed through your veins, and your breath quickened. He was overwhelming you, and you didn’t know how to react.

"You have no idea what you’re saying," you said, trying to keep your composure. But when you looked at him, something inside shifted. The burn of his eyes against yours scorched more than any word. Max Verstappen had done something you never imagined: he had disarmed you.

(The following week)

The return to normal in the paddock was a tense relief. You knew the eyes of the world were on you, especially with cameras rolling every second. Max and you inevitably crossed paths many times. In each of those encounters, the air thickened, heavier, like walking a tightrope.

The Belgian Grand Prix was just around the corner, and once again, you found yourself under the paddock lights, with Max only a few meters away. He stood in his usual pose, leaning against his car, while his team of engineers worked on some final tweaks to the engine.

But this time, you didn’t look at him. This time, you forced yourself to look the other way, focused on your own thoughts. Still, you knew he had noticed.

"Running from me?" Max asked, his voice low but full of that arrogance you despised.

"Just ignoring you," you replied without looking at him.

"That never works."

And there it was again, that uncomfortable feeling that had started to consume you. How could you ignore him, when every time you looked at him, you knew it wasn’t just a battle on the track that tied you two? There was something deeper, darker… more dangerous.

But you couldn’t.

You mustn’t.

You never should.

(Spa-Francorchamps Circuit, Qualifying Saturday)

The rain fell intermittently, a light drizzle that made the asphalt slick beneath the cars' tires. The sound of engines echoed through the air, mingling with the bustle of the Mercedes team preparing for qualifying.

But you couldn't focus. Once again, something in the atmosphere distracted you. Something that, despite your efforts to ignore, kept lingering. Max. And his attitude.

It was impossible not to notice. Every time your eyes met his, there was something else there. It wasn’t just the typical challenge of the track, it wasn’t just competition. There was a grudge in his gaze you couldn’t understand, and that made you uncomfortable. But what bothered you most was that, somehow, you couldn’t avoid it.

You were with a few Mercedes engineers, going over the final adjustments to the car, when you felt a presence behind you. You knew who it was before you even turned around. That smell of fuel, hot engine, that defiant aura. Max.

"Ready for another loss?" he asked, his usual tone slightly mocking.

You looked at him, frowning. You didn’t feel like arguing, not with him, not with anyone.

"Still playing the same game?" you replied, trying to stay calm.

Max smirked, that arrogant smile that always brought out the worst in you.

"You know what bothers me the most?" he continued, stepping closer to you. "That you still think this is just a speed contest."

Before you could respond, a familiar voice interrupted.

"Hey! Can we let them do their job?" It was Lando, approaching with a playful smile, probably more aware of the tension between you and Max than he realized.

"I was just talking to—" Max began, but Lando didn’t let him finish.

"What I mean is, we’re probably all trying to focus on qualifying. So, why not save the disputes for later?" he cut in, ironically, looking at Max with amusement.

Max didn’t say another word, but something in his demeanor shifted. There was something in his gaze that now wasn’t clear—was it jealousy or just pure anger? Still, what surprised you most was that Max walked away, not before throwing one last look at Lando. It was brief, but you caught it. Something wasn’t right.

Qualifying went by like just another routine, but your mind kept spinning. All afternoon, every time you crossed paths with Max, the tension was palpable. Sometimes, the glances. Other times, his subtle movements. It was clear something had changed—but you didn’t understand what.

(Sunday, Race Day)

The race began under a cloudy sky, the track slick from the rain. Cars roared past at full speed, the engines drowning out any other sound around you. But as you focused on the monitors, you couldn’t help but notice that Max seemed... different. More focused on what you were doing. More attentive to your position. Every time he passed by, it was intentionally close, like he was trying to prove something.

Mid-race, when everything seemed calm, it happened. During a pit stop, Max exited first, followed by your teammate. But before the pit crew could react, Max suddenly sped up, dangerously. You knew this wasn’t just a miscalculation.

The Mercedes radio exploded with your engineer’s angry voice:

"Watch out! Watch Verstappen!"

You looked over, but didn’t catch it clearly. Still, the feeling in your chest was undeniable: Max had done it on purpose.

The rest of the race played out under higher tensions, with increasingly loaded glances between you and Max. But what really got under your skin was his behavior off the track. After the race, when the drivers gathered for the press conference, Max was more distant than ever—but his eyes never stopped searching for you. And when the questions finally ended and you stood to leave, he approached.

"You think I’m an idiot?" he asked, voice low, controlled, but with a hint of something... jealousy?

You had no idea what he meant.

"What?" you replied, confused.

"Lando," he said, almost through clenched teeth. The word hung in the air like an accusation.

"What about Lando?" you asked, genuinely not understanding.

Max took a step closer, closer than he should have. He looked you straight in the eye.

"Don’t look at me like that. Don’t pretend you don’t know. Lando isn’t your friend. He’s not just one of your ‘colleagues’. So what are you playing at, huh?"

You were speechless. The anger that had consumed you on the track now turned into pure fury. What did he think he was doing? Why had he decided to get involved in something that didn’t even exist?

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Max," you finally said, barely holding yourself together, your stomach in knots. "Lando is just a co-worker. I’ve got nothing to hide."

Max frowned, but something in his expression changed. The fury gave way to a much more dangerous look.

"Don’t make me continue this conversation," he said before stepping back and turning away.

Your breathing was still ragged. Why did he care so much?

#🖇️ max verstappen #max vertsappen fic #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 #f1 x reader

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scliffe · 20 days ago

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I love the ending for the new anime season very much—it’s sweet and beautiful; and also terribly fitting for the Green Witch Arc.

Ciel’s mental state is constantly represented by the clothes he’s wearing; during his mental escape in GWA, he was wearing these clothes—the debut costume—pristine clean and unadulterated right before he was ripped out of them and defiled. Staying in these clothes forever means denying what he went through—time forever frozen in that moment before he fell from grace—it means denying his past and what has happened to him.

When he wears these; he turns almost childlike and cowardly, clinging to “his brother”, crying and sulking in bed, being terrified of adults, and hating Sebastian—the proof of his sin. But of course he’s unable to remain in escapism forever—and he gets jolted into the cold reality of being in that cage.

In the ending song; he starts the dance in the same clothes he was wearing the night of the ritual—the height of his misery and the night he lost everything he had left. These are the same clothes he is mentally stuck in whenever he gets a PTSD attack—torn, filthy, and miserable; these clothes brought with them the ghosts of his past.

Even the loving family he used to have only serves to make his current situation even more wretched in comparison. He looks at the ghosts of his parents, Madam Red, and Joker, and he slumps down in misery. For a moment he’s lost and adrift in the middle of nothing; missing his anchor. But then he gets up and grabs Sebastian’s hand.

Sebastian pulls him into motion. Ciel still wears these miserable clothes, but he no longer seems lost or haunted by the ghosts of his past. These are the very last clothes he was wearing before he decided to become the Earl of Phantomhive. Whoever our Ciel used to be—the child that he was before he chose to kill himself and took up the name of Ciel Phantomhive—was then “buried” forever in these clothes.

This quiet moment where only the two of them are dancing with wisps of blue represents that moment of transformation—the last moments our Ciel exists as his past self before he dies and the Earl of Phantomhive was reborn. Sebastian holds him as he looks up for the last time and peacefully, with no resistance, closes his eyes.

The frame expands and then we see him dancing with the servants—in the same order that they were found: Finnian, Mei, and Bard. The lighting is warm and luxurious, the servants clap and cheer him on, and he’s wearing gorgeous, expensive clothes—as he always wears when he’s with Sebastian—as the Earl of Phantomhive. This is possibly the cutest footage I’ve ever seen in my life.

And finally; Sebastian holds him up (or more like he climbs Sebastian; which also speaks a lot of their relationship) as he reaches up and grabs the star. This is the role Sebastian has always held in Ciel’s heart—he is his support, his closest, most intimate companion, and perhaps the tool (literally being treated like a ladder) for Ciel to reach his goal; while Ciel also trusts Sebastian not to drop him or let him down.

I don’t think I’ll ever shut up about how Sebastian is the one who pulled Ciel out of that hell—it is my Roman Empire and I will write 999 posts about it. I love how; although Sebastian and Ciel’s relationship may be morally questionable; at the end of the day, Sebastian is still the one who allows Ciel to grow into who he is—to rise and grasp the star with his own hand.

This ending is terribly bittersweet as we watches Ciel’s journey—both his pain, his determination, and the companions he gains and achievement he grasps—as he dances through the waltz.

#love how he climbs Sebastian with no hesitation like a cat climbing a tree with no plan on how to get down #love how Sebastian just smiles and lets his young master climbs him like a tree #basically I Love LOVE everything about this ending #i can write essays on how gorgeous it is #kuroshitsuji #black butler #sebaciel #low quality screenshots from youtube but they are a high quality pairing #another long yapping from me pretending not to understand the tumblr ‘Read More’ function #yapping

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hrizantemy · 21 days ago

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I’m sorry, but Rhysand saying “neither side was innocent” during the conversation with the mortal queens in ACOMAF, when the subject of fae enslaving humans was brought up, is one of the most egregious lines in the series — and it’s rarely discussed with the weight it deserves.

Let’s unpack that: he is speaking to a group of human women, representing the very group of people who were enslaved by fae for centuries, and when they bring up this long history of subjugation, torture, rape, and death, his response is to essentially say, “Well, both sides were bad.”

That is victim-blaming. That is revisionist history. That is colonialist rhetoric.

It’s no different than saying, “Well, the enslaved people fought back sometimes, so it wasn’t just the slavers who were wrong.” Rhysand, who wants to be painted as this morally enlightened, progressive High Lord, essentially minimizes the suffering of an entire species—the one his mate used to be a part of, no less—because acknowledging that the fae were uniquely cruel would be an inconvenient truth. He doesn’t show remorse. He doesn’t even offer an ounce of compassion.

Instead, he offers the oldest excuse in the book of abusers and empires: “It was mutual.”

No, it wasn’t. The fae were the enslavers. The humans were enslaved. Power imbalance matters. Scale and systems matter. And for Rhysand — who was alive during that time — to not only fail to acknowledge it, but dismiss it outright, is a massive moral failing.

What makes it worse is how it lines up with everything we’ve come to understand about how he views humans. Rhysand might love Feyre, but he doesn’t love humans. He doesn’t mourn their culture, their history, or what was taken from them. In fact, he only seems to acknowledge humans when it’s politically convenient (like trying to leverage Feyre’s mortal roots or the war). Otherwise, they’re an afterthought at best, disposable at worst.

And the fandom just…lets him get away with it.

There is no growth. No nuance. Just a man who calls himself “feminist” and “progressive” while upholding the very structures that oppressed entire peoples — and gaslighting them about it.

So yeah, “neither side was innocent”? I’m sorry, but what the actual fuck.

#anti acosf #anti inner circle #anti acotar #anti rhysand #anti feysand #anti cassian #anti azriel #anti amren #anti morrigan #anti nessian #anti night court

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crapeaucrapeau · 2 months ago

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Defunct ME1 Website Codex Entries

In the interest of preserving rare documents related to Mass Effect, I'm transcribing here the Codex entries which were on the ME1 website when the game first came out. They are reproduced here as they form much of the basis by which we understand Mass Effect ; in some cases, they are phrased differently from the Codex in the actual game, with additional information, or contradictions (e.g. the given length of the Krogan Rebellions). Link here : https://web.archive.org/web/20130326112139/http://masseffect.bioware.com/me1/galacticcodex/index.html

Each Codex entry comes in two parts : the "lede" on the starting Codex page, and the entry itself. In an archiving interest, associated polls are included, though they do not represent anything more than the intended market's opinions prior to the game's release. Everything is quoted verbatim, though I have done some formatting modifications for ease of reading.

Note : since this was very much part of the promotion for ME1, the intended audience is clearly human, but it's difficult at times to see if it's an in-universe "we" or an IRL "we". The polls, however, are clearly out-of-universe.

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SPECIES

The Advent of Humanity on the Galactic Stage

In the decades since our first encounter with the greater galactic community, humanity has risen quickly to prominence, establishing colonies throughout the stars. However, our population growth and military strength have led to resentful speculation that an invitation to join the ranks of the Council itself is imminent. [Read More]

The Advent of Humanity on the Galactic Stage

In the year 2148, humanity discovered Prothean ruins on Mars. The remnants of Prothean technology scattered amongst these ruins allowed them to develop mass effect fields and faster-than-light travel. This led them to discover and reactivate the mass relay at the edges of Earth's solar system, giving them access to the mass relay network spanning the rest of the galaxy and bringing them into contact with the greater galactic community.

2148 AD : Humanity discovers a small cache of highly advanced alien technology hidden deep beneath the surface of Mars. Building on the remnants of this long extinct race - known as the Protheans - humanity quickly masters the science of mass effect fields, leading to the development of faster than light travel.

2149 AD : Spreading out through their own solar system, humanity discovers that Charon, Pluto's moon, is actually a massive piece of dormant Prothean technology - a mass relay - encased in ice.

Once activated, humanity discovers that the mass relay allows instantaneous travel across thousands of light years to a synchronized mass relay in another part of the galaxy.

There they discover several more dormant relays. Over the next decade humanity expands rapidly, establishing colonies and activating dormant relays to open up more and more unexplored regions of space.

2155 AD : To defend its rapidly expanding empire, humanity assembles a massive fleet and constructs an enormous military space station at the nexus of several key mass relays…even though they have yet to encounter another intelligent space-faring species.

2157 AD : Humanity makes first contact with another space-faring culture: the turians. Unfortunately, the encounter is far from peaceful. Over the next several months a brief but tense conflict known on Earth as the First Contact war ensues.

This conflict draws the attention of the Citadel Council - a multi-species government body that maintains peace and stability throughout the known galaxy. The Council intervenes before hostilities escalate further, revealing the existence of the greater galactic community to humanity and brokering a peace between them and the turians.

2165 AD : Humanity continues to expand, founding more colonies and establishing trade alliances with many of the other species who recognize the authority of the Citadel Council. In 2165 the Council makes official recognition of humanity's growing power and influence in the galactic community. Humanity is granted an embassy on the Citadel, the political and economic heart of the galaxy.

2183 AD : Commander Shepard - a promising young officer in the Human Alliance military - is assigned to the crew of the Normandy, the most advanced prototype vessel ever designed.

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Turians: Friend or Foe?

We fought these raptor-like aliens in the First Contact War, but have since settled into an uneasy co-existence with them. Despite their code of honour, discipline, and work ethic, the question remains whether these Council members are friends or foes. [Read codex entry]

Citadel Council Race: Turians

The turians were the last of the Citadel races to join the Council. Their features are avian, making them resemble humanoid birds or raptors. They have a reputation for skill and bravery in combat, but they are not known to be bloodthirsty. A rigid code of honor and strict discipline are the hallmarks of any turian officer. This includes humane treatment of prisoners and conquered enemies. A turian patrol unit will never willingly leave behind one of their own, no matter what the cost of saving them.

Turian society is highly regimented and very organized, and the species is known for its strict discipline and work ethic. Turians are willing to do what needs to be done, and they always follow through. They are not easily spurred to violence, but when conflict is inevitable, they only understand a concept of "total war." They do not believe in skirmishes or small scale battles; they use massive fleets and numbers to defeat an adversary so completely that they remove any threat of having to fight the same opponent more than once. They do not exterminate their enemy, but so completely devastate their military that the enemy has no choice but to become a colony of the turians.

Other species see them as "men of action," and they are generally regarded as the most progressive of the Citadel races. Since their culture is based on the structure of a military hierarchy, changes and advances accepted by the leadership are quickly adopted by the rest of society with minimal resistance.

WEB POLL : Turians are an honourable and disciplined race. Why do you think humanity warred with them immediately after first contact in the year 2157?

There was a misunderstanding that blew out of proportion - 64%

They feared our potential and saw us as competitors - 23%

They probably always attack first to probe for weaknesses - 11%

They wanted the planet Earth and our colonies for themselves - 3%

Other - read my comments - 3%

Total votes : 16674

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TECHNOLOGY

M35 Mako

The Mako is a light infantry fighting vehicle you'll get to use when exploring planetary environments. Equipped with laser-guided ordnance, micro- thrusters, and laser detection arrays, it's an essential tool to have in your arsenal. [Read more]

Technology : M35 Mako

For 20 years, the standard "battle taxi" of the Systems Alliance Marines was the M29 "Grizzly" Infantry Fighting Vehicle (IFV). While excellent in long-term planetary campaigns, the Grizzly's bulk and weight made it unsuitable for rapid deployment across the Alliance's expanding sphere of influence. To fill this increasingly important role, the M35 "Mako" IFV was designed to fit in the small cargo bays of Alliance scouting frigates. The M35's small size and low weight allow it to be easily deployed to virtually any world.

Since Alliance marines may be required to fight in a variety of planetary environments, the Mako is environmentally sealed and powered by a hydrogen-oxygen fuel cell. For deployment on low-gravity planetoids, it is equipped with micro-thrusters and a small element zero core, which can be used to increase mass and provide greater traction.

The "eezo" core can also be used to reduce mass, allowing the Mako to be safely air-dropped. This allows frigates to deploy their shore parties while limiting the ship's exposure to defensive anti-aircraft artillery. When used in conjunction with thrusters, mass reduction allows the Mako to extricate itself from difficult terrain.

The Mako's hull is covered with laser detection arrays, which forewarn the crew of enemy laser-guided ordnance. Ground-penetrating radar allows detection of anti-vehicle mines and other subsurface anomalies. These will be brought to the attention of the crew by the vehicle's micro-frame computer system.

Several combat support vehicles using the Mako's basic chassis are manufactured for Alliance surface garrisons. These include a recon drone controller, a mobile air defense platform, and the M38 military ambulance nicknamed "Moby" because it is painted white during peacekeeping operations. Shipboard Marines exclusively use the tactically flexible and heavily armed base model.

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Normandy

Optimized for solo reconnaissance missions deep within unstable regions, and using state-of-the-art stealth technology, the Normandy is a prototype deep scout frigate. [Read more]

Technology : Normandy

Frigates are swift, flexible warships. Unlike larger vessels, they are able to land on planets. Although lightly armed, Alliance frigates usually carry a squad of marines for security and groundside duty.

The most important role filled by frigates is scouting and reconnaissance. Thanks to mass effect technology, ships and communications can travel faster than the speed of light. Sensors, however, are limited to the speed of light. If an enemy ship is a light year away, a stationary observer will only be able to see it when its light arrives in a year.

An attacker will always gain surprise against a defender; attacking ships moving faster than light will arrive long before their light speed-limited sensor data does. For defense, fleets are surrounded by spheres of scouting frigates. These vessels detect enemy ships passing by them, and transmit warnings to the main body. The Normandy is a prototype "deep scout" frigate, developed by the Systems Alliance with the assistance of the Citadel Council. It is optimized for solo reconnaissance missions deep within unstable regions, using state-of-the-art stealth technology.

For centuries, it was assumed that starship stealth was impossible. The heat generated by routine shipboard operations is easily detectable against the absolute-zero background temperature of space. The Normandy, however, is able to temporarily "store" this heat in lithium heat sinks deep within the hull. Combined with refrigeration of the exterior hull, the ship can travel undetected for hours, or drift passively for days of covert observation. This is not without risk. The stored heat must eventually be radiated, or it will build up to levels capable of cooking the crew alive.

Another component of the stealth system is the Normandys revolutionary Tantalus drive, a mass effect core twice the standard size. The Tantalus drive generates mass concentrations that the Normandy "falls into", allowing it to move without the use of heat-emitting thrusters. The heat sink and Tantalus drive systems allow the Normandy to loiter undetected in an enemy system to monitor traffic, or drop infiltration teams on enemy worlds. Should the Normandys design prove useful in field tests, it is expected that a follow-up class incorporating "lessons learned" will be produced.

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marksbear2 · 3 months ago

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SILCO X ENFORCER MALE READER

I’m not even gonna lie…this is straight angst💔. This is my first time writing for arcane so let me know what you guys think about it.

⚠️Warnings!- forbidden love, angest, sex mentioned, love reciprocated to late, reader dies, fatal gunshot, doomed mlm.⚠️

Fallen Flame

The undercity of Zaun had a pulse all its own. The flickering lights, the low hum of machinery, the scent of oil and metal. It was a world that lived and breathed in chaos. Among its many streets and alleys, two men stood on opposite sides—one an enforcer, the other a master of control and manipulation. But fate, cruel as it was, had a way of binding their lives together in ways neither could foresee.

You were an enforcer—a soldier in the fight for Piltover's clean streets. The job was simple in theory: uphold order, ensure the laws were followed, and stop people like Silco. It had become your mission to rid the undercity of his influence, to shut down his criminal empire once and for all. But somewhere along the way, things had begun to blur.

Months of chasing shadows had brought you here—into his web. You’d grown obsessed with taking him down, the infamous leader of Zaun's underworld. He was dangerous, manipulative, and infuriatingly elusive. But behind the venomous words and cruel exterior, there was something that drew you in—a deep fire of conviction, one you couldn't help but admire despite yourself.

And you hated him for it.

But then... you’d hated him for so many things.

It started with stolen glances during interrogations. Heated arguments in dimly lit alleys. A desperate, feral kiss exchanged one fateful night when hatred boiled over into something raw and unspeakable. You hated how your body betrayed you. Hated how he kissed you back, biting and brutal, until you couldn’t breathe.

For months, your meetings had been like this—barbs traded like weapons, insults masking the fragile truth neither of you dared to say aloud. You hated him for what he stood for. He hated you for everything you represented. And yet, the tension between you wasn’t just hatred. It was something more dangerous. More intoxicating. It was why you kept coming back, why he kept letting you.

Yet the clandestine meetings continued, each one a powder keg of tension and desire. Every argument left scars—both physical and emotional. And every time you found yourself in his arms, it became harder to pretend this was anything but an addiction. But neither of you admitted the truth. That would’ve been weakness, and neither of you could afford that.

He hated it too, but no matter how hard he tried your touch was engraved into his skin. The sound of your voice was better than any song he heard. Your scent was better than any candle or flower. The way you kissed and made love with him, it was different. You were different…

The night it all ended was suffocatingly humid, the undercity choking on the fumes of industry. You’d received intel of a weapons shipment in the docks, one you knew would solidify Silco’s stranglehold on Zaun.

You weren’t going to let that happen.

The ambush was chaotic. Gunfire erupted, smoke filling the air. Your squad was outnumbered, overwhelmed. But you fought through the chaos, determined to find him. And you did. Silco stood at the edge of the pier, his silhouette illuminated by flickering flames. His men lay scattered, defeated, and his sharp gaze met yours as you leveled your gun at him.

“Don’t move.”

He tilted his head, a faint smirk playing on his lips despite the blood on his temple. “You won’t shoot me.”

Your hands trembled. You wanted to prove him wrong. You wanted to hate him enough to pull the trigger. But you couldn’t. "Why?" The word tore from your throat, a desperate plea. "Why does it have to be this way?"

Silco stepped closer, his voice calm, almost tender. "Because the system you serve will never let us be free. And you... you were never meant to understand that." His hand moved to his coat, and instinct took over. You fired.

The sound was deafening.

But when the smoke cleared, it wasn’t Silco who fell.

Pain exploded in your chest. You looked down, stunned to see the crimson stain blooming across your uniform. One of his men, barely conscious, had fired the shot.

Silco’s face twisted in something unreadable as you dropped to your knees.

The world blurred as he knelt beside you, his hands pressing against the wound.

"You idiot," he snarled, but his voice cracked. "Why didn’t you walk away? You could’ve left this behind." You tried to speak, but the words came out as a cough, blood staining your lips.

"Don’t... don’t act like you care now," you rasped.

His grip tightened, desperation flickering in his eyes. "I don’t."

"Liar."

Silco’s jaw clenched. For once, he didn’t have a sharp retort.

The pain was fading now, replaced by a strange, numbing warmth. Your vision dimmed, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze one last time.

“I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat.

He leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t. Don’t say it.”

But it was too late. “I loved you,” you murmured, the truth spilling out with your final breath.

Silco froze, his hand still pressed against your chest as your body went limp. The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, shattering whatever armor he had left. For a moment, he stayed there, staring at your lifeless form. Then, slowly, he stood, his face a mask of cold fury and unbearable loss.

The enforcer who had dared to challenge him, who had been both his greatest rival and his deepest regret, was gone. And for the first time in years, Silco felt truly alone.

In the weeks that followed, whispers spread through Zaun. The enforcer who had dared to defy Silco was dead. But what they didn’t know—what Silco would never admit—was that he’d lost far more than just an enemy that night. He’d lost the only person who had ever truly saw him.

THE END

#x male reader #male reader #male reader insert #x male y/n #x reader #amab reader #x gn reader #x top male reader #arcane silco #silco x reader #Silco x male reader #silco #arcane #arcane x reader #arcane x male reader #arcane lol #the bear club

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seleneprince · 28 days ago

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The Neglected! Wife from my yandere!batfam au

Name: Rosa Perez (only by default. Insert whatever name you want there)

-Hispanic inmigrant. She came to Gotham as a kid with her family, looking for a better life...and to expand their criminal empire.

-She was born into crime. She was raised in it, and damn good at it. It was the family bussiness, and from a young age she was pushed into taking part on the usual gruesome parts of the job.

-Killing, torturing, trafficking, all the drill. And when she got older, she became a sex worker too, which allowed her to scout for information to blackmail people, conspire against them in the most painful way...or end them in their most vulnerable moments.

-Her family built their empire from nothing. From the streets of their native country to the alleys of Gotham, they became a force to be reckoned with. And she was one of the most efficient, dangerous assets. The ace, the multitasker. There was nothing she wouldn't do if there was profit in it.

-They weren't the most loving or healthy family in the world, but they were all she had. In the end, they always got each other's back no matter what. And she didn't have many options anyway.

-Then, as a teen, she met a boy. The total opposite of her. Rich, composed, with impeccable manners and a deep, almost obsessive sense of justice and morality, as white and clean as the clothes he prided himself in wearing. A golden boy, brought up in the kind of luxury and privileges that you can only have by being born in the right family. She hated him on sight. And it was mutual.

-He represented everything she despised of Gotham's socialite. The lack of self-awareness over his privileged position, the ignorance of the systemathic oppression they were partly responsible for against people like her, the hypocritical morality he carried like an honor badge that was only valid when it came to certain problems but was actually full of loopholes. His smug confidence, his naïvety, his stupid belief that he alone could make Gotham a better place. Where the guilty would be punished accordingly and the victims avenged.

-It was laughable, really, if it wasn't so pathetic too. Which is why they always clashed whenever they crossed paths. He was too idealistic, she was too realistic. They were from completely different worlds, facing against each other like twisted mirrors.

-And yet, as time passed, as they grew up watching each other change, how the world around them evolved with them as well, something between them...shifted. She couldn't tell exactly when it happened, but the fights turned into fiesty debates. The debates into softer talks in rooftops or in his car. Maybe it began when he asked her to show him the world through her eyes, to help him understand better so he could actually make a difference in the future. Maybe it was when, along the way, she started to see the world through his eyes too.

-Without wanting it, without even meaning to, she started to like that boy. And then, she fell in love with the man he became.

-Neither of them could imagine how that taking that simple step would be the beginning of the happiest years of their lives...and their downfall.

-Because her man was broken, beyond repair, divided in two fragments of his soul that fought for control constantly and threatened to destroy himself. Sometimes it was him, the man she knew, and sometimes it was another one wearing his face.

-But she loved him. With every fibre of her heart, every nerve of her body, it all pulsed for him. With that man, she not only learnt the meaning of true love, she also learnt to love herself. And no one, not even that demon who stole his face sometimes, could take that away from her. Because beneath those broken fragments, beneath that darkness that threatened to swallow her too, she knew he was still the boy who made her feel alive like nothing else, who made her laugh until her face hurt, who stood with her when she fought her own demons.

-And yet...life has a really twisted and sick sense of humour. It loves to mess with them.

-She got pregnant for the first time, entirely by accident...and it wasn't from the man she loved.

-It had been a busy, drunk night, another one enduring the worst of her job. She was tired as well, and a rich man spotted her across the club she worked at. When he approached her, she told him the same words she threw at everyone who showed her that kind of interest:

"I don't come for free, sunshine."

-Turns out he had no problem with that. He could afford it. That and the whole club. And so, he ended hiring her company for the night. She recognised him too late, but she couldn't turn down a client. Specially not this one. No matter the conflict in her heart.

-Because how could she not recognise Bruce fucking Wayne himself? And given their story, no less?

-She remembers their first real meeting as if it was yesterday. Of course, that stupid night at the club wasn't the first time their paths crossed. Back when they were still young, foolish, and reckless in their own ways. His expensive car slammed into her, not hard enough to kill, but enough to send her stumbling back. Slammed into the hood, then rolled off, her bodyt hitting the pavement with a thud.

-She remembers already having a bad day, and that only made her see red.

-Before she knew it, before she could even think, she punched the window. Her bare fist colliding with the glass with a brutal force that could be explained by her rage (and maybe years of experience breaking bones). Glass spidered instantly under the impact, and she wasted no time in letting them know what she thought:

"Are you blind, rich boy?! The hell kinda driving is that?!

-And of course, because it couldn't be any other way, her lover, back when they still couldn't stand each other, was already storming out of the car to get in her face. Yelling

"What the hell, Rosa?! You just punched his car's damn window off. Are you fucking insane?!"

-And she screamed right back.

"Excuse me?! How am I the insane one here?!" she shot back, stepping toe-to-toe with him. "Your dumbass friend over here almost ran me over! All that money for expensive cars and yet you idiots can't fucking drive? Figures."

-And that was the first time she and Bruce Wayne saw each other, although she didn't actually see much of him back there. She was too busy standing in the middle of the street, in the middle of another full-blown screaming match with the future love of her life. And Bruce didn't get out of the car (probably scared they'll chew his head off if he intervened).

-And he never left his life after that. He always hovered on the edges of her world, one way or another, like two planets circling around the sun. Same orbit, but never actually making contact. Until, of course, that fateful night where her life changed forever.

-She barely remembers how it started. She remembers his hands, strong, calloused, nothing like the man she loved. She remembers words whispered in the dim glow of expensive hotel lighting. She remembers the kind of warmth that felt like a brief escape from her chaotic life.

-She remembers waking up alone and thinking: ·Good. That’s all it was meant to be."

-Then she went back to her life. She made out with her lover and everything went back to normal. And for a while, she didn't think of that one-night stand again.

-Until she was late. Until she had to take a test. Until she stared at two pink lines and felt her stomach drop.

-She was told to abort the baby by those close to her, since not only it would be another burden for her, but she wouldn't be able to give them a good life.

-However, she refused everytime. She briefly considered using the baby to get a hold of the Wayne's fortune, but she dismissed that thought quickly, and decided to keep her precious babygirl to herself instead. The high society wouldn't ever accept them anyway, and if they gave a shit, it'll be only to take her baby away from her.

-For the first time in her life, Rosa had something more worth living for. Something that was entirely hers, her own creation. And she refused to let anyone or anything take it from her. It made her realise romantic love didn't hold a candle to what she felt the first time she heard her baby's heartbeat.

-She could've told her partner the truth. She thought she deserved to know, but then...she saw it in his eyes. The genuine joy when he first held the ultrasound in his hands. The way he whispered, "She’s perfect, my love. She will be ours." Even though he knew she wasn't. Not really.

-So she told him a slightly concealed truth. That the father was a client, an accident from one drunken night. A faceless man neither of them needed to worry about, because she had no intention of letting know of this. She didn't want him involved. Not when she already had the perfect father for her babygirl right by her side.

-He had stepped into the role of father for her daughter without hesitation, with joy. And then, when she had the twins, his biological children, she thought that would be it. That everything would be fine. Bruce Wayne would never be part of her life. That she would never have to see him again or ask him for anything. She even left the gang and her work behind, ready to start anew with her new family and devote herself to them. She found a much cozier place as a waitress in the Iceberg Lounge (Penguin owed her some favours anyway).

-But life decided to fuck her over again.

-Suddenly, the man she loved was ripped away from her. His name was splattered across headlines, his legacy destroyed beyond salvation. Batman took him and Arkham picked him up, trapping him indefinitely in those endless walls of madness.

-The man who once held her at night, who whispered dreams of a better life, was now gone. Their protector, their provider, the one she trusted with hers and their chidren's future. Because he promised he wouldn't fail them. That he would always be there for them, and they'll build a happy future together, with a better Gotham once he fixed it to his image.

-Suddenly, she was alone. No allies. No protection. No way to keep her children safe.

-And when Gotham’s underbelly came knocking, those who had blood debts to pay with her other family, sent men to end her life in front of her babies, she realized something brutal and undeniable as she washed the blood of her hands:

-They weren't going to survive.

-Not if they kept living this way. Relying on others, trusting their lives in other's hands. She had to act. And now.

-And she saw it clear as a day. There was only one way to fix this. It was unthinkable, she hated it, but looking at her children's lost, scared faces, her heart squeezed painfully. Her feelings didn't matter. Whatever sense of loyalty she felt for her lover didn't matter. Her children were her priority.

-After she burned the house, with all evidence inside, she was interrogated by the police. She kept her kids behind her all the time, never letting a single officer so much look at them. She felt that she would claw the eyes out of whoever tried to talk to them. Then, Comissary Gordon took the lead and guided her to his car. She expected to be taken to the comissary for the boring, official procedure, but instead, he took them to a damn ice-scream stand.

-He paid for their orders, offered them seats and just. Sat there. Watching as the children ate their ice-scream peacefully, sometimes running around, as if the sugar made them forget what they just went through. And seeing Gordon's face when she asked him why, why did he do that, she realised that was precisely his intention. Make them forget, if only for those brief minutes.

-She's still grateful with him for it. He's the only person in the GPCD she tolerates.

-Afterwards, they stayed in an cheap hotel in the outskirts of the city. She couldn't go to her relatives, that's where her enemies would look. She hid, hid her children, and blackmailed the hotel's receptionist to keep their mouth shut about their presence with stuff she had about them from years ago.

-The following days were a blurr. Taking care of her kids, making sure they were safe, and stalking the hell out of Bruce Wayne.

-Watching, studying, looking for his weaknesses. She was going to force his hand somehow. She was desesperate, out of options, and completely determined to get to him.

-The constant thought clawed at the back of her head: "Find the man. Find his weakness. If nothing else, steal from him. Use his name. Use his resources. Use whatever you can. He owes you that much."

-And then? She saw it.

-Saw Batman, the untouchable legend, Gotham’s untouchable king, remove his cowl. And suddenly, it all made sense.

-Of course. Of course. The richest man in Gotham, who disappeared at night. The philanthropist with no actual time to be one. The cold, untouchable billionaire, who acted like a ghost in his own city.

-Bruce Wayne was Batman. The Dark Knight. And the man who put the love of her life in Arkham Asylum, ruining their lives.

-And there, along with the crushing shock, she felt a cold sense of satisfaction. Finally, she had it. She had his weakness. She knew exactly what to do.

-She put on her best dress. Dressed her daughter accordingly too. And after entrusting her youngest kids to a relative for a short while, she drove them both to Wayne Manor. Not before telling them that things were going to change for better now.

-She walked into his house, into his fortress, ready to make him pay. For the child he put in her. For the choices he made. For the consequences of his actions. Whether he liked it or not.

-She sat in the chair in front of him, poured herself a drink, and greeted him with a smile laced with venom.

"We need to talk, cariño."

-She slid a folder across the desk. Their daughter’s birth certificate, along with the pictures she took revealing his real identity.

-His eyes scanned the paper, and for the first time in his life, she seemed surprised. Shaken. He looked up to her with fire blisting in his eyes, but she smiled back.

"You took something from me, from us" she said, voice even, but dangerous. "You took him away. And now? You’re going to make up for it."

-She held her daughter's shoulder, finally getting him to look at her. Her fingers tightened in reflect. She reminded herself why she was doing this, why she had to. For the little girl besides her, and the other two waiting for them to return. She would throw herself at the mercy of Satan himself if she had to.

-Because this was his fault. Their father was gone because of him. She was alone because of him. Her children were in danger and almost died because of him.

-And so, like that, they got married. There wasn't a ceremony. Just signing the papers and exchanging rings. She didn't need more. Didn't want more. The only wedding she wanted flushed down the toilet when Batman threw her partner behind a cell.

-The four of them moved to the manor. Their bedrooms were alocated on the opposite side of the manor to theirs, isolating her further. She knew it was a punishment, the only way he had to get back at her. As if she cared. She didn't marry him for love or attention. She wanted his surname behind her kids' names so they were safe. Besides, she would've set the curtains on fire before sharing a bed with him.

-What she couldn't stand was seeing the cold indifference directed to her children, specially to her oldest daughter. The one who was a Wayne by blood. Okay, she couldn't expect Bruce to care for the twins, they weren't his biologically (and if God listened to her, he wouldn't ever know who their father was), but her oldest girl? Her precious babygirl? She was his. The DNA tests he took himself afterwards confirmed it. She was the breathing copy of Martha Wayne, for fuck's sake. Shouldn't that make him feel something? Anything?

-It pained her more than anything, because there was nothing she could do. She couldn't fix the crushed look in her sweet girl's eyes at the rejections, the constant dissapointment, the crushing realisation that her siblings didn't love her. That her new father didn't care about her.

-She almost broke when her little girl told her she missed her other dad, the one who actually loved her. She cried herself to sleep in her room. "I miss him too, my love. I miss the man who loved me."

-But this was their life now. This...this was for the best. She could handle a loveless, cold marriage. She also vowed to never follow her heart again, never rely on anyone else beyond the bare minimum. She trusted love to keep them safe, and it almost cost her everything. Never again.

-Let them look down on her, on her children. Let Batman's little soldiers hate her, resent her for blackmailing him. Let him ignore their daughter, the child he put in her because he couldn't use a fucking condom.

-At the end of the day, her children will be safe and healthy. And that's all that matters.

-If she has to go back to her roots and stain her hands with blood again to ensure it, so be it.

#batfam x reader #yandere batfam x reader #yandere batfam x neglected wife #neglected wife darling au #yandere batfam x wife darling #yandere batfamily x stepmother darling #yandere bruce wayne #yandere bruce wayne x reader #yandere batfamily #reminder the name is optional #feel free to imagine the name you wish #same for the physical description #that's just what i have in mind #this ended up longer than i expected to ops #its just her story is deeper than i originally planned and it turned out like this #i'm not sorry #adding more about them in the future

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jiniretracha · 2 months ago

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𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠? - 𝐥𝐞𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐱 (𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬)

pairing: lee felix x fem!reader

warnings: fluff, smut, angst!!!

summary: You worked at Kim Publishing, a place you could call home since the very start. But when it faced bankruptcy, your beloved company was forced to merge with Bang Editorials an evil empire with no vision on anything that Kim Publishing represented. And that's how you met your nemesis: Felix Lee. The bane of your existence. But everything fell into place like the pieces of a puzzle when your bosses had a marvellous idea: a new position as manager director, who had to submit their report in order to be chosen for the job. And your archenemy had the same purpose as you did: get that job one way or another.

word count: 4.5k

ps: I came with a new series totally and utterly inspired/based on The Hating Game. Pls feel free to let me know if you wanna be on this series taglist !

masterlist // series masterlist // ko-fi

𝐎𝐍𝐄 - 𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

There used to be a period of your life, when you started working at Kim Publishing, that you loved your job with your entire being. You’ve always been kind of a bookworm, often called a nerd, and as soon as you finished school, you knew you wanted a job that related to your love for them.

Kim Publishing was your home, just like the owner, Kim Hwayoung, who felt like a stepmother to you. The company was known for its insistence on literature as art, just like you’ve always envisioned.

But that was until last year.

Your beloved company Kim Publishing sadly faced bankruptcy and was forced to merge with Bang Editorial, an evil empire with no vision on anything that Kim Publishing represented. Basically known for ghostwritten autobiographies of sports stars with brain damage.

That meant one thing: Bang Editorial workers had to move into the Kim Publishing building. In other words, war.

You’ve had to suffer from having co-workers being fired in front of you because, according to Bang Seojun, the CEO of Bang Editorials, they were a waste of money and space.

And that’s how you’ve met your nemesis: Felix Lee.

The bane of your existence.

Your reasons for hating him were various.

Reason One: You’ve seen him smile to everyone around you, showing kindness, except towards you.

Why? You never knew exactly why, to be honest. The minute you met him, knowing you’d be partnered to share the same office, your desks being right in front of each other, you decided to gift him some cupcakes, feeling like making a good impression on your new co-worker. You knew you’d be spending an awful lot of time around him, the least you could do was make him feel at home.

But Felix Lee just glanced at your face, grabbed the cupcake box and, wordlessly, walked towards the elevator, without sparing another glance at you.

You stood there that day in your place, feeling so dumb and asking yourself what the hell had you done wrong.

You’d ask your co-workers about him and they all said the same thing: he was lovely. He seemed to be so nice and kind and yet, he didn’t show not an ounce of niceness or kindness towards you. He was the exact opposite.

Reason Two: He’s a control freak.

His desk, unlike yours, was incredibly tidied. Every little thing had its place. You hated it, cause if somebody were to look at your desk, they would grimace and compare it to his. It wasn’t that yours was a mess, it’s just that his was likely comparable to American Psycho.

You always had fun walking towards his desk when he wasn’t around and messing around with his stuff, misplacing the stapler, moving the sticky notes or turning the pens on their other side. He’d turn around and absolutely know that everything was out of its place. Borderline psychopathic conduct.

The guy even wore the same shirts in the same order every fucking week. Who does that?

You had even memorized the pattern.

Monday: light grey.

Tuesday: white.

Wednesday: baby blue.

Thursday: sky blue.

Friday: royal blue.

So predictable, you always thought every time he arrived at the office with the same shirts on the same day.

Reason Three: He always corrects any tiny mistake you make.

You’d give him reports and he’d hand them back to you all scribbled over with a sharp red marker, to give you some sort of consciousness of your mistakes (his words, not yours).

Reason Four: Probably the most important one. After the merger, he came up with a list of people to fire, making Bang Seojun almost come in his pants from the excitement it gave him saving money, and it included all of your co-workers and friends.

Who were kind of all of the friends you had, if you were being honest.

It made your skin crawl just how unaffected by the whole thing he was, just flawlessly walking around with his stupid freckles and stupid black hair, always so perfectly combed.

Felix Lee seemed like the perfect guy with his charms and freckles from the outside, but don’t let him fool you.

You were convinced he was the actual devil in disguise.

⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄

It was a bright day and you only hoped it would mean no actual death threats thrown around between you and Felix. It would happen eventually, you just always hoped it would be the exception.

When you stepped out of the elevator, you saw Kim Hwayoung, your boss (or well, one of your bosses as Bang Seojun was unfortunately one of them too) walking towards her office.

“Good morning, Hwayoung” you bowed handing her a report.

“Good morning, dear Y/N” she smiled at you, grabbing the papers you handed to her. “Has Bang seen this?” she asked, her eyes curiously roaming all over the papers.

“Well, I’ve emailed it to Felix so, I assume, yes” you nodded, following her.

“Hmm, and what about that book from the actress. Did Bang turn it down like we assumed he would?” Hwayoung asked, opening the door of her office and walking inside.

You stepped inside and shut the door behind you. “Suspiciously, no. He didn’t. I’m kind of assuming he didn’t really pay attention to the long ass email you sent to him” you shrugged.

“Sounds like Bang Seojun” Hwayoung sighed, wiping a hand over her face in exhaustion. “We need to step up and make sure that girl gets a spot in our editorial. We can’t lose her to the testosterone that seems to run in this place”

“Yeah, I’m on it” you nodded immediately, completely agreeing with her.

“That’s why you’re my favourite” she winked at you. “Would you be a darling and tell Lia to bring me a coffee on your way out? I’m not stressed today yet but I feel like it’s gonna be one hell of a day already, and please tell her to leave it by the meeting room”

You chuckled and nodded. “Of course, Hwayoung” you smiled at the elderly woman. “See you in a few”

She blew you a kiss and opened her computer to start working. You stepped out of the office and went to the coffee area, where you knew you’d find Lia, Hwayoung’s assistant.

“Hey, Lia! Hwayoung just asked me if you could bring her coffee and leave it in the meeting room?”

“Hi, Y/N. Sure!” she kindly smiled and immediately went to make some coffee.

“Y/N! Y/N!” a familiar voice came from behind you and you refrained yourself from rolling your eyes.

You turned around and plastered on a fake smile on your face. “Hey Soyeon. How are you?” you said, grabbing a cookie from the tray that was on the counter.

She bit her lip and sighed. “I just wanted to ask you for a small favor” she started with a pout.

Oh my God, here we go.

“I need more time for the monthly report, you know?” Soyeon said as she followed your walk towards the meeting room. “My nephew ate peanut butter yesterday, and he’s kind of allergic to it. I have to go take care of him at the hospital and- it’s just been so stressful” Soyeon faked being fed up with her supposed life story. “Could you please be a sweetheart and just give me a little bit more time?”

You knew she was faking. But you didn’t have it in yourself to say no to her, or anyone for that matter. Quote Taylor Swift, you were a pathological people pleaser.

“Sure” you smiled, wanting to grab your hair and just rip it off. “Of course”

Soyeon sighed and smiled at you. “You’re the best, It will be ready on Monday… or Wednesday at the latest” she said and walked away before you could even utter a word. With a sigh, you bit at your cookie and rolled your eyes at your incapability of saying no to Soyeon.

You were about to step inside the meeting room when you caught Felix, staring at you with that characteristic smile on his face.

“That… was pathetic” he said.

“Don’t project yourself on me, alright?” you grumbled, crossing your arms over your chest.

“You know, Y/N. You could have her do her job” Felix said, stepping closer towards you. “But no… you always have to be the good guy”

“Well-” you shrugged. “It’s so much better than being the asshole, isn’t it?”

Felix snorted and rolled his eyes with a smirk.

“Oh, and by the way” you said before stepping inside the meeting room. “Your tie is crooked”

Felix’s eyes widened and looked down at his tie. His tie, that was sitting perfectly on his chest.

You gave him a smirk and walked into the meeting room.

He just pressed his tongue on his inner cheek and followed suit.

“Oh, Y/N, Felix. So glad you guys are here” Kim Hwayoung greeted you as you sat next to her and Felix right next to his CEO, Bang Seojun. “Mr. Bang and I have an announcement we want to make. We’re adding a new position to the team!” she said happily.

“Yeah” Bang Seojun nodded. “We’re adding a managing director, that will oversee each department, and he will pass that report to me”

Hwayoung rolled her eyes. “He or she will pass the report to both of us” she stated, still wearing her kind smile and Bang Seojun just nodded along.

“The job is open to external applicants, of course, but… I would very much like to hire from within” Bang Seojun smirked at Felix.

“Yeah, and we’re putting up an independent panel since we don’t always agree” Hwayoung eyed Seojun from across the table. “They will be the judge of it”

“You have… about a month and a half” Seojun said, eyeing his papers lying on the desk. “May the best man win!”

“Or woman” Hwayoung pointed out, raising her manicured finger up.

“Or woman, yeah” Bang Seojun nodded and Hwayoung rolled her eyes again.

You looked at Felix who was already staring at you wearing his infamous smirk.

You’re on, Felix Lee. You are so on.

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“The job is mine, cupcake” he scolded you, as you made yourself tea.

“Oh, your confidence is compelling but you forgot one tiny little detail” you said, feigning innocence.

Felix just arched his eyebrows. “And what’s that?” he asked with a smile, amused.

“Everyone hates you” You simply stated and turned around, walking towards the elevator with the cup of tea in hand.

“Oh, they don’t hate me. They fear me, which makes me very effective for my job” he said, following you.

You chuckled. “You know, the day that I’ll be your boss. I will require you to smile at me at least every once in two minutes” you grumbled at him.

He walked next to you as he laughed. “When I’m your boss, I’m going to give you so much work, you’ll start using the office as your home address” he stated, firing back at you.

“When I’m your boss, I’m going to impose casual Fridays” you said and pressed the elevator button. “Hawaiian shirts mandatory”

“When I’m your boss, I’m going to implement a new dress code. No more looking like an elementary school librarian” he said, walking inside the elevator right behind you.

You scoffed and looked at him. “If you get the job, I’ll resign”

Felix pulled a shocked face on him. “Really?” he asked, surprised.

“Just like you will if I do” you said to him and narrowed your eyes.

“I don’t quit” Felix said to you with a chuckle.

“All right. Then, I’ll fire you” you fired back at him.

“Ah… but I’m incapable of giving you that pleasure” Felix smirked.

“Aww, it’s not the first time you’ve said that to a woman, isn’t it?” you asked him, with a grimace.

Felix snorted and looked away, shaking his head.

“So we agree, then” you said with a smug smirk and he looks back at you, his eyes full of a certain emotion you couldn’t quite pinpoint. “If one of us gets the job, the other one has to quit”

“Fine. Agreed” he said, sure of himself that he was going to be the one getting that job.

The doors of the elevator opened and you stepped inside your office. You saw that Wooyoung, your co-worker, one of the few people that weren’t fired from the merger, was waiting by your desk with an excited smile.

“Oh, hey Wooyoung!” you smiled at him with a wave, your eyebrows raising up at his presence.

“Hi, Y/N. I’m bringing some delivery for you” he smiled at you, handing you a book.

You gasped, immediately recognising it. “Oh! The new book” you smiled widely at him. “That’s so nice of you, thank you”

Wooyoung worked in editing and even though he wasn’t technically your friend, you two had a very good relationship. Ever since all of your friends were fired, Wooyoung was kind of like the only person you found you could trust, besides Hwayoung. You tried to keep him close to you ever since the merger.

“The designers made copies in advance, it’s not that big of a deal, so…” he shrugged, walking closer to you, trying to contain the smile that was trying to creep into his face from your words.

Felix sat by his desk and narrowed his eyes at the scene unfolding in front of him.

You looked at the cover and frowned immediately. “Oh shit. Is this the cover?” you grimaced, showing the book to Wooyoung.

Wooyoung let out a frustrated sigh and nodded. “Yeah, I’m sorry. Bang Seojun made us do it” he shrugged, clearly annoyed as well.

“The book is about archeology, what the hell is this?” you stared at the book with a cover with a girl in it. “Did he even read the back cover?”

“I seriously doubt it” Wooyoung replied slowly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t”

“Do you, Y/N?” Felix asked and you found his gaze. “I mean, I was sure you didn’t even know how to read so…”

“First grader insults, great job, Felix” You said with sarcasm, give him a thumbs up.

“Okay… I’m out of here” Wooyoung said, noticing that you were about to get each other's throats. Again.

“Bye, Woo” you smiled.

“Bye, Y/N. Bye, Felix”

Felix didn’t reply and just grabbed some papers from his desk before sitting on his chair and looking at the now empty corridor.

“That poor sap thinks you’re flirting with him” Felix bit his lip, shaking his head. “How sad”

“The same way people think you’re flirting with me?” You asked him, raising an eyebrow.

“Cupcake, if I was flirting with you, you’d know” he smirked, confidently.

“I didn’t know losers knew how to flirt, but here we are” You said, typing away on your computer.

You saw him sigh and grab a journal from a drawer, and with a red marker, scribble something inside it and close it. He left it there and opened his computer.

Your eyes shifted down to your hands and gnawed at your lip. You were now curious at what the hell was that thing where he just scribbled something random with a red marker on a journal.

Before you could think it through, Bang Seojun came into your office with a smug smile. “Hello, my hardworking people” he said, and you knew he had to refrain from calling you slaves.

“Hi, Mr. Bang. I have a copy of the new book for you” you said, grabbing the book that Wooyoung had handed you.

“Ah!” Seojun yelped and walked towards you, grabbing the book. “Dr. Lee, you didn’t tell me it was ready” Seojun said, eyeing the book proudly. “The cover was all me, you know?” Bang Seojun looked way too proud of the god-awful cover.

“Y-yeah” you nodded, scratching your head in an awkward manner. “It’s um… it’s definitely eye-catching” you stammered, obviously finding it very hard to lie.

“Yeah” Seojun chuckled. “Did you send the emails I told you to send, Dr. Lee?”

“Yep. Already did” Felix nodded, without sparing him a glance.

Bang Seojun smiled contently and patted the book with his palm, before leaving it on your desk. “Great. See you kids later” Seojun said and left the office.

“Bye… dick” you whispered that last part under your breath.

“Did you just refer to the cover as eye-catching?” Felix said, with laughter hiding in his voice. “It looks like it was designed by a horny fifth-grader. Not exactly delivering knowing it’s a book about the diary of an archeologist, but whatever”

You pulled your face back, taken aback by the information he had just provided. “Since when do you read the books we publish?” you asked him, narrowing your eyes.

Felix shrugged. “I always do it. Plus, I felt the book was so boring, I fell asleep three times reading the first page” he said, placing his macbook inside his bag.

You snorted and stood up from your chair, grabbing your purse. “Well, it’s tiring to read above your level of education” you fired back. “Maybe you aren’t ready for chapter books just yet”

“It was boring, Y/N!” Felix defended himself, standing up to grab his coat from the hanger.

“It was a masterpiece, and then Bang Seojun had to go and cut like 200 pages from it, with the sole excuse that he wanted it to be more of an ‘airport read’” you scoffed, putting on your coat and placing your purse on your desk. “Which is totally ridiculous. He’s just trying to mask that he doesn’t have enough IQ to actually interpret what the author is saying”

“Just admit it, cupcake. It was boring” Felix said, giving you a look.

“Whatever” you rolled your eyes and walked towards the elevator with your stuff, Felix following you behind.

“So… any plans for the weekend?” He asked with a long breath. “Probably your usual right? Watching a cringey romantic comedy while eating something greasy out of a can?”

You scoffed and let out a little laugh. “And what about the Lee’s? Drinking the blood of a virgin and then staring at each other in silence?” you arched an eyebrow at him.

“Ugh, how did you know? We’re looking for donations” Felix said and you were both startled when Ms. Choi came into the elevator.

Ms. Choi as soon as she saw them, let out a huff.

“Oh, hi, Ms. Choi! You look spectacular today” you smiled at her. “Love those earrings”

“Don’t even try” Ms. Choi cut you off. “I’ve got four complaints this week. FOUR. Three alone about the break room incident on Monday” she fumed.

Oh. Yeah.

That… was…

MONDAY:

It was supposed to be a tranquil day that Monday, until Felix Lee had decided to give you shit for some mistakes you had made while typing the report you were supposed to send to him. He had managed to find you coincidentally in the break room… where everyone was supposed to be enjoying just that, their break.

“Ready for our lesson?” Felix said loudly, grabbing a donut from a box, cutting it in half and showing it to you, making you gasp. “This is a coma-“ he said and then grabbed a munchkin. “And this is a period, which is a point” he mansplained to you. “Do you know how to use it? Do you?-“

“Put that donut away or I’m gonna shove it up so far up your ass, the damn surgeons are gonna have to cut you in half to take it off!” You yelled at him, banging your hand against the table of the break room, making every single person there turn their heads to look at you.

“Aww, wouldn’t you like that, cupcake?” he teased you, pouting out his lip.

PRESENT DAY:

Yeah. So…

“Mommy and daddy fight sometimes” Felix explained to Ms. Choi.

“Yeah, we have discussions” you smiled with sarcasm.

“Like when Mommy has typos similar to a fourth grader and Daddy has to step up and correct her like a goddamned teacher” Felix said with a fake neutral voice.

“Or how Daddy has a cork up his ass and sometimes needs to yell at Mommy to decompress” you said between your teeth.

Ms. Choi looked at you with a disgusted face. “Mommy and daddy? Are you two for real?” she scoffed. “You two are the worst part of my job…”

You felt like hugging Mr. Choi and apologising.

It wasn’t her fault that Felix Lee had to be the bane of your existence.

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You got home at around 7 pm and about an hour later, when you were already showered and ready to make some dinner, your mother called you.

“Hey momma. How’s London going?” You asked her, sitting on the couch and crossing your legs.

“Oh, you know… same old usual” she tried to make you feel better.

You scoffed at her. “Mom. I’m sure London’s a thousand times better than Seoul. Less people, less flashy lights, and on top of all that, you’re there on a long ass vacation”

“Fine, fine. London’s amazing” she giggled. “I didn’t realise just how much I missed this place”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it” you smiled. “Did you, at least, buy me something nice?”

Your mother gasped. “Y/N! Of course I did. What kind of mom would I be if I didn’t?” she answered like she was offended. “I bought you a snow globe, the one you told me you wanted, and a few baby tees that you girls use nowadays with an I Love London on it”

“Great” you chuckled.

“What about you?”

“Huh?” you blinked a couple of times.

“How are you doing? Are you doing something today? You know, Friday night and all?” she asked you.

How do you tell your mom that your life is incredibly bland and dull without sounding like a pathetic loser?

“Um, yeah. It’s- I’m taking this Friday out so I can go on a full party mode for tomorrow” you lied easily. “Me and the girls are going out for drinks and then- then we’re going to a party”

“Oh, whose party?” she asked excitedly, sounding like a teenager.

Shit. “Wooyoung’s” you shrugged, thinking of the first name that came to your mind.

“I see… Any lucky guy we should worry about?” Your mother asked, knowing she was smirking on the other side of the line.

You scoffed. “Wow, you’re getting ahead of yourself!”

“Come on, tell me! You never tell me anything!”

“No… I was seeing this guy but… we broke up like four months ago. And that’s it” You told her with a sad smile.

“Aw, my baby. I’m sure there are plenty of fish in the ocean” she told you.

“Yeah, well… it’s not that easy to find a good one”

“What about that guy from work?” Your mom asked.

You raised an eyebrow. “Who? Felix?” you asked with a grimace, though she couldn’t see it.

“Honey, you talk about him all the time” your mom chuckled.

“I do not! I literally despise the guy with all my being” you said in a whiny pitched voice. “We’ve had endless conversations about how much I hate him”

“Yeah, sure, sweetheart”

“You don’t believe me” you stated, it wasn’t a question.

“Oh, no. It’s not that I don’t believe you. I don’t think you don’t believe yourself when you say those things about Felix” she explained.

“Alright, um… I’m gonna- I’m gonna go watch a movie or something. I think this conversation is done”

Your mom let out a cackle. “Okay, honey. Make sure to call me at least once this weekend” she said.

“Yes, Mom. I will”

“Bye, I love you!” your mom called out.

“Bye, love you lots” you said and hung up the phone.

With a sigh, you rolled your shoulders back, letting your bones crack and started preparing dinner for yourself.

Once you sat down on the couch with a bowl of pasta and put on some crappy reality show to watch on TV, your mind couldn’t help but drift over to Felix and the whole deal you had made.

You just hoped to God your strategy would work, otherwise, the thought of leaving Hwayoung alone with Bang Seojun would eat you alive for life. You wouldn’t forgive yourself.

But on top of all, you wouldn’t let Felix win. You couldn’t. Over your dead body.

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You pressed your head on the pillow with a tired sigh.

After a couple of minutes of trying to find a comfortable position, you kicked the covers off of you, seeking some air and comfort over your legs.

All of a sudden, you felt a pair of hands placing themselves on the sides of your head and a body pressing itself against your back.

You gasped and pushed back against the hard and warm body. You felt your breath picking up its rhythm as you felt a hand running over your leg. The presence felt awfully familiar.

“You make me so fucking hard” the man said, and it made you moan lowly, recognising his voice. “You know that?”

Felix’s hand drifted over to the front of your shorts and pressed his fingers over your clit. You squeezed your legs around his hand and moaned brokenly, your feet kicking the mattress.

Your breath became more ragged as his fingers started drawing tight circles over your clothed core.

“Felix…” you moaned, kicking your head back in pleasure. “Please…”

“Please what?” his deep and sexy voice boomed in your ears, making you clench around nothing. It sounded like a tease, like he always did.

“Touch me…”

He chuckled and the sound vibrated all over your body.

“Wake up, baby”

With a gasp, you sat up and looked around, feeling your heart beating out of your chest. With a few blinks, you realised that you were indeed alone in your room and one of your hands was neatly placed in between your legs, pressing against your bundle of nerves.

Your hand flew away from there and you frowned, your knees flexing so you could press your forehead on them.

Felix would not leave you alone, even in your dreams.

You slumped back on the bed, your head hitting the pillow furiously.

“Motherfucker…”

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @lattyjiji @jeonginsleftcheek @alrm02 @skzjiiiii

i apologise in advance if i cant tag you :(

#stray kids x reader #stray kids #stray kids smut #skz imagines #skz smut #felix x reader #felix x female reader #lee felix #felix #felix lee #lee felix x reader #felix smut #felix series #felix fluff #felix angst #stray kids felix

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nukudraws · 5 months ago

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Not to be like that but Clopeh Sekka is kinda a mad lad (like both in the sense that he's a lunatic and otherwise)

Let's see:

can't record the legend without mages around? -> invents surveillance cameras (you can record the legend from all angles!!)

figures out first how to easily pass the failure test in the sealed god's temple, does he go to the other stage? Nope, turns back to complete the test the hard way anyway

-> still makes it out way ahead of the others xdd

Like, we know he's not right in the head but he does have some cool moments

He's the reason most of the battles they fought during the wars are immortalized

-> imagine he didn't record them, who would believe this one guy who used to be trash shouldered all that responsibility and did all those deeds? *cough* in the eyes of the citizens a 18-20 years old *cough*

He also switches between sane and Caleism pope mode quite often and pretty easily if needed, sometimes even combines the two

For example, when the foreign kingdoms were 'having a discussion' about the damages done to Puzzle city with no Roan Kingdom representative, Clopeh barges in and puts them all in their places 🙏🙏

Or when they had the battle between the Mogoru Empire and the Whipper Kingdom, bro came in looking like a priest and preached everything he needed to without being told what to do exactly

-> now that I think about it, that must have been quite refreshing, imagine shouting at people from the sky about your hyper fixation and getting a pat on the back for it (not really, no pat in the back for bro, but still)

So, he should be given a bit of credit, he's not just a Cale fanatic, tho the most offended I've seen him was when he wasn't associated with Cale and his group, resulting in him not getting locked up or worse... So maybe don't tell him that

#I'm not sure what he does in part 2 #apart from introducing others to the legend #but part 1 Clopeh is kinda fun #I wanted more of his sealed god's temple povs so badly #lout of the count's family #random thoughts #clopeh sekka #tcf #lcf

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whereserpentswalk · 1 year ago

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There's an orc attending your college. Your city is pretty diverse, there's a lot of human cultures represented there, and even harpies and dwarves are common. But an orc is still a really rare sight. And she's not assimilated at all, she wears the symbol of the dark lord around her neak, and the strange black cloths from the wastelands she came from, and she always seems to have a gun somewhere on her. It's strange just to see an orc in person, she's not like the green skinned monsters you see in movies, her eyes are pitch black, and her skin is so pale you can see veins, she's muscular and tell but also strangely skinny, and her teeth are sharp and spiked like a sharks, this one doesn't have tusks, just these rows of serrated teeth.

Everyone avoids her at first. There's something creepy about her. She doesn't move like a human. She emotes weirdly, being stoic during conversations, but sometimes smiling or laughing at odd times. In class it becomes clear that she lacks knowledge anyone growing up in your society has, but has extensive knowledge on things most humans will never know. She also very clearly supports the dark lord and the demons who serve him, and gets mad when his narrative of conquest and strict genetic hierarchy is challenged in class.

You end up paired with her for a class project. It's weirdly awkward. But you end up spending more time with her then most. It still takes awhile to get used to her mannerisms, and you have to convince her of evolution in a long debate (but eventually you do convince her). She seems strangely naive to a lot of things. Every time she does something that she considers a failure she goes into self loathing, and she gets really afraid she's going to be punished. You have to explain to her things are going to be ok sometimes.

You try to spend time with her. She supports the dark lord but out of a strange sense of fear more than the type of ideological support humans in nations not under his control have. When she does something that she thinks is heresy agaisnt him she becomes afraid. And while she's angry at people who follow gods other than him (which is basically everyone here) she's more afraid of them than everything. When a holy symbol you own touches her she's surprised it doesn't burn her, you have to tell her it's ok.

She has a lot more freedom here than she did back in the wastelands. You slowly help her realize she doesn't have to worry about being punished for sinning agasint the dark lord. She's able to go on the internet for the first time, you help her get everything set up. You also introduce her to your freinds, only some of whom feel safe around her, but those who do seem to like her.

It's weird just hanging out in her dorm. She can be weirdly laid back and introspective at times, at least when she's not nervous or paranoid. But when she's just relaxing she'll tell you about things, about the beauty of the desert sands, about what it was like to observe the rattlesnakes and condors and wyverns of her homeland. How she likes to observe the city, the way the diffrent people flow through it, she was scared of it at first but now she likes to explore it, and the way it lacks stars at night but the lights from the buildings replace it. She says she wishes she could stay here forever, that she wishes she could be an artist but that she was sent here to learn skills useful to the dark lord's empire.

There's something nice about showing her new things. You get to take her to a musical for the first time. Get to show her neighborhoods you like. Get to explain to her what public transport is (though she got scared feeling trapped in a subway car). You get to show her stuff she never got to experience because orcs are never really children, she loves getting to hold a plush for the first time, or watching cartoons for the first time, it's like she's finally getting to live an experience she never had. Even though she's a well armed adult she really likes plushies once she finds out about them, they weren't something she was allowed to have back home.

Over time she starts meeting people and learning things that go against her worldview. As she makes more friends, understands new things, slowly learns that she shouldn't be punished for mistakes, she slowly comes around to seeing how fucked up the world the was raised in is. She tells you she doesn't want to worship the dark lord anymore, she cries just from saying it. You hug her, and realize she's never been hugged before, she seems to really like that feeling. She bathes in the waters of a healing goddess, and she worships something out of love instead of fear for the first time.

Eventually the spawning warlock who spawned her and her siblings comes to visit her. You told her to be careful but she ended up spilling that she doesn't worship the dark lord, she ends up spilling all the things a warlock like that considers a sin. When he leaves she tells you she can't go home. Not ever. Never again will she see the shifting sands, or flying condor, or flowing serpents of her homelands. She's trapped where she is now.

You know it hurts her a lot. She says she feels like she's in a small pocket of safety. Back home she'd be hurt for being an apostate. In human lands outside of the city she'd be hurt for being an orc. But she's safe here. She stays in her apartment for awhile, while you try to make things work. She's finally changing her major to art, and despite everything she's finally free, free to watch the starless sky, free to not be punished when she makes a mistake...

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speaknow-sw · 9 days ago

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•| ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ |•

Content : so much angst, pussy eating, PiV, battle, fluff.

A/N : In honor of Hayden’s birthday (HAPPY BIRTHDAY PEEPAWW) here’s chapter 8 of the forgotten and chapter 9 will be the last one 😭 I’ll cry when I’ll finish it. Anyway enjoyyy. (I hope you arrived here 🫧anon)

•| ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴠɪɪɪ: ᴛʜᴇ ʀɪꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ʀᴏᴍᴇ |•

“To be a parent is to give the world a piece of your soul, wrapped in warmth and wonder, and to pray the winds of fate are kind to the breath you once carried beneath your heart.”

Six months old

YOUR BABY—ROMAN, AS ANAKIN HAD NAMED HIM, after the empire he was fated to either save or bury—was six months old now. Still small, still soft, but already gripping the world around him with fists that trembled with power not yet understood. You held him gently in your arms, cradling his warm, wiggling body in the basin carved from marble and lit with the golden glow of the afternoon sun.

Your fingers moved through the water, guiding it across his little limbs. He gurgled, wide-eyed and curious, his chubby hands trying to catch the shimmering surface as you laughed quietly. Your power—so often a storm—had become a quiet warmth around him, a lullaby humming through the air. He made everything gentler in you. He made everything real.

Behind you, the sound of footsteps broke the stillness. You didn’t have to turn. You could feel him.

Anakin stood at the threshold, his broad shoulders leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. There was mud on his boots—he’d been outside, training the soldiers again—but his gaze was locked on you and the child with something unreadable in his eyes. Reverence, maybe. Or disbelief.

“He doesn’t stop growing,” he said softly, voice rough with awe. “He looks different every day.”

“He looks like you,” you murmured without looking up.

Anakin gave a short huff of amusement and stepped closer. “He has your eyes.”

You dipped a cloth into the water, squeezing it gently over Roman’s chest. The baby kicked his legs, splashing water, delighting in the chaos. You laughed again, a sound Anakin hadn’t heard in days, and something in him cracked open.

“I should help,” he said suddenly, crouching beside the basin. His large hands hovered awkwardly at first, like he feared breaking something so small. You guided his hand to the cloth, your fingers brushing his, and together you bathed your son.

Roman cooed between the two of you, unaware of what he represented. A child born of war and gods, forged by love and defiance.

Anakin’s gaze was fixed on the boy’s face. “When I first found out you were pregnant, I was terrified.”

You glanced at him. “You didn’t show it.”

“I didn’t want to. I wanted to be strong. But now…” He looked at you. “Now I know I’d do anything to protect him. You. Both of you.”

You leaned your head gently against his shoulder, your wet hands still moving across Roman’s back. “You already have.”

“No,” he whispered. “Not yet. But I will.”

For a long moment, there was only silence—the kind that didn’t need to be filled. You, Anakin, and the child born under the shadow of Olympus, wrapped in warmth and soap-scented steam.

And in that moment, for all that had been taken from you—your past, your peace, your freedom—you had this. The basin. The light. Their hands, your breath, his heartbeat. For a brief, sacred instant, you were not a goddess, and he was not a warrior.

You were a family.

Two years old

The midday sun filtered through the olive trees, casting shifting patterns of gold across the dirt path. The air was thick with heat and dust, the scent of pine and travel lingering on your skin. The caravan moved slowly, winding through the hills of Greece—Mount Olympus visible in the far distance, its jagged peaks like gods frozen in stone.

You walked near the front of the procession, one hand holding the reins of your horse, the other outstretched behind you for balance.

And just behind you, wobbling on two unsteady legs, was Roman.

He toddled through the grass beside the path, a small, determined figure swaying with every step. His little fists were clenched around a crooked stick he'd picked up at dawn and refused to let go of since, dragging it behind him like a scepter too big for his grasp. His curls bounced with every uneven step, and he babbled joyfully to himself—half-formed words and nonsense syllables, his own private language.

He tripped over a root, landed on his bottom, and blinked in surprise. Then he laughed—a high, bright sound that made several soldiers ahead glance back and smile in spite of themselves.

You rushed to him instantly, scooping him into your arms before he could scramble to his feet again. “No, little bird,” you murmured, brushing dust from his knees. “You’ve walked enough for now.”

Roman squealed in protest and twisted in your arms, trying to reach for the stick he'd dropped. You sighed, turned back, and picked it up for him. The moment you handed it over, he quieted, pressing it to his chest like it was something sacred.

Behind you, Anakin watched the scene in silence, his gloved hands resting on the pommel of his sword. He had been watching you both for a while now—his dark eyes fixed not on the road ahead, but on the curve of your shoulders, the way your body shielded Roman instinctively, the way your hand cradled the boy's head even when he was safe in your arms.

“He’s stubborn,” Anakin said, finally walking beside you. “Like his mother.”

“He’s a child,” you replied, though you were smiling. “Children are supposed to be curious.”

“He almost walked straight into a snake pit yesterday.”

You shot him a look. “You let him get that close?”

“I was right behind him,” Anakin muttered defensively. “Besides, the snake ran.”

You adjusted Roman against your hip as he gnawed distractedly on the top of his stick. “He’s still teething.”

Anakin looked down at the boy, who was now humming softly—a tuneless sound as he stared wide-eyed at the sun-dappled trees overhead. His little legs kicked gently, dirt-smudged sandals swinging in the air.

“He’s getting heavier,” you said, your arms tightening around him.

Anakin reached out and lifted Roman from your arms without a word. The child laughed again, shrieked something incoherent, and smacked his father’s chest with the stick.

“Ferocious,” Anakin said, wincing.

“His first weapon,” you teased.

“No. His first mistake,” he grunted as Roman stuck his finger up Anakin’s nose.

But even as he grimaced, Anakin's arms wrapped around his son with the kind of quiet, protective strength that needed no words. He walked now with Roman perched on one arm, the other hand resting on his hilt—soldier, father, and legend all at once.

You kept walking beside them, silent for a while. The wind brushed past your cheeks, carrying with it the scent of something old—something waiting.

The path to Olympus was long.

But you were not alone.

And in your child’s soft babble, his small hand tugging at Anakin’s curls, his sleepy eyes fighting against the bright sun—you saw the reason for all of it. The war. The journey. The legend.

You reached for Roman’s hand as he passed it toward you, and together, the three of you walked onward toward the mountain that held your fate.

The camp had settled into a rare hush. Evening fell in golden streaks over the hills, casting long shadows from the tents. The soldiers had eaten, and many were resting, murmuring in low voices, sharpening blades, or tending to their armor beneath the fading light.

You were off speaking with strategists, poring over maps and timelines.

Anakin sat with Roman on his lap, near the fire.

A small bowl of soft lentils and barley rested on a wooden tray before them, steam curling lazily into the cooling air. Roman, chubby fingers clutching a wooden spoon far too big for him, was determined to feed himself. Most of the spoonfuls ended up on his tunic. Some made it to his mouth. One splattered across Anakin’s vambrace.

Anakin sighed, gently catching the boy’s wrist mid-motion. “No, no. Like this.”

He guided the tiny hand, slow and steady, helping Roman dip the spoon properly, not overfill it, and bring it carefully to his lips. The child’s mouth opened like a baby bird’s, and for once, the food went in. He giggled proudly, dribbling some of it down his chin.

“There we go,” Anakin muttered, wiping his son’s mouth with the corner of his own cloak. “Victory.”

Roman beamed up at him with wide eyes and a barley-grain smile. He reached up, palm sticky with lentils, and patted his father’s cheek.

Anakin stilled.

For a second, everything else fell away—the soldiers, the war, the gods, even the path to Olympus. There was only this: the warm weight of his son against his chest, the small heartbeat against his ribs, and the soft touch of fingers that didn’t yet know the world could be cruel.

He stared at the boy’s face—soft, round, innocent.

Too soft, his mind whispered. Too gentle for the world that waited.

Roman blinked at him, still holding the spoon awkwardly like it was a sword. His brows furrowed in deep concentration, mimicking Anakin’s scowl like a mirror.

“You’re not a warrior,” Anakin said quietly, almost to himself.

Roman gurgled in reply and dropped the spoon with a clatter. He wiggled closer, curling into Anakin’s armor like he belonged there—which, Anakin thought, maybe he did. His son didn’t understand discipline, tactics, danger. All he knew was warmth, food, safety.

Love.

And it scared Anakin more than any blade ever had.

He pulled the boy closer, resting a hand on his tiny back. “You don’t have to be like me,” he whispered. “You don’t have to fight the world.”

Roman hiccupped, then smiled again, eyes already heavy with sleep. His small fingers curled around a bit of Anakin’s tunic, refusing to let go even in dreams.

Anakin looked up at the stars.

What kind of world was he marching toward? What kind of future could a boy like Roman survive in? A boy with softness in his soul, not steel?

And still, he vowed then and there: he would burn Olympus itself to make a place in the world for his son to be soft.

For his son to be happy.

And with that thought anchoring him, Anakin held Roman through the night—one arm always wrapped around his child, even as the fire flickered low and the weight of destiny hung heavy in the silence.

Morning light filtered softly through the canopy above, dappling the forest path in gold. The army was moving slowly, the hooves of horses muffled by damp earth, the wheels of wagons creaking beneath their weight. Birds stirred in the trees overhead, and somewhere in the distance, a stream murmured against rocks.

You walked slightly ahead of the caravan, your cloak trailing over the roots and moss. Roman sat in a sling strapped across your back, nestled against you, his chubby hands grasping the edges of the fabric. He babbled sleepily now and then, head bouncing with your steps. Anakin walked beside you, his eyes always scanning the woods, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“I don’t like this,” he said lowly, without looking at you.

You gave him a sideways glance. “What?”

“Bringing him.” His jaw clenched. “He shouldn’t be anywhere near this march.”

“He’s safer with us than in some crumbling temple,” you replied. “There’s no place untouched by the gods now. They’d find him.”

Anakin looked at the boy strapped to your back. Roman was humming, fingers stuffed in his mouth, blissfully unaware of the war coiling around him like smoke.

“He’s two years old,” Anakin muttered. “He’s barely speaking. He can’t even hold a dagger. How can we protect him if a battle breaks out?”

You stopped walking. “How do you think I feel, Anakin? He’s my heart walking outside my body. I think about every single possibility every time I close my eyes. But this isn’t just a war of mortals. He’s not just a boy. The gods want him for a reason.”

Anakin stared at you for a long moment. “Exactly. That’s why I’d rather die than let him see a battlefield.”

Then—

A snap. A rustle.

You both froze.

The wind shifted.

And then the sky shattered.

A crack of divine thunder split the heavens, and before you could draw breath, the trees erupted around you. From every branch, from every shadow, they came—figures of gold and flame, draped in celestial silk, their eyes glowing like suns. The Little Gods. The petty children of Olympus, lesser deities of vengeance, vanity, and cruelty—sent by Jupiter himself.

One of them landed hard in front of you with a shriek, wreathed in lightning, a cruel grin cutting across their too-perfect face. “Did you really think you could march on Olympus and we would do nothing?”

Anakin moved like a blade, drawing his sword and positioning himself between you and the glowing figure. “Touch them,” he growled, “and I will gut a god.”

Another descended behind you, but you spun, already channeling power through your fingertips. Roman whimpered softly in his sling, sensing the shift, his small arms wrapping tighter around your back.

Fire bloomed in your hand, and you flung it forward, knocking one of the gods into the underbrush with a scream. Anakin surged forward, the gladius in his hand glowing faintly as it met the divine, cleaving through shimmering armor.

But they were fast.

They darted like stars falling through the trees, whispering incantations, sending blasts of wind and light that scorched the earth around you. One reached for you, clawed fingers outstretched toward your child.

“NO!” you cried out, and your power pulsed—waves of golden light erupted from your skin, shielding Roman just as the god’s blow came down.

Anakin was beside you in an instant, his sword sinking into the god’s chest, its divine scream shaking the trees as it vanished in a storm of smoke and sparks.

Blood was running down his arm. His breaths were labored. But his voice was steady.

“Take him,” he said, grabbing your hand. “Get back.”

You shook your head. “No. I fight with you.”

Roman cried now, not from pain but confusion and fear, burying his face into your back. The sound of it nearly unmade you. But you planted your feet, summoned the earth beneath you, and with a roar of your own, you flung three more of the Little Gods backward into the trees.

One remained—taller, darker, crackling with cruel magic. They stepped forward, eyes on the boy. “You cannot protect him forever. You cannot stop what is written.”

You raised your hand—but Anakin was faster.

The gladius pierced the god’s chest in a single strike, and as they crumbled into sparks, Anakin spat: “We’ll write something new.”

Silence fell.

The smoke of battle curled into the branches. Your soldiers, shaken, were regrouping behind the trees. The baby whimpered, exhausted, as you cradled him now to your chest, heart racing.

You couldn’t help it.

As the last of the divine smoke faded into the canopy above, you dropped to your knees, the weight of everything crashing down at once—the fear, the fury, the helplessness. Roman stirred in your arms, his little hands gripping your tunic as he let out a confused, sleepy whimper.

And that was enough to break you.

Soft sobs spilled from your lips as you cradled him tighter, kissing the crown of his soft, warm head over and over again. Your fingers trembled as they traced through his curls, your breath hitching with each whispered apology.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, again and again, rocking him gently. “I’m so sorry, my love. My sweet boy…”

His little fingers flexed against you, his body pressed so trustingly against yours. He didn’t understand what had happened. He didn’t know the danger that had come so close to snatching him from your arms. And maybe that was mercy.

But you knew.

You knew how close you had come to losing him.

“I shouldn’t have brought you,” you whispered, your voice cracked and raw. “You shouldn’t be here. You deserve more than this. You deserve a home, not war. Not gods and weapons and death…”

Anakin knelt beside you, dirt and ash streaking his face, his arms coated in blood that wasn’t all his. He didn’t say anything for a moment—he just placed his hand gently on your back, grounding you, steadying you.

“You did everything right,” he said finally, low and hoarse. “You saved him.”

You looked at him through your tears. “But at what cost, Anakin? This is our son. And I can’t keep him safe.”

“Yes, you can,” he said, his voice firm despite the weariness in his eyes. “Because you’re his mother. Because you are the strongest woman I’ve ever known. And because he knows nothing but love from you.”

Roman blinked up at you, sleepy and confused, his little brow furrowed. “Mama,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath.

Another sob caught in your throat.

You kissed his forehead again, then his cheeks, his nose, every part of his sweet face.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “I’ll always be here.”

Anakin wrapped his arms around you both, pulling the three of you together, forehead resting against yours. “So will I,” he said softly. “No matter what’s coming. We fight for him.”

Anakin wiped blood from his mouth and looked at you.

“We can’t stop,” he said. “They’ll come again.”

You nodded, holding Roman close.

“But next time,” you whispered, “we’ll be ready.”

And with the dead gods smoldering in the dirt behind you, you stepped back onto the path—toward Olympus.

The air was thin up here—charged, ancient. The weight of Mount Olympus loomed all around like a force more than a place, thick with divine silence and the watchful eyes of immortals. But in the tent you and Anakin had set together at the edge of the encampment, there was only the sound of fire crackling low and steady.

You’d just finished tucking Roman into Marcia’s arms, the boy clinging to your neck with a sleepy whimper before surrendering to her gentle rocking. It had been a long journey. Too long, too heavy for a child so small. But he was safe now. For a few moments, you could let yourself breathe.

You stepped quietly into the tent, pulling the flap closed behind you. The glow of the fire painted the inside in golden warmth. And there he was—Anakin—his tunic draped loosely on the cot beside him, his bare back to you as he poured water from a clay jug into a basin, washing away the dirt and sweat of the march.

His movements were slow, mechanical. His broad shoulders were tense, locked with thought. You knew that look, that silence. It wasn’t peace—it was war beneath the skin. Plans forming. Fears tightening like a noose.

You didn’t say anything.

Instead, you walked toward him quietly, your steps soft against the earth-packed floor, and slipped your arms around his waist from behind.

He tensed for a moment—just a moment—then let out a breath like he’d been holding it for hours. His hands stilled in the water, and yours slid over his stomach, your cheek pressing against his spine, warm and firm beneath your touch.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured against his skin.

He was quiet still. But then his hands reached down to cover yours. His fingers were calloused, rough from war, but they curled around you with a gentleness that undid you.

“I was thinking,” he said. “Too much.”

“About?”

He hesitated. “About what happens next. About the gods. About you. Him. Us.” His voice was low, ragged at the edges. “If I can keep any of it safe.”

You held him tighter, your arms locked around him like a vow.

“You already have,” you whispered. “We’re here. We’re alive. He’s safe. That’s because of you.”

Anakin turned slightly then, just enough to glance over his shoulder at you. The firelight played over his face—his jaw sharp, his eyes shadowed and tired, but soft when they met yours.

“He looks like you,” he said quietly. “Roman. He’s got your eyes.”

You smiled faintly. “And your stubbornness.”

That made him huff a little, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“I thought I’d lose him,” he confessed, his voice barely more than breath. “Back in the forest. When they came. I—” He stopped himself. Swallowed. “I’ve never been more afraid.”

You moved around him then, slowly, and took his face in your hands. He let you. He always did.

“You didn’t lose him,” you said. “And you won’t. Not while I’m breathing.”

He bent down and rested his forehead against yours, and for a moment the world narrowed to just the warmth between you, the firelight, the heartbeat under his skin. His arms came up to wrap around your waist, holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from unraveling.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.

You kissed the corner of his mouth gently. “That’s the first thing you’ve said tonight that’s truly stupid.”

He chuckled against your lips, and that sound—it made the darkness seem just a little farther away.

And in the tent on the edge of war, you stood there, wrapped in each other, as the fire burned low and the gods waited in the sky above.

His fingers were still at your waist when he asked, his voice a low murmur against your temple, as if he was afraid to break the fragile moment you’d both carved out in the chaos.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

You looked up at him, his hair still damp from washing, his expression unreadable.

“Anything.”

He hesitated. Then: “How were weddings done? In Rome. I mean—real Rome. Back when it was just dust and wolves. When it was yours.”

You blinked. The question felt strange. Not unwelcome—just unexpected. But something in his tone made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just asking out of curiosity.

You pulled back slightly to look at him better, your hands still resting on his chest. “You want to know about the confarreatio?” you asked softly.

He nodded.

So you told him.

“In the oldest days, marriage was a sacred rite. Not just love, but duty—piety. It had to be approved by the gods. A high priest, a flame, ten witnesses… and bread. Always bread.”

“Bread?” he echoed, brows lifting.

You smiled faintly. “Flat cake made of spelt. A symbol of sharing. The bride would wear a veil dyed flame-red—flammeum—with hair parted in six braids, like the Vestals. She’d be led from her mother’s house to her husband’s, where he would lift her over the threshold. She wouldn’t step in. He’d carry her.”

Anakin tilted his head, something glimmering in his gaze—thoughtfulness, maybe. Or longing. “That’s how it was done?”

“In the oldest traditions, yes. With oaths spoken before the gods, and a touch of wine poured into the earth.” You paused, then added, “Marriage wasn’t just a bond between two people. It was a union of fates. Of households. Of legacies.”

He was quiet for a moment. The fire crackled behind you both.

Then he said, “I would’ve carried you. Over every threshold. Even if you didn’t want me to.”

You laughed under your breath, your heart tugging painfully at his sincerity. “I believe you.”

“I still might.” His voice was low now, almost reverent. “Someday.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes dropped to his chest, your hand splayed against the curve of the scar that crossed him there—a souvenir from another life, another war. Then you looked back up.

“There was one more thing,” you said.

“What?”

“The words.” You swallowed. “The bride would say them during the rite: ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia.”

“Latin?”

You nodded. “It means, ‘Where you are Gaius, I am Gaia.’ It was a way of saying… wherever you go, I go. That she belonged to him. That she would follow him through anything.”

His breath caught slightly. “Would you say it to me?”

You looked him dead in the eye, the firelight reflecting in his pupils like stars in motion.

“I already have,” you said. “Every time I followed you into madness. Every time I put our son on my hip and walked forward when every god in the sky wanted us buried.”

He cupped your jaw, reverent and slow.

“Still,” he whispered, “I want to hear you say it.”

So you did.

“Ubi tu Gaius… ego Gaia.”

And he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours, his hands anchoring you as if afraid you’d disappear, and you stayed there—wrapped in an unspoken vow, as the mountain held its breath.

There was no ring. No altar. No crowd of witnesses or waiting priests.

Just the firelight crackling low in the tent. Just the scent of ash and damp earth, and the weight of war pressing in from beyond the canvas walls.

Just him.

Anakin stood before you with that familiar storm in his eyes—half rage, half devotion—and something else now: certainty.

His hands, rough from battle and calloused by months of training with a sword that could kill gods, framed your face with a tenderness that undid you.

And then, without warning, without ceremony—he said it.

"Marry me."

The words left him raw and bare, without armor or pretense. It wasn’t a question dressed in pleasantries. It wasn’t rehearsed or calculated.

It was will.

It was want.

It was now.

Your breath caught, a thousand images flashing through your mind—your son asleep in Marcia’s arms, the long nights nursing him by candlelight, Anakin bleeding in your lap, you weeping in his arms after the Underworld, the weight of prophecy, the ache of fear—and love, always love, even when it hurt.

He leaned closer, voice fierce and reverent, as if afraid to lose the moment. “No temples. No gods. No rituals. Just you and me. Here. Now.”

“But—” you started, eyes burning.

He kissed your forehead like it was sacred. “No more waiting. I don't care if the sky falls. I don’t care if Jupiter himself rips the stars down to stop me. I want you. All of you. As mine. As my wife.”

You stared at him.

And somewhere inside you, something snapped.

Not in fear—but in surrender.

You surged forward and kissed him like your life depended on it—because maybe it did.

When you finally pulled back, gasping, your lips still brushing his, you whispered the only answer that could ever be true.

“Yes.”

And there—under the gods’ watchful silence, with no one to witness but fire and wind—you bound yourselves.

Just flesh, blood, love—and the sheer, defiant will to belong to one another before everything else burned.

The tent was quiet. Outside, the forest murmured with the low rustle of night—winds through leaves, distant crackling fires, soldiers’ boots against stone. But in here, it was just the two of you, and the gods could do nothing to stop what you were about to do.

You stood before him with trembling fingers, weaving your hair into two simple braids—one for Anakin, one for Roman. No crown of flowers. No golden veil. But this… this felt older than tradition, more sacred than temple rites.

You tore a small piece of bread from the rations—humble, barely more than flour and ash, but it was yours. And you placed it in his hand.

His hand covered yours, warm and steady. “Do you want to say them?” he asked, voice low, gravel-soft.

You nodded.

The tent felt too small for your heart.

“I vow,” you whispered, “that even if time breaks, even if stars fall and empires burn, I will find you.”

He said nothing, only looked at you with eyes like thunderclouds holding back the storm.

“I vow to remember you,” you went on, your voice breaking, “in every life, in every war, even if the gods erase your name from every stone.”

You handed him your braid.

He took it like a sacred offering, holding it to his lips.

Then, he stepped closer, and for once, he didn’t hesitate.

“I vow to protect you,” he said. “Not because the world told me to. But because you are the only thing worth surviving for.”

You swallowed back a sob.

He brushed your second braid gently over your shoulder, fingers trembling. “I vow to love our son. Fiercely. As fiercely as I love you.”

Then, eyes locking with yours: “And if death tries to take you from me—I will follow you. I’ll tear through every realm, every shadow, every cursed prophecy… to find you again.”

You couldn’t breathe. You didn’t want to. This was the vow that mattered.

No priest.

No witness.

Only truth.

You both took the small bread together—half each. The old rite. The simplest. The truest.

You were wife and husband now.

Bound not by law, not by crown, but by sheer, defiant will. By braids and broken bread, by a child who bore both your blood, by love forged in war and reborn in fire.

And as you leaned into his chest, feeling his heartbeat echo yours, you realized—

You had never belonged anywhere more completely than here.

Anakin gently lays you down upon the cot, the worn wool blanket brushing against your skin. He looms over you, his broad frame blocking out the flickering firelight. With a tenderness that belies his warrior's hands, he reaches out and begins to unlace your tunic with deliberate slowness.

Each tug of the laces sends a thrill through you, the cool air kissing your newly exposed skin. He parts the fabric, revealing the curve of your collarbone, the soft swell of your breasts bound beneath. His gaze grows heavier as he takes in the sight of you, a mix of awe and hunger kindling in his eyes.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his calloused fingers skimming along the edge of the fabric, grazing the side of your breast. "You're beautiful."

He eases the tunic off your shoulders, down your arms, until it pools around your waist. His hands find the hem of your undergarments, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your hips before he slowly rolls them down your thighs.

You hear his breath catch as more of your skin is revealed, the sound sending a fresh wave of heat through you. He kneels before you, his head bowed as he finishes removing your clothes, his fingers lingering on the curve of your knee, the delicate arch of your foot.

Anakin wraps your legs around his neck, his large hands gripping your thighs as he gazes up at you, his eyes smoldering with desire and affection. He leans in closer, his breath hot against your skin, as he murmurs,

"Still as flexible as the day I first met you, love. And just as breathtaking."

You inhale sharply as his lips find yours, capturing them in a searing kiss. It's a kiss filled with all the pent-up passion and longing of the past two years, the kiss of a man who has fought hard to be here, to be with you.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue delving into your mouth, exploring every inch of you.

His hands knead the soft flesh of your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin with a hunger that sends sparks of pleasure racing through your veins.

When he finally pulls back, his voice is rough with emotion, his words a fervent whisper against your lips.

"The last three years... they were the best of my entire life on Earth. Fighting for something, for someone, that I truly believed in. Fighting for you, for us, for the life we're going to build together. And tonight, I want to show you just how much you mean to me, how much I love you."

His forehead rests against yours, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he takes a shuddering breath. The cot creaks softly beneath you as he shifts his weight, his body settling between your parted thighs. You can feel the heat of him, the hard length of him pressing insistently against your core.

"Tell me you feel it too," he whispers, his voice a low, urgent rasp. "Tell me this is real, that we're real. That I'm not dreaming this moment with you."

"It’s real." You replied breathlessly.

Anakin growls softly against your neck, a sound of pure male satisfaction. "Real..." he echoes, his voice a low rumble that you feel as much as hear. Without another word, he dives between your thighs, his mouth finding your most sensitive spot with unerring accuracy.

You gasp, arching off the cot as his tongue delves into your slick folds, stroking and teasing, tasting your essence. He licks and suckles, his skill and enthusiasm unmatched, as if he's trying to memorize your every flavor, every intimate detail of your body.

His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he feasts on you, his head moving in a rhythm as old as time. The sensation is overwhelming, the pleasure building with each stroke of his tongue, each brush of his lips against your aching flesh.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, holding him close as you lose yourself to the sensations coursing through you. Your thighs tremble, your heartbeat pounds in your ears, your breath comes in short, sharp gasps. The world narrows down to this moment, to the feeling of Anakin's mouth on your most intimate place, his touch igniting a fire in your blood.

You feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter within you, your body wound like a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. And just as you teeter on the brink, ready to tumble into oblivion, Anakin looks up at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his lips glistening with your juices.

"Come for me, my wife," he commands, his voice a low, seductive growl. "Let me feel you come undone, let me taste your pleasure on my tongue."

Anakin surges up your body, his weight settling heavily upon you as he claims your mouth in a bruising kiss. You can taste yourself on his lips, the heady essence of your arousal mingling with the unique flavor of the man you love. His tongue plunders your mouth, stroking against yours, a silent declaration of his hunger, his need.

He breaks the kiss to trail his lips down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your pulse point, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. "Decades," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion and desire. "I've waited decades to have you like this, to call you my wife."

His hands roam over your body, mapping the curves he's longed to possess, the soft skin he's dreamed of touching. He cups your breasts, his thumbs circling your nipples, teasing them to stiff peaks. His touch is reverent, almost worshipful, as if he can't believe you're finally his.

"And now, the most magnificent sight is before me," he continues, his voice a low, fervent whisper. "My beautiful wife, my heart, my everything. You're worth every hardship, every battle, every moment of doubt and despair. You're worth more than all the glory and riches in the world combined."

He positions himself at your entrance, the hard, thick length of him pressing insistently against your slick folds. You feel the heat of him, the strength of him, the sheer, overwhelming masculinity of the man who has chosen you as his own.

"I love you," he breathes, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes boring into your own. "I love you more than life itself. And tonight, I'm going to show you just how much, how deeply, how completely."

With a single, powerful thrust, he sheaths himself inside you, filling you, stretching you, claiming you as his own. A guttural groan tears from his throat as he hilts himself deep within your welcoming heat, your walls fluttering and clenching around his thick length.

"Mine," he growls, his hips beginning to move, setting a rhythm as old as time itself.

"My wife, my love, my heart... mine for all eternity."

The sun rose over the jagged peaks of Mount Olympus like a blade drawn across the sky—sharp, bright, and ready for war. Morning mist coiled between the trees like breath from the mouths of sleeping giants, but Anakin Skywalker was already awake. Armor gleamed across his broad shoulders, bronze and black, streaked with battle scars that spoke of a hundred victories and just as many losses. He stood atop the stone outcrop above the camp, the wind snapping his red cloak behind him like a banner of blood.

Below, the army stirred. The living and the dead alike. Men sharpened swords and fitted armor, the clatter of preparation echoing like war drums. Spectral soldiers moved among them—restless, silent phantoms from eras long past, their eyes glowing faintly beneath rusted helms. All of them had answered his call. All of them would march under his banner.

And behind it all… the gates of Olympus loomed in the distance, veiled in divine mist. The home of the gods. The seat of their power.

The stronghold that would fall.

Anakin stepped forward.

His voice, when it came, was thunder.

“Soldiers of Rome.”

Every head turned. Human and ghost. Veteran and youth. They stopped what they were doing. The firelight of the camp shimmered in their eyes.

“I was not born a king. I was not chosen by gods. I was forged by the betrayal of men, and I bled for a world that forgot my name.”

A murmur swept through them.

“But look at you. Look around. We are the forgotten. The fallen. The castoffs of history. And yet—here we stand.”

His voice grew sharper, slicing through the morning.

“They think Olympus cannot fall. They think their thrones are eternal. But they have never faced us. They have never seen what love can build—what wrath can burn. They will learn.”

He pointed toward the summit, fire in his gaze.

“They stole our children. They broke our legends. They silenced our stories. But now…” He drew his sword. The gladius—the blade that could wound even gods. It hissed as he raised it high.

“Now we remind them who we are.”

A roar erupted. It started low, from one voice—then another. And then all of them. A howl of vengeance. Of justice. Of glory reborn.

Anakin turned his gaze briefly, past the soldiers, toward the tent where you waited—your child wrapped in blankets, safe in the arms of a loyal ally. He met your eyes across the distance.

And in that look, there was no fear.

Only resolve.

He looked back at his army.

“Today, Olympus falls,” he said. “Today, gods bleed.”

The army screamed its fury to the skies—and the mountain trembled in answer.

The wind at the base of Mount Olympus carried a quiet chill, threading through the camp like a ghost—gentle, but ever-present, as though the mountain itself knew what was coming. The sun had not yet risen, and the world was bathed in deep blue shadows. In the hush before battle, you and Anakin stole one last moment from the gods.

Inside the small tent, lit only by a flickering oil lamp, Roman lay curled between soft blankets. His golden curls were tousled, cheeks warm with sleep. He made soft sounds in his dreams—tiny murmurs, twitching fists—utterly unaware of the storm gathering outside.

You sat beside him, your hands trembling as you adjusted the little tunic on his chest. Your eyes burned with unshed tears. There was so much he wouldn’t understand yet. So many words he wouldn’t remember. But they still needed to be said.

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple, whispering into the shell of his ear. “My sweet boy. My Roman. If the world takes me today… know that I was never afraid of death. I only ever feared leaving you behind.”

From your neck, you removed the small bronze locket—worn, warm from your skin. Inside was a tiny carving of a she-wolf and her cubs. An emblem from an older time. Romulus. Remus. A forgotten past. You placed it gently around his neck and tucked it beneath his blanket.

“This once protected me,” you whispered. “Now it belongs to you. You’re more than a child. You’re a legacy.”

Anakin stepped forward then, eyes heavy, face unreadable. He knelt, running a calloused hand over Roman’s soft hair.

“He’s so small,” he murmured. “So soft. Doesn’t know what a sword is. Doesn’t know what Olympus means.”

You watched as he lowered himself, his forehead gently pressing against his son’s. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, “You’re everything good in me, little one. Everything I never thought I’d have. If I don’t come back… don’t hate me. Just be better than I ever was. Be free.”

Roman stirred then—eyes fluttering open. He blinked up at his parents, smiled a toothy smile, and reached for Anakin’s hand, wrapping his little fingers around one large thumb. He cooed, his mouth forming nonsense sounds, unaware of what those eyes saw.

Anakin swallowed thickly. “Gods help me…”

Marcia stood by the tent’s flap, eyes lowered respectfully. Loyal to the end, she waited in silence.

You turned to her, brushing tears from your cheeks. “Take him. If we fall—if Olympus stands—you must disappear. Go south. Hide him under a false name. But never forget…”

You stepped forward, placing Roman gently into her arms. He whimpered, reaching back toward you with small hands.

“He is the heir of Rome,” you whispered. “The true one. The gods may burn us to ashes, but he… he will rise.”

Marcia’s eyes widened, her mouth parting in stunned silence. But she said nothing. She only nodded.

She turned toward the tent’s entrance, cradling Roman gently in her arms. The child, still drowsy, blinked sleep from his eyes as the flap lifted and the chill of dawn brushed his cheeks.

And then—just before she stepped into the cold—

“Mama?” he murmured softly. “Dada?”

The words were barely formed, broken and innocent in that way only a child’s voice could be. But they pierced through you like lightning.

You gasped, your knees buckling before you even realized it, and Anakin caught you, his arms wrapping around you as your body shuddered with quiet sobs. Your face buried in his chest, your hands clung to his tunic as though it could stop time.

“He called for us,” you choked. “He—he said—”

“I know,” Anakin whispered, his voice thick.

And then, for the first time since you had met him—since battles, blood, war and fire—you felt his chest tremble. His breath hitched.

You pulled back just enough to see it: tears sliding silently down his cheeks. He didn’t speak. Didn’t make a sound. Just stood there, holding you like you were the only thing anchoring him to this world, as tears ran down the face of a man who had once conquered death.

For that one moment, the gods didn’t matter. Olympus didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the sound of your son’s voice echoing behind the tent’s canvas—small, bright, impossibly pure.

“Mama… Dada…”

And the love that broke you.

Anakin stood beside you, hands around you. As Marcia turned and disappeared into the trees with your son—your heart, your future—you felt the last thread of safety tear away.

You were no longer just lovers. Or parents.

You were legends now. And tomorrow, legends would go to war.

The horns of war split the sky.

From the summit of the mountain, Mount Olympus loomed—golden towers wreathed in clouds, divine and eternal. But not unbreakable. Not today.

Below, like a flood unleashed, Anakin’s army surged forward. The clash of steel rang across the heavens as men, dead and living alike, tore into the divine guards posted at the foot of the mountain. Shields shattered, spears splintered. War cries bellowed from throats both mortal and ghostly, echoing like a thunderstorm over marble and ash.

You stood on a rocky ledge, robes whipping in the wind, heart hammering in your chest. The sun had barely risen, yet blood already stained the sacred ground. The divine guards fought in silver, their blades forged in starlight—but even gods could bleed. Anakin had made sure of it.

You could see him at the head of the charge, the Gladius in hand—a streak of fury and fire. His dark hair caught the sunlight, his armor scratched and worn, his movements precise and brutal. He cut through the divine like a storm given form, the Flectere shield strapped to his back flashing with light every time a god's blow tried to touch him and failed.

The dead followed him, remnants of the past summoned to his side. Legionnaires with hollow eyes and shattered helms. Celtic warriors bearing the marks of Roman conquest. Even a few spectral figures wearing the regalia of ancient kings. The air itself trembled beneath their march.

You moved among the edge of the chaos, calling upon your power, striking down those who dared breach the flanks. Divine energy surged through your veins—restored now, honed by purpose and rage. For every flash of lightning Jupiter hurled from above, you countered with flame that bent the wind itself. You were no longer hiding what you were.

You were a goddess of legend, and this was your reckoning.

The divine guards shouted in their ancient tongue, calling for reinforcements, summoning sky beasts and winged sentries. But even they faltered when Anakin raised the Gladius and roared over the din of war:

“FOR MY SON!”

His voice cracked Olympus.

And the army roared with him.

You felt the sting of tears in your eyes as you watched him—your husband, your fury, your flame—fighting not for glory, not for vengeance, but for the small boy who had called out for his mother and father only hours before.

This was no longer just war.

This was legacy.

This was love, burning down the gates of heaven.

In the heart of Olympus, where marble steps gleamed beneath the glow of a dying sun, you and Anakin stood before the palace gardens. All around you, the sounds of battle roared—men and gods clashing, the shriek of metal against divine flesh, the thunder of hooves and war cries. But here… it was still. Suspiciously still.

Then, from the garden’s far edge, through the drifting cypress smoke, came a figure in radiant armor.

Obi-Wan.

Romulus.

His bronze chestplate bore the ancient sigil of Rome, cracked but gleaming. His cloak fluttered behind him like the shadow of memory. His eyes, clear as winter skies, locked on Anakin’s.

“Brother,” he said.

Anakin froze beside you. His grip on the Gladius wavered—not out of fear, but something deeper. Pain.

Obi-Wan stepped forward, sword sheathed, hands at his sides. “I’m not here to kill you, Anakin. I never was.”

Anakin took a step forward, jaw clenched, eyes burning. “Then why did you leave me to die in the mud?”

“I died too,” Obi-Wan said gently. “You weren’t the only one fate betrayed.”

You stayed close, your hand near your own weapon, your power simmering at your fingertips. But you didn’t interfere. This wasn’t your battle. Not yet.

“I know what you’re about to do,” Obi-Wan continued, voice low and steady. “You want justice. For yourself. For her. For your son. I understand.”

“Do you?” Anakin growled. “You stand here guarding Olympus, the gods who cursed us all. Don’t speak to me of understanding.”

“I’m not guarding them,” Obi-Wan said. “I’m trying to stop you from becoming them.”

The words hit like a stone.

Anakin faltered. You saw it—the flicker of conflict in his eyes. The ache of a thousand past lives, the scar of a brother lost.

“Look at what you’ve done,” Obi-Wan said, stepping closer. “An army of the dead. A child born for war. A goddess who bleeds.”

He looked at you—kindly, almost.

“You don’t have to do this,” Obi-Wan said. “Come back. I know there’s still light in you. I know the boy I raised. The man who wept for the world. He’s still in there.”

Anakin was silent.

You reached for him, barely touching his arm. “Anakin…”

His voice came out raw. “You don’t know what they did to her.”

“I don’t,” Obi-Wan said. “But I know what vengeance does to a man. I’ve seen it.”

The silence stretched, thick and taut.

And then Anakin said, “I’m not the boy you raised, Obi-Wan.”

His voice trembled—not with weakness, but with resolve.

“I’m the man they made. The one who rose from death. The one who will burn Olympus down to protect his family.”

He raised the Gladius, eyes shining with something terrible and beautiful.

“You’re either with us,” he said, “or in the way.”

Obi-Wan’s eyes closed for a breath.

Then, slowly, regretfully—he drew his sword.

“So be it, brother.”

The blades met with a crash that echoed across the marble courtyard, the force of it sending shockwaves through the garden. You stood back, frozen, heart in your throat as Anakin and Obi-Wan—Romulus and Remus reborn—clashed beneath the olive trees of Olympus.

Metal screamed. Sparks flew.

But what cut deepest wasn’t the steel—it was the words.

Anakin’s face twisted, and through clenched teeth, a sob ripped free. “You left me,” he shouted, slashing forward with fury. “You left me to die.”

Obi-Wan parried, the weight of emotion dragging his movements down. “I had no choice, Anakin. The gods—”

“Don’t you dare say their name like it excuses you!”

Another blow, another roar. Tears streaked Anakin’s dirt-streaked face, indistinguishable from the blood now splattered across his cheek.

“I needed you!” he screamed. “You were my brother—my brother! And you let me rot alone in the dirt, a sword through my gut and your name on my lips!”

Obi-Wan faltered, barely blocking the next swing.

“I bled for Rome!” Anakin cried, voice cracking. “I gave everything, and what did I get? Silence! Exile! Betrayal!”

His next strike was wild—reckless. Obi-Wan ducked, grabbing his arm, trying to hold him still, but Anakin shoved him back.

“You don’t get to ask me to come back,” he rasped, tears dripping from his chin. “You don’t get to be the good one. Not after everything.”

Obi-Wan's voice broke too. “I mourned you.”

Anakin’s glare could have scorched the marble. “Then why do I feel like I’m still dying?”

And then, as if something snapped inside him, Anakin dropped to one knee—not in surrender, but because he couldn't stand under the weight anymore. His sword lowered. His shoulders shook with each sob.

You rushed to him, dropping beside him as he gasped for breath like the air itself had betrayed him.

Obi-Wan stood frozen, sword trembling.

“I just wanted to come home,” Anakin whispered.

And all around you, Olympus held its breath.

The earth quaked beneath your knees. Thunder rolled, not from the skies—but from above and within, like Olympus itself had awakened. The air grew thick, charged with divine presence, and then—blinding golden light cracked across the sky.

Twelve pillars of radiance descended into the garden, forming into shapes—bodies of impossible beauty and power. The gods of Olympus had arrived.

Jupiter landed first, his thunderbolt in hand, eyes storm-dark and filled with disdain. “Enough,” he commanded, his voice shaking the columns. “This war ends now.”

You pulled Anakin to his feet as the others followed: Mars with blood already staining his armor, Minerva calm and calculating, Venus cloaked in rose-scented light, Apollo radiant as the sun, Diana fierce-eyed with her bow, Mercury poised on winged sandals, and Neptune trailing the scent of sea salt. Vulcan stood hulking and scarred, Ceres with green fire in her gaze, and Vesta—watching you silently, as if weighing your heart on invisible scales.

The bickering started immediately.

“He’s a threat,” Mars snarled, stepping forward. “He’s desecrated our realm, drawn blood on sacred ground!”

“He fights for his son,” Vesta replied coldly, “and for the mortals we abandoned.”

“He’s no more mortal than we are now,” Neptune muttered. “Look at him. Look at her. There’s divinity in their veins. We created this.”

“He should be destroyed before he rips the world apart,” Mars snapped, gesturing to Anakin.

“Yet we’ve done worse,” Venus said gently. “How many kingdoms burned for our vanity? How many hearts did we break for sport?”

“This isn’t about hearts,” Jupiter growled. “It’s about order. Olympus stands because we command it.”

“But maybe Olympus should fall,” Diana said, her bow lowering. “Maybe this is the price of centuries of silence.”

“You’re siding with him?” cried Mercury. “With the child of war?”

“I’m siding with what’s right,” she said, voice low and steady.

Anakin stepped forward, his hand still trembling from the fight, his chest heaving. “Decide, then,” he spat. “Kill me or let me finish this. But don’t pretend you’re gods of justice. You’re rulers of convenience.”

Silence fell. Jupiter’s glare narrowed like a drawn sword.

Then Minerva spoke, voice smooth as wind through parchment. “If you kill him, you’ll spark a rebellion that’ll never end. The dead already follow him. The living believe in him.”

“The Flectere bends fate,” Vulcan grunted. “And fate has already begun to turn.”

The twelve gods stared at one another, divine wills clashing like unseen lightning.

And in the eye of that storm, you reached for Anakin’s hand—and held on.

Because you both knew: Olympus was no longer united.

Before anyone could react, Mars—god of war, god of wrath—let out a guttural roar and lunged.

His crimson armor blazed like a furnace as he charged straight at you, not Anakin, you. A jagged blade, forged of blood and iron, swung through the air with the weight of centuries behind it.

“You poisoned him,” he snarled, fury twisting his face. “You turned him against his own blood, against the divine! You—mortal witch!”

You barely had time to raise your arm when the impact hit.

The force of his blow cracked through your bones like lightning, sending you stumbling back. The pain radiated through your ribs as your feet scraped against the marble of the garden, your back slamming into a column. The breath was knocked from your lungs. Blood filled your mouth.

“No!” Anakin's scream ripped through the heavens.

He lunged forward, but Jupiter raised a hand, and with it, time itself seemed to pause—a flickering halt between heartbeats, holding Anakin mid-motion, his face twisted in fury and helplessness.

Mars stalked toward you again, sword dragging against the ground like a serpent, spitting sparks. “You never belonged among gods. You never should’ve carried divine blood.”

You coughed, the taste of metal thick on your tongue—but you stood. Shaking. Bleeding. Ribs possibly cracked. But you stood.

And with fire blooming behind your eyes, you whispered: “I didn’t need to belong. I only needed to survive.”

Your hand tightened around your own blade—your power pulsing through it now, bright and ancient. The goddess of legends stirred within you, no longer locked in silence.

Mars smirked. “Then come. Let’s see if your legends can bleed.”

And then—time snapped forward again, and Anakin roared as he broke free.

Mars came at you again with terrifying speed, red eyes gleaming like forge embers, his blade a blur of death. You barely had time to steady your stance when the blow landed.

It was like being struck by a thunderclap.

Your feet left the ground. The world spun. You crashed into the earth hard, your body skidding across the marble floor of Olympus’ garden, stone cracking beneath your weight. Everything ached—your back, your ribs, your lungs clawing for air. You tasted blood again.

Your fingers twitched to grab your weapon, but your strength was fading.

And then—arms. Familiar, warm, trembling.

Anakin.

He dropped to his knees beside you, his gladius clattering beside your fallen blade, his hands frantically gripping your shoulders, your waist, checking for injuries he couldn’t even bear to see.

“No, no—hey, stay with me, stay with me,” he begged, voice ragged. His eyes were wild, glossed with tears. “I’ve got you—please—”

You blinked up at him, chest heaving, the sky spinning behind his silhouette. You could barely speak, but your hand found his jaw, and you forced him to look at you.

“Anakin…” you whispered, blood dripping from your lip. “Roman deserves at least one parent.”

He froze.

Your words hit harder than Mars’ blade. You watched the storm in his eyes break open into something raw and shattered. His grip tightened on you, not with panic now—but with purpose.

“No,” he said, softly—then louder. “No. He deserves both. He’ll have both.”

And when he stood, sword in hand, something had changed. His rage burned, yes—but now it burned for you, for Roman. Not vengeance. Not glory. Not war.

But love.

Anakin Skywalker turned toward Mars, eyes alight with fire and defiance.

And this time, it was the god who flinched.

The world moved in flashes of steel and shouts of war. You rose again with fire in your veins, blood on your tongue, your weapon trembling in your hand as the gods howled from their thrones.

Mars turned toward you—war incarnate, towering and terrible, his armor glowing with divine fury. But you no longer stepped back. You surged forward, divine power crackling from your fingertips, a cry ripping from your throat like thunder.

Your blades met.

The clash was seismic.

The garden shattered beneath the force, marble splitting, statues toppling, roses and laurel trees bursting into flames. The gods gasped as the shockwave exploded outwards, rippling through Olympus. You and Mars were flung through the air, light trailing behind your bodies like stars breaking apart in the sky.

You were weightless.

Then—gravity returned.

You felt the world disappear beneath you. Your limbs thrashed, grabbing at nothing as the edge of Olympus vanished. The golden garden, the gleaming columns, the chaos of the war… all gone.

You were falling.

Wind whipped past your face. The sky above stretched endlessly, Olympus disappearing in the distance. Below: a storm-churned valley, rocks and shadows, the earth rising fast to meet you.

You screamed.

And then—

You heard his voice.

“NO !”

You turned your head mid-fall, hair flying, and there he was.

Anakin.

He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t shout your name like a lover in anguish. He simply jumped.

Sword still clutched in one hand, cloak spiraling around him like a shadow in the sun, he leapt after you with the full force of a man who would rather die than live in a world where you didn’t.

Time slowed.

For a moment—just a heartbeat—you saw him suspended in the air, face tilted toward you, eyes locked on yours.

Then the wind caught you both, and the mountain swallowed you whole.

“Vivamus, moriendum est”

#hayden christensen #anakin skywalker #anakin skywalker x reader #anakin skywalker x female reader #anakin x you #anakin x reader #anakin skywalker smut #anakin skywalker fanfiction #anakin skywalker x you #evie writes

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deliciousangelfestival · 6 months ago

Text

We're Not Okay - 1 | Bucky

Character: Bucky x veterinarian!Female Reader

Summary: Two people, each carrying their own trauma, find themselves in a place where they can begin to heal their wounds and mend their hearts together.

Words Count: 3,400

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

“This is the first time I’ve heard a fox's voice,” said your father, Toni, as he shivered, pulling his jacket suit tighter around himself. The cold air bit at both of you as snow threatened to fall. Toni, at 50 years old, stood taller than you, his grey hair contrasting against the bleak sky.

He kept close behind as you worked at the conservation center, his eyes darting downward to ensure his pristine Italian leather shoes avoided mud or puddles. Unlike him, you wore a rugged outdoor outfit, complete with sturdy boots, befitting your role as a veterinarian and co-owner of the conservation—a job you’d been committed to since leaving home at seventeen.

“You could have waited in the visitor’s room,” you said, glancing over your shoulder while examining the fox.

“I can’t,” he replied, his voice tinged with anxiousness.

You let out a long sigh, turning your attention back to the fox—a sleek creature with bright orange fur streaked with hints of white, its ears flicking nervously as you checked for injuries. Its amber eyes watched you warily, a mix of fear and exhaustion evident.

Once your work was done, you exited the cage with Toni following closely. Both of you headed toward the main house, the crunch of gravel underfoot breaking the tense silence.

Toni’s eyes caught something unusual. “Wow. What’s that?” He pointed toward a cage set apart from the rest.

“Wait…! Don’t go near—” you shouted, but it was too late. Toni had already stepped closer.

“AHH!” He fell to the ground, his face pale and eyes wide. He trembled as he stared at the creature inside.

The white wolf looked directly at him, its majestic fur glistening like freshly fallen snow. Though intimidating with its piercing blue eyes and muscular build, it limped, favoring one injured leg.

You rushed over and dragged your father away from the cage. “I can’t even get close to him,” you muttered, exasperated.

Toni stood, brushing the dirt from his customized jacket, his face a mixture of frustration and fear. “I’ve been spat on, peed on, and now nearly eaten by the animals here.”

“Why are you even here if you hate it so much?” You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. “Just like my two older brothers. They come here, disrupt my work, and complain.”

“Ew… this place stinks. How do you stand it?” your first brother had sneered on his last visit.

“This owl is interesting. Do you sell them? I know plenty of people who’d pay,” the second one had added.

“GET OUT!” you’d yelled, seething with fury.

All the men in your family despised the outdoors. City people, through and through, they were consumed with managing their nightclub empire—a world you had rejected wholeheartedly. That life, everything they represented, was what drove you away to this sanctuary of yours.

Toni shifted nervously, glancing at you with rare vulnerability. It was an odd sight—the formidable nightclub owner and fierce businessman, now reduced to unease in your presence.

“Here’s the thing. I need… No.” He shook his head and corrected himself, “We need your help.”

“Me?” You arched an eyebrow. “How?” The question dripped with skepticism. You, a conservationist and veterinarian, had severed ties with their business long ago.

“Because of COVID-19, many businesses have been hit hard, including ours,” Toni said, his shoulders sagging.

You crossed your arms tighter, a flicker of resentment surfacing. After you’d left home, you’d turned a blind eye to everything related to their business. “Well, good. I hope that place burns to the ground.”

Toni’s face fell. “I know you hate it, but it’s my livelihood.” He sighed deeply. “Business is bad. There’s a chance it’ll go bankrupt.”

“Then sell it,” you said with a dismissive wave. “Most men your age are enjoying retirement.”

“Bah! No. I’m still in my prime!” He straightened his back defensively.

“Get to the point. What do you want?” you demanded.

“There’s someone willing to invest. But… there’s a catch,” Toni admitted, his eyes pleading. “Do you know Barnes?”

“Hmm… Yeah. The family that donates a lot to wildlife causes, including this place.”

“That’s right.” Toni nodded eagerly.

“So Barnes wants to invest in your nightclub?” You were incredulous. “Why?”

“That’s how Barnes gets richer—diversifying. And they’ve chosen our business. But there’s a condition.” Toni’s expression grew grave.

A pit formed in your stomach. Whatever it was, you knew it couldn’t be good.

🐺🐺🐺🐺

“The Barneses want to send their oldest grandchild here,” said Toni, his voice low as if dreading your reaction.

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling slowly. “This isn’t a daycare or rehab facility for humans.”

“I know, I know.” He raised his hands defensively. “That’s what I’ve been telling them. But they won’t budge. If I don’t bring their grandchild here, they won’t invest in the nightclub.”

“Ridiculous!” you snapped, your eyes narrowing. “Why drag me into this? The animals here are victims, and this place is their sanctuary, not some personal favor zone.”

“I knew you’d hate it,” Toni said, shifting uncomfortably. “But I thought you might change your mind after hearing me out.”

You crossed your arms, skeptically raising an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m all ears. What kind of offer could possibly make me reconsider?”

“This… isn’t easy for me,” he admitted, swallowing hard. “But I’ll give you what you’ve wanted for a long time. I’ll remove you from the family registry.”

Your eyes widened in genuine surprise. “Wow. You must really need this investment.”

Toni nodded, his shoulders slumping, revealing the weight of his desperation. “But you don’t…” His voice faltered, as if hoping you’d ask for anything else instead of severing family ties completely.

“Fine.” The single word was delivered coolly as you turned on your heel, walking away without looking back. Toni’s face fell, his hope visibly deflated.

“Do you really hate me that much?” he called out, his voice cracking slightly. “That you want nothing to do with us?”

You stopped mid-step, your back still to him. “I do.” The words were blunt and final, hitting him like a physical blow.

A silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the faint rustling of the wind. “Because of you, I’m reminded of that incident,” you said quietly, more to yourself than him, before walking away, leaving him standing there, hurt and alone.

That night, sleep eluded you. Memories from your childhood swirled in your mind, refusing to let you rest. Growing up as the child of a nightclub owner was no fairytale. Your home was a chaotic tangle of bright lights and dark secrets. You’d seen things a child shouldn’t—dangerous deals, late-night arguments, drunken patrons—and it left scars.

The confusion was only magnified by two stepmothers and two stepbrothers. Making a family tree in school was always a nightmare. That business stole away what innocence you had left. That was why you fled, finding solace in the simplicity and quiet resilience of animals.

"Owooooooo," A wolf’s howl pierced the still night air, low and haunting.

The sound sent a chill down your spine but also pulled you from your thoughts. Grabbing your jacket, you decided to check on the white wolf.

The wolf’s enclosure was isolated from the others. Previously placed near the fox, it had made every nearby animal skittish and restless, so it was moved here. The wolf stood under the pale moonlight, its white fur glistening like freshly fallen snow, every movement tinged with raw strength despite the noticeable limp in its gait. It tilted its head back and howled again, a mournful, soul-stirring sound.

You stepped closer to the cage, your breath fogging in the cold air. The white wolf’s piercing blue eyes locked onto you, unblinking. When it first arrived, it had been painfully thin, its ribs visible under its fur, and its injured leg had been in dire condition. Despite its weakened state, it had always reacted with hostility—growling, baring its sharp teeth whenever you approached.

You stopped just outside the cage’s boundary. “Can’t sleep?” you asked softly. “Me neither.”

The wolf let out another long, mournful howl, as if acknowledging your words. Its gaze was intense, wary, but something flickered in its eyes—pain, maybe even recognition.

“You’ve been hurt a lot,” you murmured, your voice low and steady. The wolf’s ears twitched, a small but telling sign that it was listening, though its muscles remained taut, ready to spring at the first hint of danger. You leaned against the cold metal bars, feeling the chill seep through your jacket. The wolf’s intense gaze never wavered, its blue eyes seeming to pierce right through you, mirroring a pain you recognized all too well. This raw, unfiltered connection made the air feel heavier, the silence more profound.

This was why you worked here. It wasn’t just about caring for wounded animals; it was about caring for yourself. The conservation was a sanctuary, not only for those with fur and feathers but for a heart battered by memories of your past.

Every injured creature, every frightened animal you helped heal, was a step toward mending yourself. You’d left a life that was full of noise, chaos, and hollow family ties that never really felt like home. Here, there was simplicity in purpose and purity in your connection with these beings—no lies, no hidden motives, only survival, trust, and the instinctual drive to heal.

When you saw the wolf growl and lash out in fear or defiance, you understood. Its isolation mirrored your own self-imposed solitude. You, too, had learned to push others away to protect yourself. In mending its wounds, in helping it trust again, you hoped to do the same for yourself. Piece by piece. Scar by scar.

You sighed, your breath visible in the cold air. “It’s going to be okay,” you whispered, more to yourself than the wolf. It didn’t respond, of course, but its ears twitched again. You let yourself believe that, maybe, it understood on some level. Maybe, just like you, it wanted to believe that healing was possible—even after so much pain.

🐺🐺🐺🐺

The inside of the luxurious jeep exuded opulence—soft leather seats, dark wood paneling, and the faint scent of expensive cologne mingling with polished leather. In the spacious backseat sat two men.

One of them, Jimmy Barnes, carried himself with a commanding presence. His gray hair was impeccably styled, and lines of experience etched his face, giving him the aura of a leader used to control. Everything about him, from the sharp cut of his suit to his steely gaze, spoke of power and purpose.

Beside him, his eldest son, James Buchanan Barnes—known as Bucky—stared blankly out the window. The passing landscape rolled by, ignored and unremarked upon, as the silence between father and son stretched uncomfortably. The trip had already dragged on for four hours, and not a single word had passed between them.

Jimmy shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. He glanced at Bucky, his eyes softening momentarily before hardening again as he struggled to maintain composure. He drew a breath and spoke, his voice firm but tinged with an edge of weariness.

“Bucky.”

There was no response. Bucky’s gaze remained fixed on the blur of trees outside, as if he hadn’t heard anything at all.

Jimmy clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around the cane resting against his knee. He let out a deep sigh, exhaling the frustration he’d been holding. “Bucky,” he repeated, more gently this time. Still nothing. Jimmy's shoulders sagged slightly, a rare crack in his usually impenetrable facade.

Bucky, his firstborn from his marriage to his late first wife, hadn’t spoken a word in years. As a child, something had happened—something that had stolen his voice and left scars too deep for therapists and experts to reach.

Every attempt to coax him out of his silence had met with failure. Over time, Bucky had also developed acute anxiety around people, making even the simplest social interactions a nightmare. Recently, though, they’d discovered a sliver of hope: Bucky seemed calmer, even a little more at ease, around animals.

Jimmy’s thoughts drifted back to his meeting with Toni. What had started as a business discussion quickly shifted when Toni mentioned his daughter—a veterinarian with her own conservation center. The idea had taken root then and there.

This might be what Bucky needed. It was a desperate measure, but Jimmy would go to any length to see his son improve—for Bucky’s sake, and for the sake of their family legacy.

Jimmy shifted again, leaning closer to Bucky, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. “We’re going somewhere different today,” he said, trying to inject warmth into his tone. “You’ll like it. Animals, open air… it’s good.”

Bucky didn’t move, but a slight tension in his shoulders betrayed that he’d heard. The silence lingered heavily between them, but Jimmy took it as a small victory. He leaned back, looking out his own window, his expression hardening once more. He needed this to work. Bucky had to get better—for himself, for the company, and for the legacy he would one day inherit.

The jeep rolled on, carrying them both toward an uncertain future.

🐺🐺🐺🐺

When Jimmy and Bucky arrived, the scene was more than just a simple visit; it was practically an event. The luxurious jeep pulled up, its polished exterior gleaming even in the muted light. Two men stepped out, flanked by a small team of guards who maintained a cautious but respectful distance. You observed the scene with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Guards? It felt excessive.

Toni walked over with a strained smile, clearly trying to mask his nerves. He gestured toward the older man with an air of forced calm. “This is Jimmy Barnes,” Toni said, his voice firm but tinged with unease. “Jimmy, this is my daughter.”

You extended a hand politely, meeting Jimmy’s piercing gaze. His handshake was strong, controlled—a man used to holding power. “Pleasure to meet you,” you said, maintaining eye contact.

Jimmy nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Thank you for having us,” he replied. “I’ve heard good things.”

“Of course,” you said, feeling the weight of his words. There was a formality in his tone, but a glimmer of desperation lingered beneath. You turned your attention to the younger man beside him. “And you must be Bucky.” You spoke gently, but Bucky didn’t respond. He barely seemed to register your presence, his gaze fixed on the ground or wandering elsewhere.

Jimmy’s jaw clenched ever so slightly. He shifted his weight, a sign of his frustration, though he kept his voice even. “Bucky,” he said again, a touch softer this time. There was no answer. Only the quiet rustling of leaves in the wind.

You looked at Jimmy, feeling the tension simmering beneath the surface. “He can take his time,” you offered quietly, hoping to ease the pressure. “There’s no rush here.”

Jimmy’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction. “Thank you,” he said, his tone softer now. “It’s… difficult. You understand.”

“I do,” you nodded, choosing your words carefully. “We all need space to find our way. Animals teach me that every day.”

Bucky, seemingly oblivious to the exchange, took a few hesitant steps toward the enclosures. You and Jimmy watched as he moved, his posture guarded but curious.

“He’s calmer around animals,” Jimmy said, almost to himself. There was a mix of hope and despair in his voice. “People make it… harder.”

You nodded, choosing to focus on Bucky. “I’ve seen it happen before,” you said quietly. “Sometimes, animals understand what we can’t.”

Jimmy studied you for a moment, as if weighing your words. “I hope you’re right,” he said finally, a hint of vulnerability breaking through his otherwise controlled exterior. “This has to work.”

“It’s a journey,” you replied, keeping your voice steady. “There are no guarantees. But we’ll do our best.”

As Bucky moved closer to the enclosures, something strange happened—the animals turned their attention to him. Every single one of them stopped what they were doing and sat down, as if sensing something unseen. You blinked in surprise, feeling a chill run down your spine. This wasn’t normal behavior.

The white wolf, isolated from the rest due to its intimidating presence, suddenly stood. Its pristine fur gleamed in the sunlight as it limped toward Bucky. You held your breath, instinctively stepping forward in case something went wrong. But Bucky extended a hand, slow and gentle. The wolf hesitated for a brief moment before closing the distance, nudging Bucky’s hand with its nose. Your eyes widened. This was the first time the white wolf had willingly approached anyone. Even you—who spent countless hours caring for it—had never been received this way. It always kept its distance, aloof and wary.

Jimmy watched the scene unfold, his eyes brightening with a mix of hope and disbelief. He turned to you, his voice low but firm. “I have a feeling this place can help him.” There was a pause, heavy with meaning. “If it does, I’ll donate a substantial sum to support your work here.”

“Thank… thank you,” you managed, trying to keep the surprise out of your voice. You inclined your head, feeling the weight of his words settle on your shoulders.

Jimmy nodded and began to walk back to the car, the guards moving in step with him. Toni lingered for a moment. He stepped closer, his expression softened as he took your hand. “Please,” he whispered, his grip warm but trembling slightly. “Help me this time.”

You bit your lip, uncertainty swirling within you. “I’m still not sure about this.”

Toni’s eyes met yours, a mixture of hope and desperation. “You can do this. You’ve always managed to handle things on your own.” He gave you a thumbs up, a strained but genuine smile on his lips, before turning to follow Jimmy.

You watched him go, your heart tightening. “No, I’m not,” you whispered to yourself, your shoulders sagging as the weight of the situation pressed down. Outwardly, you might appear strong and unshakable, but inside, the scars of the past left you vulnerable and weary. Every act of strength was a battle, every decision a reminder of what you had to protect.

When the car disappeared from view, you turned your attention back to Bucky.

🐺🐺🐺🐺

You and Bucky stood in awkward silence after the initial introductions. The air was heavy, almost stifling, as you struggled to find the right words. Bucky’s gaze remained fixed on a point somewhere past your shoulder, his expression distant and unreadable. Finally, you sighed softly, deciding to break the silence.

“Come on,” you said gently, gesturing for him to follow. “Let me show you your room.”

Bucky fell into step behind you, his movements quiet but tense. As you walked, you explained, “We keep things pretty simple around here. Meals are communal. Everyone—workers, volunteers—we all eat together.” You paused, glancing over your shoulder. “You don’t have to join if you’re not ready. No pressure.”

Bucky’s only response was a brief nod. It was mechanical, almost detached, but at least it was acknowledgment. You offered a small smile, even though he wasn’t looking at you. “There’s food available whenever you want it,” you continued softly. “And if you need anything, just let me know.”

He said nothing, his eyes wandering to the walls as if searching for an escape. You let out a quiet breath, your heart heavy. You knew this kind of pain—it mirrored the animals you cared for here. The ones who recoiled from touch, who couldn’t trust, who flinched at the slightest movement. Healing took time. It required patience, and you were prepared to give him both. You just hoped he’d let you.

When night fell, the dining room filled with the usual chatter of workers and volunteers unwinding from the day. You scanned the room but didn’t see Bucky. It wasn’t surprising—socializing with strangers was probably overwhelming for him. Silently, you prepared a tray of food and carried it to his room, setting it carefully in front of the door. You didn’t knock. You didn’t want to intrude. Instead, you walked away quietly, hoping he would eat when he was ready.

As you settled into your own bed later that night, a strange unease crept over you. The quiet felt oppressive—too quiet. Usually, the white wolf’s mournful howls punctuated the stillness, a sound you’d grown oddly comforted by. Tonight, there was nothing. It gnawed at you, pulling you from bed and urging you out into the night.

Your steps quickened as you made your way toward the white wolf’s enclosure. The moon cast pale light over the grounds, and there, standing face to face with the wolf, was Bucky.

Neither of them moved. They simply stared at each other, as if sharing an unspoken language that only they could understand. The wolf’s icy-blue eyes were locked onto Bucky, unblinking, while Bucky’s expression was raw, a mixture of pain and something else you couldn’t quite name—recognition, perhaps.

You swallowed hard, your breath catching in your throat. “Hi…” you said softly, taking slow, cautious steps forward. You didn’t want to startle either of them.

Bucky flinched at the sound of your voice, his head snapping toward you. His eyes widened in surprise, and for a split second, you saw fear flash across his face. He turned and bolted, his footsteps muffled by the grass. As he disappeared into the shadows, the white wolf turned its attention to you. It let out a low, warning growl, its body tense and protective.

'What was that?' You froze, raising your hands slowly in a gesture of peace. “It’s okay,” you murmured, though your pulse raced. The wolf’s eyes never left you, its growl deepening. You felt like an intruder—like you’d interrupted something sacred.

What had just happened? Why did it feel like you were the outsider, the third party in whatever silent connection Bucky and the wolf shared?

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