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tadpolesonalgae · 1 month ago

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Dizzying Kisses

Feysand x reader

a/n: this started out so wholesome idk what happened 😭

warning: love at first sight trope; smut; f/f/m threesome; facesitting; oral (everyone); overstim; cumplay—Rhys using reader’s mouth like a shot glass

word count: 5,491

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It takes a bit of effort to unstick your eyelids from your lash line, but you eventually manage, rubbing at the sleep that’s crusted itself into an abrasive adhesive.

The sheets beneath you are soft and smooth, fragranced with something like vanilla and jasmine, a faint citrusy scent clinging to its edge and you wearily peer about, vision slightly blurred by a sleep addled brain.

Early morning sunlight has painted itself across the floorboards in a watery shade of cool-toned yellow, the diamond shaped panes of the glass windows casting thin, zigzagging shadows. The duvet itself seems to be cream covered, nestled beneath a rouge-rimmed quilt, stitched together with patches of dawn-pink, aquamarine-blue, dusky-orange, and tyrian-purple. Four wooden beams uphold the fabric draped overtop the bed, the curtains a shade of burnt orange on the interior, with a dark-red outside that has panels of maroon gossamer thinly veiling the material. A slight frill of burnished gold accents the hem.

A latch clicks from the far right side of the chamber, and you glance away from the window, blinking rapidly to clear away the fog as a female peers her lovely head around the door.

Not just any female, though.

You stiffen, hastily scrambling to sit straighter in the bed as you dip your head in a swift bow. “High Lady…”

She smiles, entering the room, her slipper-clad feet softly scuffing as she approaches. “You’re awake,” she notes, and you flush when she lays her palm across your forehead. “And better, by the looks of it.”

You blink, looking up at her quietly. “My Lady…?”

“Feyre,” she corrects, blue-grey eyes twinkling with life. “Please call me Feyre.”

You watch her silently for a second, attention flitting across her features for a clue to your circumstances—are you in her home? But you dip your head again, obeying her request.

Her eyes soften, and she pulls her hand away, your brow feeling faintly cool in its wake. “Do you remember last night?” She questions, and you shake your head, unease building in your gut as you worry your lower lip. Tuck your teeth away again.

Feyre hums to herself, her attention briefly skating over you, having not given herself the chance to beforehand. Skimming over your shoulders, the rumpled fabric of your night-gown, the soft roundness of your fingertips. How they’re dipping into the folds of the duvet. “You kissed me,” she says, glancing down at you, lips still curved gently. Mortification sets your skin ablaze, a delicate flame igniting in your flesh. “I— I kissed you?” You stammer, clutching the sheets as your fingers lock.

“Well, you kissed both of us, actually,” she corrects.

Your lips part with a sharp inhale, looking aghast. Deeply apologetic. “I— I’m so sorry, my Lady. I don’t know what must have come over me. Please, forgive—”

“We aren’t angry,” she interjects, holding you gaze firmly. She pries your left hand from the quilt, fingers warm and delicate beneath your own. “I believe it was a mistake on your part—the first time at least. Shall I show you? It may jog your memory.”

There’s nothing much for you to do besides nod, vaguely relaxing back into the padded headboard as she plies open your mind, slipping inside with ease.

The music is up-beat, strings playing a merry tune while the faelights shift in colour over head, panels of stained glass being slotted over them to give the illusion of the lights themselves changing.

I turn my head when I feel weakened fingertips seek out my wrist, gripping gently, only to be met with soft, faintly trembling lips being pressed to my own. I recognise the hint of the illegal drug almost immediately, and my eyes widen in time to watch as the female flinches, recoiling sharply.

At my back, my mate is swiftly approaching, a sure and familiar presence sweeping across the floor. It seems the female has enough sense left in her to recognise the thrumming power of the High Lord that’s already begun seeping across the floor in warning, other fae bodies instinctively making way so as not to catch his brewing mood.

Instead of cowering though, the female before me seems to panic briefly, before unsteadily tottering forward, making it just close enough to push onto her tiptoes and press a kiss to the High Lord’s jaw, before her legs give out and I’m catching her as she falls back, body limp.

Surprised violet eyes meet my own, brows raised as he glances down at the female passed out in my arms, head tipped to the side, laying across my breast.

Your lips are parted wider than they were last, but you don’t shut them. Instead panicking as the memories filter back into your mind, along with a faint pound of a growing headache. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, words tumbling in a frantic wash. “I— I remember seeing what had happened, and I had worried he might think I was trying to— So I wanted to kiss him to show I didn’t mean— Gods I’m so sorry.” An embarrassed flush heats your skin, simmering wickedly just below the surface of your flesh, head dipped in misery and shame.

“It’s perfectly okay,” the High Lady assures, squeezing your fingers. “I want you to know the male who drugged you has been found and dealt with—he will not be repeating his actions. We also had our healer check the concentration in your blood to make sure you were okay, and thankfully all you needed was a good night’s sleep to get everything out of your system.”

You flush, glancing to where she’s cupping your fingers, then looking at her again. “I’m still sorry for kissing you—both of you—even if there were external pressures…”

Feyre blinks slowly, her smile losing an ounce of its warmth. Barely noticeable, really, but you feel it. “Do you regret it?”

“I regret causing you discomfort, my L—” Her eyes harden, and you flush. “…Feyre. And your— and for kissing your mate…”

“And what about on your end?” She asks, tone softened only a little. You look at her questioningly but are unable to read the emotion in her blue-grey eyes. Cunning but deliberately blank. “Do you regret kissing either of us for your own discomfort?”

“No!” You speak hurriedly. “It’s an honour. I mean, hopefully that doesn’t make you upset to hear. I simply mean, to have been so close with either of you. I’m just so sorry I did what I did… How I did it…”

“You would have done differently had you been sober?” She asks, her hold tightening on your fingers, pulling your hand closer into her body.

You hesitate, fumbling. Glancing where her digits have begun twining with your own.

Feyre follows your gaze, and sighs, hands settling to the bed.

“My mate and I are divided on the matter,” she tells you, voice lowering to a hushed murmur. A guilty tug on her pretty pink lips. “He would rather give you space and time to warm up to us, since this meeting has happened so fast.” Fingers again squeeze your own, and she looks up at you with a glimmer in her heavy gaze. “But I’ve been on the end of that before, and hadn’t been pleased with his choices.”

You scan her features, trying to fit together the pieces but have the distinct feeling you’re missing something crucial. A fragment of memory that perhaps hasn’t yet allowed itself to resurface. Eyes flit to the curl of her digits between your own.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand?”

Feyre pauses in thought, then she presses her hand to your cheek, unlacing it from your fingers. Breath flutters in your chest as your High Lady leans in, her head tilted enough so her lips might slant diagonally across your mouth, and a faintly wavy lock of hair slides from her shoulder, tickling against your collar bones. You can feel each faint exhale. Mark how her pupils dilate, lashes flickering as she glances down at your mouth.

Your breath catches as something tugs at your rib, a small, tender thread wrapped around the delicate bone.

“Did you feel that?” Feyre questions, thumb stoking the curve beneath your lip, eyes following with each swipe. “What…what was…?”

It happens again, and your lungs stutter, mouth parting in awe as you stare at her.

You worry over voicing your thoughts for fear of reaching the wrong conclusion and only worsening your predicament. To be as brazen as to suggest a possibility that would defy logic and reason, when it’s likely fuelled by your own desires…

Feyre lays her mouth over your own, the flavour of her lips slightly musky with a hint of berry, and you wonder if she delighted in fruits for breakfast. Perhaps would like to swipe your tongue across the seam of her mouth to taste more of her. To sample more of this delicacy you’ll surely never have the chance of trying again.

A heady sound echoes in your Lady’s throat when you follow through with your fantasy. Her fingers dig into the soft underside of your jaw, both hands cupping your face to leverage her mouth closer, capturing your lower lip between her teeth and tugging on it gently. She’s close enough you can feel the faint flutter of air that her lashes bat your way.

Blue-grey eyes simmer with heat as she watches you, thumb stroking across the crest of your cheek before falling to the side of your neck, fingers sifting through strands of hair. With great attentiveness, she strokes her tongue across your own, her heart jumping when your body jolts lightly from the intimate touch, a lovely soft sound captured in your throat.

Her hands begin to wander.

At first it’s her thumb skimming across your throat, then she’s grazing her fingertips along the ridge of your collarbone, and then before you know it she’s trailed those nimble digits further, tracing the curve of your breast, knuckles skimming beneath the soft, feminine weight. Your lashes flutter against her cheek, before you’re pulling away to gaze down at where she’s touching you.

Feyre watches intently to see what you make of the touch. Heat warms your cheeks and your lips part on a trembling inhale, spine curving in an offer—one she’ll contentedly accept. The soft pad of her second finger teasingly circles your covered nipple, before clasping it between the sides of her index and middle finger, rolling. Your breathing deepens, sinking down into the pillows, subtly urging her to lay herself over you.

It’s when Feyre’s knee is pressing between your thighs, her faintly wavy hair ticklishly brushing your exposed skin—where she’s unbuttoned your night gown to bare your breasts to her—that a firm set of knocks are delivered to the door, a warning rather than a request. Your eyes fly open, arms instinctively slapping across your chest to conceal your breasts, nipples sensitive, and freshly-licked.

Violet eyes calmly take in your own, and the night comes rushing back, how you’d kissed his mate—accidentally, but it had happened nonetheless—then pressed your lips to his own skin, too.

You open your mouth to apologise, but Feyre’s talented fingers have linked around your wrists, and you squirm when she pushes them aside, so they sink into the pillows you’re lying on. Expelling a gasp from your lips.

“Looks like the two of your are becoming well acquainted,” the High Lord muses, stepping into the room, pausing beside the bed, gazing down at you with interest. “Do you mind my being here?” He asks, and you realise he’s bothering to question you. It makes sense, you suppose, you just hadn’t considered it. You flush, but shake your head, lungs stuttering when Feyre returns to your breasts, circling the hardened tip of her tongue over the peak of your right nipple, allowing a small amount of saliva to build before letting it unspool onto you, before repeating the circles.

“You look to be enjoying her mouth,” Rhysand muses, raising the backs of his fingers to gently skim your cheek, thumb idly swiping the corner of your mouth, dipping to the hollow beneath your lower lip. “Are you?”

Your flush deepens, thighs squeezing together against Feyre’s knee at the softly intimate touch, something fluttering beneath your ribs from the gentleness of the High Lord’s caress. Teeth pull at the interior of your lip, struggling to get a hold of the wild heat they’re igniting in your lower belly, a tingling feeling spreading between your thighs.

“Getting shy now?” Feyre coos, unlatching from your nipple much to your dismay. “You were perfectly talkative before… He’s not as scary as he looks.”

“Scary?” Rhys parrots under his breath, a note of incredulity to be found. Feyre raises an eyebrow as she glances over him, as if challenging him to disagree. But his lips fashion themselves into a mischievous, feline grin, capturing your chin with his fingers, directing your gaze upward to face him. “Would I be less scary without all these clothes on?”

Your face burns, lips parting on a softly stunned inhale, staring up at him in slight bewilderment, his words alone giving rise to a series of involuntary images careening through your mind before you can stop from conjuring them.

“Rhys,” Feyre scolds, “you’re overwhelming her. She doesn’t know what to do with all that.”

“We can show her.”

“Rhysand,” Feyre warns, but you can tell it’s playful. You want her attention back on you, sliding a little further down in the pillows so her knee is pressed closer between your legs. Blue-grey eyes mark the shift immediately, and you flush at having been caught, grip tightening in the sheets as you find elsewhere to look. Her rosey lips curve, leaning closer until they’re barely brushing your own, a twinkle of mischief in her eyes. “Something you want, birdie?”

You inhale at her proximity, spine stiffening from how close she is, how bare you are beneath her. How exposed.

You incline your chin almost imperceptibly.

Feyre smirks, and leans in, once again sealing her lips over yours, and you think she must be a slice of heaven. Your hands depart from the sheets, travelling up her thighs to her hips, spanning her delicate waist. Her hair tickles your shoulder, trailing away when Rhys’s fingers shift the curtain of silky hair, pushing the locks gently out of the way so he can see how his wife is kissing his…

A small noise is captured between your mouths when something tugs at one of your ribs, a delicate thread being plucked that has you jolting. Pulling away.

“A second mate is unheard of,” Feyre murmurs, looking at you with a mixture of awe and disbelief. “And yet here she is,” Rhys finishes, making you blink, glancing between the two.

“You said you were honoured,” Feyre continues, drawing your attention back to her. “Are you still of the same mindset?” You stare at her, comprehension dawning as you accept your belief as truth, fantasy merging with reality. “What she’s asking,” Rhysand clarifies, allowing his fingers to fall from Feyre to graze across you collar bone, tracing upward to your jaw, brushing your cheek, “is will you have us.”

“Yes.” It’s softer than a whisper, shorter than a breath, but they feel it. Feel the acceptance without reluctance or hesitation. Falling into their arms.

Feyre’s eyes go briefly hazy as it clicks into place inside of her, a flush of colour rising to her cheeks with biological satisfaction. “Good,” she breathes, “perfect.”

Her scent has shifted, floating over to you, and instinct tells you exactly what it means. When her blue-grey eyes return to yours, they’re dilated; hungry. Information you should have no access to flowing into your body, innately understanding their states of being.

“How are you feeling?” Feyre asks, voice huskier than before, dragging with arousal. A heat has begun sprouting in your body, beginning to simmer and bubble, more prominently than before, abruptly taking off. You swallow. Nod your head.

“What you’re feeling,” Rhysand supplies smoothly, the only one able to grapple with the biological instincts urging you together as the one who understands it the most, “is the effects of the mating bond clicking into place. Since our bond,”—he gestures between him and Feyre— “is already set in place, the symptoms will make themselves known much more swiftly, while yours may take a few hours or even a day to reveal themselves.”

Right. The frenzy.

You flush.

“Do you—” Feyre swallows, cutting herself off before trying again, having to wet her lips, “do you want to join us?”

“Join you?” You’re breathless.

“I’m sure we’ll be able to manage between us, if you would like to rest,” Rhysand supplies, though you have the impression it strains on him to give that safety net. As if reminded of the option, Feyre’s eyes flick to him, hungrily tracing the cut of his figure, watching with a heavy-lidded gaze. You shift your hips against her knee, and they return to you.

In your periphery Rhysand readjusts his trousers.

“Will you?” She breathes, her hand rising from the mattress, shifting her weight to her other arm to allow her fingers to coast upward between your breasts, playing with the dip of your collarbone, tracing the outline. “We’ll be careful,” she assures, fingers now tracing across your lower lip, transfixed as her instincts call for her to strip you bare, explore the flavour of your mouth and skin; the taste between your legs.

“We could start with just one of us?” She tells you, your heart fluttering wildly as her words drip over your skin. “You and me first…”

“Greedy,” Rhys mutters.

“Rhys can watch,” she amends. “We can play in my and his bed—it’s much larger than this one—and I could start with these…” You gasp when she lowers her hand to your breast, circling your nipple with a feather-light touch, tugging on it gently. “Then we could move further…” Feyre takes your wrist in hand, moving to straddle your hips as she brings your palm to her chest, watching you intently as her spine curves into your touch. “And you could try touching me, if you like…? Would you like that? Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“She needs a chance to respond, Feyre,” Rhys chuckles, leaning against one poster of the large bed. She peers at you intently, rocking her hips almost subconsciously. “You’ll feel so good,” she whispers, bringing your other hand to cup her breast so you have both palms over her. “What do you think?”

Your flush deepens, looking away, and you can feel Feyre’s grip loosening, crestfallen.

“I…” You swallow, finding her gaze again, her expression attentive, then glancing briefly over Rhys, nerves wriggling beneath your skin before you look away again, peering at the floor. “I don’t want Rhys to feel left out…”

You inhale sharply at the stark arousal that blares down the bond, your thighs squeezing together in response, Rhys shifting as he takes down a steadying breath. A noise escapes your throat with the staggering awareness the bond is affording you, able to feel their hunger in your bones, perhaps also affording you a little more confidence than usual.

“We’re all mates, aren’t we?” You ask, glancing skittishly between them both. When they nod, you continue. “So I’d like…I think it would mean more to be with both of you…all together.”

————

They make you so dizzy.

The soft press of Feyre’s narrow lips dragging up the length of your throat, nipping at spaces below your jaw, licking over the bite marks they’ve each put into your skin, forgetting which ones belong to who; the heavy drag of Rhys’ fingers as they dip along the interior of your thighs, palms cupping the round curve of your knees only to slip beneath and delicately raise both legs to your chest; the heat of watching clothes fall to the ground, buttons coming free and ties being loosened, hair pushed back over delicate shoulders and sterling silver bands removed from scar-flecked fingers, flexing before they settle into the rhythm of touch.

You crawl after Feyre as she pulls away, pushing her second and middle finger to your lips to still you, her own mouth curving with feminine satisfaction. And now the question she’ll ask: “Who do you want next?”

How many times have they taken turns making you answer that question. How many times have you shamelessly given an answer. How many times have they satisfied your desire only to ask again, “Who do you want next?”

Always a next; never an end.

You whimper, clit puffy and sensitive from relentless stimulation, pleasure budding through your body, liquid gold buzzing beneath your skin. How many more touches can you take?

“Answer me,” Feyre coos, fingers slipping beneath your chin to incline your lips, leaning forward to almost meet you. “Who do you want next?”

“Feyre…” You’re nearly crying, so turned around, so dizzy. So desperate for movement and friction. “Please…” The High Lady beams, cupping your cheeks between her palms and pulling you close enough your noses touch, “mhmm? You want me?”

“Please…”

“How do you want me?” Feyre crawls closer, her knees touching your own, “Tell me how you want me.” Your lips part, cheeks flushing. Tongue shifting against your teeth. You’re too embarrassed to tell her.

Tender claws scratch at your mind, and your walls give a few moments later, tentatively lowering enough for her to slip inside and nestle with you. Watching the image you present her with.

Blue-grey eyes glitter with hunger, her mouth popping open, blinking away her surprise before grinning. “I didn’t think you’d be so dirty,” Feyre purrs, palms wrapping around your waist to pull you with her as she falls back into the bed, walking you up her body.

“Are my girls done scheming?” Rhys asks from behind you, effortlessly sending a hot shiver up your spine. His voice alone contains enough power to make your knees buckle. And, my girls. You and Feyre. He’s seeing the two of you together.

You rest your hands on the headboard, leaning forward enough that Feyre can grin at her mate from beneath you, “We’ll always be scheming, High Lord.” Her legs open, and your mouth waters. “Think you can keep up, Rhys?”

“Always, for you.” Feyre’s hands begin to loop over your hips to pull you down but Rhysand reaches forward and you gasp when you feel his thick fingers skating up the line of your spine, hairs prickling as you shiver. “You, too,” the High Lord purrs, pushing your hair to one side so he can reach the top of your spine. Your throat closes up, heart fluttering as those deft digits descend down the knots of your back. Stiffening in anticipation when he pauses at the base. “Turn around,” he instructs, clearly. “I should be able to see you, too.”

The hot breath of Feyre’s moan caresses your inner thigh, and you tighten around nothing. With flushed cheeks you slowly turn, careful of the female lying beneath you.

Violet eyes glimmer with starlight, and millions of tiny, fluttery wings erupt into motion between your thighs.

“Better,” he says, quietly. A faint smile on his soft mouth. “Now sit.”

You part your legs, shakily sinking down onto Feyre’s mouth, Rhysand keeping your eyes locked with him—watching as you settle, watching as your hands find placement on her breasts, watching as Feyre licks up through your centre and you shudder. An adoring smile half-lifts one edge of Rhysand’s lips, his irises softening at their edges as he marks the pleasure unfolding within you. Only then do his thumbs press into the meat of Feyre’s thighs, finding the divot at the interior of her knees to hold them apart, aligning himself, and sliding in.

You can’t help the way your mouth waters.

Rhys catches you staring and leans himself forward, grinning as you flush with embarrassment, “Wishing that was you?”

Your lips part, eyes darting away but he grips your chin lightly, forcefully guiding your gaze back to his. He leans closer and you shudder as Feyre’s lips wrap around your clit, suckling tenderly. Rhysand’s hand cups the nape of your neck, and wild heat fills your skin as he slowly licks over your bottom lip, the tip of his tongue dragging over the bitten area to drag lightly over your top one. You’re frozen stiff, completely at his mercy. He chuckles, like he finds your awe amusing. Lightly appreciative of your reverence.

But then he kisses you once on the lips and pulls back, both palms falling to Feyre’s waist, his thumb grazing over the beauty mark that lies a little to the left of her belly button. His hips draw back and slide in, Feyre’s back arching when he meets her all the way, hips held tight to her own. You can’t help the way your fingers fall to graze over her abdomen, able to see the prominent outline of the High Lord nestled within his mate.

He’s been inside you the same way he’s inside her.

You have to lick your lips.

“Move,” you whisper, circling your hips over Feyre’s mouth, almost certainly smearing arousal across her lips; the tip of her rosey nose; her chin. The High Lady moans her agreement, inclining her hips from the bed and you watch as the muscles in her thighs and stomach flex. Feline grace contained within her flesh. You want to taste every part of her you can.

Rhys begins slowly, languidly moving inside of her, rolling his hips so he slides all the way in to his base. Soon enough he sets their pace, and your eyes nearly roll with the pleasurable warmth that’s being delivered to your body, fizzling and fluttering throughout. Heat is prominent on the High Lord’s cheeks, tan skin flushed with colour and you’re all so sensitive but needing of more that release is swift and fulfilling. Bright flashes of pleasure zipping down your thighs, bursts of heat fluttering in your lower belly, warm-pink flame heating and heating until you’re boiling and bubbling over.

Rhys grits his teeth, likely trying to cope with the pleasure of Feyre’s orgasm, and you can’t help yourself.

You lean forward, cunt still seated on the High Lady’s mouth, your palms sloping up his well-muscled chest to wrap over his shoulder to push your lips together, tongue licking against him, tasting him, devouring him. The High Lord’s control splinters, then fractures entirely, a groan of pure, male pleasure delivered to your mouth as he releases deep inside his mate. You want it to be as drawn out as possible, for him to fill her up as much as he can, until she’s dripping.

It’s only when he’s panting, breathless and with his head lowered that you know he’s finished.

Teeth prod into your lower lip, fresh arousal dripping from your cunt, cleaned away by Feyre’s tongue. Her fingers drum ticklishly over your thighs, knowing what you’ve been waiting for. You can practically see the smug, satisfied grin on her rosey lips.

The combined effort of the both of you has you taking her place on the bed in mere seconds, lying on your back with a blinking Rhys now positioned between your thighs. Feyre mounts your mouth like she’s descending onto her throne, thighs parted and facing you so she can run her fingers through your hair.

Rhysand freezes when he understands what’s going on. Then his warrior’s hands have shackled your ankles and you’re roughly dragged down the bed, swept out from under your mate and you whine, crying out and reaching for her. But there’s heat in his eyes, a wicked smile on his mouth, mischief and hunger twinkling between the starlight. “I did all the work, darling,” he rumbles, the words rough and gravelly from his chest. “The least you can do is let me watch.”

You flush as you’re repositioned: half-way up the bed with Feyre hovering over your face, your mouth open and her legs spread; further up the bed is Rhys, gazing down at you so he can watch every stroke of your tongue, every drip of his cum that’s mixed with Feyre’s own orgasm that you collect on your lips, tasting in your mouth.

“I should have known what you two were planning,” Rhys drawls, cock hard against his stomach from watching the show. He’s eaten his release out of Feyre before but it’s different watching someone else do it. It’s different having a mate to watch do it. “So dirty indeed.”

“And it was all her idea,” Feyre muses proudly from atop her perch. “You were so shy to show it to me,” she coos.

“Looks like she’s a wicked one.” Violet eyes flick to Feyre. “She’ll rival you for your mischief.”

“I think you mean she’ll rival you. You’re the dirty one.”

Their eyes simultaneously drop, and you flush beneath their attention, hair spread out messily across the mattress, licking Feyre’s cunt whenever you please. Rhys’ fingers trail across your forehead, playing with a few stray strands of hair. “You like that? Tasting us together?”

You moan softly, licking up and circling Feyre’s clit, causing her to moan.

Butterflies start fluttering anew when Rhys wraps his hand around his cock, still achingly hard, cum beginning to drizzle down his tip. Your temperature spikes, mouth watering further. Rhys’ eyes twinkle, his mouth curving before he’s shifting onto his knees. “You know,” he muses, looming so comparatively high above you while Feyre keeps you pinned to the mattress, “let’s find out how dirty she is.”

Your thighs have to squeeze together at the blatant lust in his voice, clit pulsing as you rub your legs together.

Violet eyes meet your own, and you shiver. Rhys grins. “You look pretty happy, down there.” You moan, licking at her hungrily, wanting her to stop hovering and to finally just sit. His hand continues stroking himself to the sign, up and down, slowly building his pleasure again. There isn’t much time you need to wait—you’re all so stimulated, so sensitive to touch. Rhys has to grit his teeth through the first series of strokes before the tension is being released and he’s panting again, muscles flexing in his stomach and forearms.

“Think you can take some more?” Rhys groans, and you watch with desperate eyes as a bead of cum slips over his head. “Answer me.”

You nod your head. “More,” you pant, watching him intently. Rhys’ eyes nearly roll, but then yours nearly cross as he shifts his hips, the tip of his cock nearly bumping into Feyre’s clit. He’s intending to finish straight into your mouth.

You can’t help it, then. Your hand lifts from the bed and trails down your body, fingers slipping between your thighs. It’s a mix between painful and perfectly oversensitive, clit hard and puffy beneath your digits that slide right down your centre, two fingers sinking inside yourself and curling.

It doesn’t take long from there.

“Gods, you’re such a good girl,” Feyre praises, biting her lip as she palms her breasts, cupping them and thumbing across her nipples. “Isn’t she perfect, Rhys?”

“So perfect.” He agrees. “So dirty.”

You whimper in protest but Rhys cocks a brow and you shut up. He smirks. “So good, and so obedient, isn’t she?”

“Perfect for us,” Feyre agrees, moaning as she circles her hips faintly, seeking the attention of your tongue which swiftly returns to attend to her, flicking over her clit and licking up her centre. “A perfect little mate to play with.”

Rhys groans, the noise rumbling in his chest as his orgasm finds him at last, release pouring from his tip, shooting down between your lips and filling you up. His hip buck, his fingers flexing around his cock as pleasure pulses through his body, his eyes shutting tight as his muscles tremble.

The tip of your finger drags back up over your clit and you come undone.

Feyre watches, utterly content, as her two mates reach completion around her. She can just make out your eyes, half-rolled as your own high filters through your blood. Then there’s Rhys, whose hand is shaking as he pumps himself, hips seemingly moving of their own accord as he tries to keep himself going for as long as possible, throwing himself into overstimulation for the sake of your pleasure.

She sits happily on your mouth when he’s done, his blue-black hair falling against her shoulder as hot breath fans down her front.

How lucky they are to have found such a sweet, mischievous little mate to match them.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria @nighttimemoonlover @mrsjna @acoazlove

feysand taglist: @girlmadeofavocados @zara-aliza08

#feysand x reader #feysand x reader smut #dizzying kisses #feysand x you #feysand #feysand x you smut

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felassan · 3 months ago

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Snippets. 🐺💜

John: "one of the funnier quirks of game dev is you will never remember missions by their real names but instead by the name you called them by for several years of development it will never be 'In Your Heart Shall Burn' for me, it'll always be Setback" [source] / Blair: "there was that awkward period where half of the DA:V ones had "gods" in the title, so discussions were always some variant of: "Did you mean 'Gods Are Back' or 'Gods Are Bad'? I've heard people mention 'Egads! Gods!' but I'm not sure if that's new or a rework."" [source] / Malcolm (in reply to John): "I have one like this in DA:Ve and I can't share it yet because spoilers but I promise you it's delightful" [source]

John: "the only one i can ever remember is 'Wicked Eyes and Wicked Hearts' and it's because it seems to be the only DAI mission that people constantly reference by name online" [source] / Mary: "It's proper name is "Ham Ball." I put that in the file names, even." [source]

John: "idk how widely it’s been advertised but a reminder we are doing another Veilguard Q&A on Discord this Friday noon Mountain time (so 11 Pacific)" [source] / Malcolm: "Make sure you don't tell them about that one thing that happens in that place, with the guy." [source]

Trick: "BioWare released a new screenshot of Taash! I love how it captures the amazing detail work the character artists did." [source]

Image description on the Taash screenshot in Trick's post of the cap:

"A screenshot of Taash looking off to the side. The lighting is warm like either late afternoon or an interior with a fireplace, and it catches in the gold on Taash's armor and horns. Taash looks pensive or vulnerable -- not the deadpan stare or badass determination we've seen in other shots."

pensive or vulnerable.. ohh Taash. 🥺 Trick!!

User on the screenshot: "Taash looks *completely the fuck over this shit* in a totally exhausted sort of way, here. which is, mind, amazing detail work on the character artists' party!!" / Trick: "You know, it's a spectrum." [source]

Trick on DA:I - "Miss May is amazing in many ways, and especially in finding the balance of sweetness to pain for the Solas scenes. ❤️" [source] ((thankyouuu Miss May!!))

User: "it must be basically impossible to resist putting at least one extra moon around your fantasy world" / John: "if dragon age didn’t already have two you’d better believe I would’ve added another one. sitting next to a dial titled ‘number of moons’ and every so often I add another one. anyways the thing about Satina is- (a large hook drags me offstage)" [source, two, three] ((omg.. THE SECOND MOON shfuehfuehdbdh)

User: "i've been thinking about bellara's pockets and i need to know what her thoughts on cargo pants would be. would she be a fan for the utility." / John: "she wouldn't wear them all the time - she's a firm believer in a distinction between 'work clothes' and 'at home clothes' - but she is always in search of more pockets to carry more things into the field. she'd own at least three pairs" [source]

User: "The next two months are going to feel like the Fade section in DAO 😭" / Dragon Age: "Good thing we have a Veil Jumper to help you out! 💜" [source]

User: "MY SON LOOKS SO CUTE" (re: the new pic of Manfred from today) / Dragon Age: "MY BOY MANFRED 💀💚" [source]

User: "Can we change the armor/gear on our companions?" / Dragon Age: "You can!" [source]

User: "thank you for the food 🙏🙏🙏" / Dragon Age: "Enjoy your meal!" [source]

#dragon age: the veilguard #dragon age the veilguard spoilers #dragon age: dreadwolf #dragon age 4 #the dread wolf rises #da4 #dragon age #bioware #video games #solas #long post #longpost #lul #feels #Ham Ball hhhh :D

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historyslittlebish · 6 months ago

Note

Hello. I would like to ask for your permission before I submit a full request.

Do you by any chance accept King Baldwin x Male!Reader request? It might involve NSFW scenario as well.

King Baldwin IV x Male!Guard!Reader One shot NSFW: (Completed!)

a/n: Hi anon and I know I declined but I'll still do it because I feel bad for rejecting, Idk how to write NSFW so it's gonna be bad but i'll do it. I also don't know if this is a scenario you wanted but if you wanna request a different one please do! Also I apologize because I have never watched the movie and I'm not sure how accurate this is.

==========================================

Warning: fluff, handjob, occ for our king I think

It was often unheard of, two men in a romantic or sexual relationship. Many thought it was sin, it wasn't something god accepted but they can never really know the answer can they? Why would god let them feel the feelings, why would god allow it to be an option? That is something many people never ponder enough.

Something that a knight named Y/N never pondered until he met with the great king of Jerusalem, Baldwin the IV.

Y/N had been hired as a knight since Baldwin was 12 and Y/N was 15 and a freshly knighted boy. As years past, Y/N was named best soldier in the brackets of the armies. He was agile, quick, resilient, strong, and most of all, loyal.

He was the kings personal guard which he didn't mind at all. He had grown close to the king, enough to get the king to show him his sore ridden face, his scars, his 'ugliness' but to Y/N, he was anything but ugly.

Y/N saw a kind hearted boy and man growing up, intelligent, brave, and strong willed, those were the words Y/N thinks when describing the king, everyone does.

Growing up, he saw Baldwin's determination to become a great king and to overcome his deadly illness. Only one could be truly possible but Baldwin was content, despite being numb to the bone, skin lesions, and more.

Today was like any other. Baldwin had a few things to get done but after that, he could have his peace.

Y/N stood slightly behind the throne Baldwin sat on, staring at the arguing lords and counsel members. Each fighting on whose strategies are better, who's morally righteous, whatever that is available to bicker about.

Y/N heard Baldwin sigh as he raised his hand and made a sound.

Suddenly everyone looked over and quieted down.

"I will meet with Saladin, we shall negotiate peace." Baldwin shifted slightly before hearing one of the older counsel members try to inerject.

"How do we know we can trust that Muslim r-" Baldwin raised his hand once more, immediately silencing the man "He may be Muslim, but we will respect him and treat him with nobility and equality.".

Y/N's heart thumped in his chest at the kings word. The kings kindness and true compassion was incredibly admirable but also making him lust for the king.

The people of the counsel glanced between each other but bowed at the kings words before swiftly making their exit, allowing the two men to be alone and at ease.

Baldwin slowly stood from his throne and looked at Y/N.

Y/N could see the exhaustion in his eyes, his beautiful sky blue eyes. Y/N snapped himself out of his thoughts and kept up a stoic expression.

"What now, my king?" Y/N asked as Baldwin stepped towards him. The king cautiously touched the mans arm and looked deep into his eyes. "I think I require a way to relax before I retire for tonight." As he said this, Baldwin's hand tools Y/N's and slowly led it down to his pelvis area where a little tent formed under his white and gold robes.

"My king.." Y/N breathed as his hand ghosted the man's bulge.

"Make me a happy man, Y/N, I long for your touch." Baldwin's raspy voice murmured as his being was consumed with lust. Y/N doesn't know how a man of God to dare go against him in terms of lust for another male but Y/N can't say he doesn't thoroughly enjoy it.

It doesn't take too long before Y/N helps the king to his quarters and settling on the soft and silky bed.

Y/N helps the king reveal his bulge.

His cock bobbed as soon as it was released from its confines. "Y/N.." Baldwin groans as his hips slightly buck. This is one of those moments when Baldwin thanks the heavens that the feeling in his crotch is not numb or too sore ridden.

Despite the sores, Y/N didn't mind at all. his hungry eyes took in all the kings cock as he played with the tip soaked in pre-cum.

Baldwin groaned as he sat half laying down as the man continued to fiddle with his manhood. Y/N loved the sweet sounds the king was making as he felt himself nearing his peak.

The man let out a loud moan as his semen spilled into the mans hand. As the king came down his high he stared at Y/N in awe, despite him being hired and a guard, he could still love a man like him.

Slowly, Baldwin sat upright and gently grasped Y/N hand, silently hoping that he would not get infected either. Baldwin leaned over and pressed a his to the mans temples.

Y/N softly smiled as he held his beloveds hand, enjoying each others presence. Love radiating off the two.

This is a sin but it is an amazing feeling.

A/N: Hopefully this is to your liking anon! Sorry if its bad :/

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gojoswhitebabydolllashes · 3 months ago

Text

CHARLES XAVIER IS HOT? -WADE

Logan howlett x reader

DEADPOOL AND WOLVERINE SPOILERS!!! AND DAYS OF FUTURE PAST BUT I CAN ONLY HOPE EVERYONE HAS SEEN THAT.

Warnings: erm idk. Kinda a short one. All will make sense soon. God help me. Major Canon divergence

When i first joined the x-mansion as a student, Charles Xavier was old. Though I had heard from plenty of people who knew him as a young adult that he was rather good looking.

I refused to think of my old and wrinkly professor in that way. Mostly because he'd see it and be absolutely horrified I assume.

"Logan, I don't think there's anyone here," I stated as he approached the mansion.

Covered in vines and surrounded by rotting timber and splintering trees, the x mansion had Definitely seen better days.

"It's not looking likely that's For sure" he replied.

"Do you guys think Happy Wheels will be here? God I wanna see that old fucker"

Wade was trying to be funny, but Logan and I just glared at him and kept walking. The door to the mansion was rotting and chipping away.

"I think we're in the past" I said, guessing mostly.

Logan pushed open the door gently, and inside stood one man. He was raggedy and bearded.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked the stranger.

"My name is Charles Xavier," he stated, "the real question is who are you? All of you"

"Ho-ly fuck! Charles Xavier is hot?" Wade Gasped loudly with his hands to his mouth

"Was" Logan corrected

"I don't knooooow. I'd let old rolly hit it too"

Me and logan both made disgusted noises.

🧠

When Xavier first learnt, I could also use telepathy. It was when I tried to kill Jean. He stopped me and told me to find him in the office.

He tried to help me control it and tried to help me let it get under control so that I wouldn't go insane. But I did. I went crazy, and I would scream and cry and yell and rattle the walls.

And then, one day, without any warning.

It stopped.

I never rattled another wall again

"So, you're all from the future?" Charles furrowed his eyebrows.

"More or less, yeah, we're not supposed to be here" Logan spoke.

Well, we have been here before technically. We're just a bit out of time. I scratched my neck awkwardly.

"We didn't necessarily come here to find you. We just have to get back home" I said to charles

Wade's mouth was still agape. "Jesus, you are gorgeous, aren't you?" He was close and personal with Charles, he might as well have been inside his skin.

"Jesus man, have you ever heard of personal space or decency?" Charles scoffed and stood up, walking away from wades perverse self.

"And turn those fucking thoughts off" Charles groaned and pointed to Wade.

"Listen. I know how crazy we are from the future sounds. But to make things worse, you're also a professor in the future, and you teach" I pointed to me and Logan "us"

"I can't help you guys, i don't know what to do" Charles shrugged.

Why do you stick by him?

You love him, don't you?

🧠

By far, my weirdest interaction in the TVA was when i met a variant of Xavier, and he seemed to know me quite well. He could name my favourite colour, food, even my favourite candle and my favourite animal.

Upon closer inspection, i saw a ring on his finger. Sparkling gold with a small blue gem. I didn't bother to ask what the blue meant, I only knew that my ring on my finger was the same.

It became clear then that this was a Xavier variant I may have married in a way distant universe.

I called for the immediate expulsion of the variant instantly after.

Don't let him go

Do it I dare you

You love him

He's not yours

You can't do this

Don't do this

Don't do it

It's not right

"Charles?" I said.

It was nighttime. We were forced to take shelter in the mansion as we knew we had nowhere else to go.

"Yes?" The bearded man turned to me

"Can you do me a favor?"

#logan howlett x reader #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #wolverine #deadpool and wolverine #xmen #marvel #xmen x reader

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majycka · 3 months ago

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Megumi stans....we won, I guess? maybe just for now..

JJK 266 THOUGHTS AND SPOILERS AHEAD!

Aight megumi enjoyers, at least one of us has been in the trenches when Megumi was getting SHOVELED PILES OF SHIT ON for losing his will to live when he's a traumatized 15 years old boy having a valid reaction to a death of a loved one (aka who may I repeat, HEAVILY REITERATED in the manga is someone whose his entire desire to live hinges on). As of from the currents chap, I'm considering Yuuji's acknowledgement/understanding to Megumi's actions a W for us or idk maybe that's just me because he gives Megumi the empathy and understanding he needs in his crazy ass suicidal life, and it raises the question of whether this is gonna fully push Megumi for his comeback moment?

More yapping under the cut

In order to explain why the magnitude of this chapter is such an important development for Megumi, his trauma needs to be discuss first and, there's four people we need to go through to reflect his stages of life. Toji, Tsumiki, Gojo, aaaannd Yuuji! :D

TOJI, the dad who left for milk.

Although we barely see any interaction with these two (only one fight scene from them), Toji no doubt kickstarted the trauma of Megumi the moment he decided to left for milk and never return again. He's traumatized by the Zenin's which explains why he acted out in that way and abandoned his child. All he's life he's treated as the outsider for being the odd one out. He lashed out from it as he got stronger, calmed down when meet Meg's mom who then died, and went back to lashing out again, forgetting that he has a tiny son waiting for him at home. Big L for Toji.

I know that Gege reiterated in his interview that he wants to craft a story where there's no right and wrong people, but I'm gonna proceed to be harsher towards Toji here because he's the ADULT situation. Yes, a traumatized adult who's fucked up and not perfect, but I still hold him accountable in perpetuating Megumi's trauma because Toji proceeded to repeat the cycle of trauma that moment he decided to leave, thinking that turning over Megumi to the Zenin is the best option cuz he got The Ten Shadows Technique. From Toji's perspective, it seemed the better option because he was raised knowing his no cursed energy made him an outcast in his family. It's drilled to him that cursed technique was everything for Zenins, so of course, he thought that his son with a valued technique will make the Zenins, olympic gold medal holder of abuse, treat him better. But, heck no! Just look what happened to that Naoya, who despite being raised differently as Toji or Maki and Mai, ended up as a piece of shit. In the end though, I gotta give him the bareeeessst minimum because he kinda pushed Gojo to interfere with Megumi being sold off to the Zenins(which has another set of problems discussed for the later part of discussion).

I try to stay true in including Gege's intention in writing here, and also other nuanced perspective cuz that's the type of series JJK is that yes, Toji DID care for his son in the barest minimum and in his most emotionally stunted way.

However, the damage is done, and Megumi is left with no prime adult caretaker to protect/guide him with only an older sis to have any resemblance of it .

2. TSUMIKI, the manic pixie dream girl sister.

To define the term (as I've stolen from Google) , manic pixie dream girl (MPDG) means "a type of female character depicted as vivacious and appealingly quirky, whose main purpose within the narrative is to inspire a greater appreciation for life in a male protagonist." They are often associated as love interest in movies, BUT I AM NO WAY SHAPE IN FORM ENDORSING MEGUMI SEES HER THAT WAY. Instead, I am using MPDG as a loose term to describe Tsumiki because like most MPDG, we barely know ANYTHING about her actually and we only saw her through the eyes of Megumi which is being pretty and dead.

Not essentially dead and not essentially just pretty because Megumi described her to be the model of a kind person and someone that Megumi wishes to protect, aka his greater purpose of life, which is yah, great, but we are stuck with this perception of Tsumiki. We don't know her, and I think the closest thing we got an unbiased perception of her is when she chucked a cartoon of milk to Megumi (she will call out his BS). This connects back with Megumi's trauma because who else are you gonna hinge your will to live on when the prime adults in your life failed you? He sees her in a brighter light in order to survive. A way of coping mechanism even.

AND YET, despite all his talk appreciating her kind traits and killing people in the culling game to get back to her, you would be surprised that instead of apologizing to her that he was all emo about, he was a dick to her when they reunited. 💀💀

And in fact, the narrative punishes him for this flaw.

To the point that when Sukuna took over his body, he "killed: Tsumiki in his hands which didn't just left Megumi the guilt and shame of being a dick to his sister before she dies but also the impression that Megumi was the one who "killed her." This makes Megumi an active participant to his own tragedy, and it serves a big slap on his face that he's also at fault here.

3. GOJO, the traumatized bro who tried his best.

This is definitely the raging hot debate of the fandom which is their dynamic, and my take breaks this perception of the uwufied Gojo a lot of the fandom seems to like. Yes, I do see Gojo as another perpetrator to Megumi’s trauma, another adult that failed him but not in such of a black and white way thinking of Gojo’s the wholly bad guy here. Believe it or not, he’s still a part of the chain of generational trauma, being a "chain" as in he's a victim AND perpetrator of the system. I called him the traumatized bro who tried his best here because as much as Gojo knows how cruel the jujutsu system is for the kids, he still unintentionally passes over the core mindset of such cruel system to Megumi since Gojo still did grew up in this system normalized in his eyes.

"Jujutsu Sorcerer is an individual sport."

I say "unintentionally passes" because no, Gojo doesn't have the same intention as Zenins/majority of the system who drills "strength is everything" in the most fucked up way possible. Yes, he enjoys Megumi’s company and treats him nicely. Yes, he sticks his neck out for him. Yes, he wants them to be strong so they can change the system. But this isn't about Gojo. It's about Megumi who still undeniably suffered from the accumulation of the few adults in his life failing him which includes Gojo. Gojo offers protection to Megumi. KEYWORD: Offers. It’s in exchange for Megumi working under Gojo as a jujutsu sorcerer. Now, for smol Megumi here, who truly going through the horror show of abandonment from his dad, agrees to it because apparently, according to Gojo, it’s the only way to protect his sister.

"I'll take care of things! But you're gonna have to work extra hard. I'm countin' on ya."

Annnd thus the cycle repeats! Although it wasn’t as bad as Zenin’s abusive environment Toji was raised, Megumi is still pushed in the same cutthroat environment of the jjk world that Gojo believed he can survive just because Megs has a valued powerful technique if only he himself fullfills his potential, like Gojo’s Six Eyes. BUT Gojo, who delights in his power, forgets a crucial part that…..Megumi isn’t like him!

Check out what Megumi has to say. (aka bud doesn't want any of that sorcerers shit and just wants a domestic life)

So the thing is, was Megumi ever asked his input in choosing to be a jujutsu sorcerer? Well, yah….and all it circles back to just protecting his sister and people like her. There’s a set of problems that comes with this mindset though that Gojo was valid to point out and that is Megumi doesn’t think about himself enough. “It’s ok to be selfish!” Gojo said in the context of being a stronger sorcerer.

But at the same time, he also gave Megumi the idea to that if he doesn’t work as sorcerer, then he won’t be able to protect his sister when he was a mere 6-7y/o boy.

You know that circulating meme of Megumi pulling Mahogora for minor inconvenience? Well, guess what that tells his suicidal tendencies in protecting anyone but himself. Kid got no sense of self-preservation because his self esteemed has completely tanked itself due to his abandonment issues, and now that he’s expressing how it emotionally and physically paralyzes him, he has every valid reason to do so.

Why, yes, Gojo was 19/20 at the time he first met Megs, still a kid, doesn't know shit, and has unaddressed issues being treated as The Strongest Weapon(here’s a dedicated gojo-centric meta I wrote previously about Gojo and his issues cuz he's one complicated fool). I describe this whole situation as an unaware traumatized kid taking in another traumatized kid which is not a fun mix to have, and I understand that Gojo ain’t exactly prepared for that kind of job.

HOWEVER, I’m way harsher to point out Gojo’s failure as an adult in Megumi in the later part of the series because at this point, Gojo's a grown adult, he waxes poetry in being responsible for the next gen , and we get to see his priorities throughout the series especially with the Sukuna’s fight, like seriously he had one legitimate fun fighting someone on par with him.

Gojo DELIGHTS in power no doubt, he chooses kids with most potential, he gets excited finding those kids, and this is the type of the closest dependable adult Megumi has in his life.

Yes, financially supported but Gojo isn't around much when he's working and on demand sorcerer almost 24/7. That's why growing up sure do sucked ass for Megumi especially when no one’s really there to guide and to keep an eye on your development AS A PERSON AND NOT JUST A SORCERER which the latter part is what unfortunately Gojo’s more eager to do.

4. YUUJI, the guy who just wants Megumi to know he matters to him as a person.

Yuuji and Megumi were definitely the highlight of this chapter because in the bleak world of JJK where everyone seemed to be succumbing to the repeated fuck ups of the previous gen (like that Yuta-Gojo situation), this chapter actually offers that THERE IS HOPE that the new gen can do better like what Yuuji just did that the adults in Megumi's life are too emotionally stunted to do. Yuuji take the time to listen to Megumi's emotional thoughts, what he feels as a person, and not just listen, but to understand and empathize. It even took lots of attempts for Yuuji to make Megumi open up.

He responds to Megumi's vulnerability with care and love, and Yuuji understands the pain Megumi is going through from losing his sister. With someone in pain like that, Yuuji knows he can't just go around saying "just live" to someone who's practically suicidal.

The treat of this all is when this scene comes next. Yuuji also shows his vulnerability and expresses that Megumi matters to him!

"It's lonely without you..Fushiguro."

This scene clearly parallels Gojo and Megumi's first meeting, so I'm gonna try to throw my two cents here and explain why Gege choose this direction. Remember what I said about Yuuji giving us the hope of the new gen escaping from the shackles of generational trauma? Well, I think this parallel is a way in saying that what Megumi needed when he was so young was someone to see him and his pain who's just a kid abandoned and forced to fend for themselves because the prime adults decided to to dip out. This is Megumi we are talking about here who's unaddressed issues stays hidden beneath all the pressure of him being The Ten Shadows Technique. He's valued for his technique. That's why Gojo showed up to meet him in the first place. That's also what the jujutsu system looked after for their child soldiers. Yuuji tries to break this chain of trauma their mentor unknowingly repeats. He'll show up for Megumi again and again because he's his dear friend even if Megumi's being difficult to be pulled out of Sukuna. And the beautiful thing is Yuuji didn't had some grand inspiring speech or grand offer to convince Megumi, he wasn't even sure Megumi will be up for it. Yuuji simply want to say that he matters to him. That understands him. That he's important to him so much he'll be sad when he dies, and it mattered.

"This is...Fushiguro Megumi's...!!"

And now that Megumi is showing signs in taking his body back, it's now his turn to save himself. Yuuji did his part, and for someone whose future has been controlled by everyone but himself, this time Megumi gets to decide what comes next.

#jjk 266 #jjk manga #megumi fushiguro #fushiguro megumi #yuuji itadori #itadori yuuji #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #fushiguro toji #toji fushiguro #tsumiki fushiguro #fushiguro tsumiki #jjk meta #jjk spoilers #yall this is the fastest i pulled words out of my ass and provided evidence for it #my uni paper would never see such treatment kdngjksd #it's very messy but gah i gotta type this shit out or it will be forever be stuck in my head and messes with my daily routine lol #meta attempt

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mishacakes · 1 year ago

Note

how do you connect to your character? like how do get to know them so well? how do you pick out their likes, dislikes, habits and those itty bitty bits about them? I've been struggling to do that for sooo many of my ocs, and i'm also at a lost of how to design them. like i once had a clear idea of what kind of character they are, but i wanted to change them a bit, make them a little better, and i feel like I've lost that character and that character i'm working on doesn't exists, no matter how much i loved them and enjoyed writing an drawing them. this has happened with every single character i made and it just makes me think that i may not be cut out for drawing or writing characters. i look up to you so i thought of asking you for help

sry for the long rant idk wat im doing

HELLO HELLO THANK YOU FOR ASKING!! So basically I took this question and turned it into a 1.6k word essay on writing characters and how I like to do it, so, uh, hope you enjoy!! and hope it helps!

OK!! character writing. How do you do it? or, well, how do I do it. I’ve got a few methods that help me out the most and are the most fun for me to think about. Here’s my big secret, if it’s not fun I don’t do it. I’m not here to do homework I’m waaayyyy out of school. I’m a legal adult. I pay my taxes. I’m not gonna do something that doesn’t give my brain the good fun juice. Anyways. My methods are: symbols, archetypes, and character inspiration. I use all these to figure out the CORE of a character, their very beating heart, and most importantly, what haunts them. Everything about a character, in my opinion, comes from this core and their ghost. Their habits, their fears, their joys, their coping mechanisms. So long as you have a clear grasp on their heart, you won’t go astray. Let’s dive into it! The characters I’m going to be using to describe how I use these methods are Alice and others characters from my webcomic—namely Edith, Hatter, and Rougina—and Tomiko (you know her you love her, catgirl supreme).

Symbols! I love using symbols, they’re something that can describe a character through metaphor, even without going into detail about their whole backstory and habits. Tomiko’s symbols are lanterns (specifically light), cats, ghosts/yokai, shapeshifting, and gold. They all work to further her character as a rough around the edges monster cat with a heart of gold, who uses shapeshifting as a method (both literally and metaphorically) to mold herself into what others need her to be. Alice’s symbols are hearts, eyes, and flesh in general. Try picking one general symbol (the ocean, the forest, the city), and see how specific you can get from there. Or pick a god or goddess that resonates with your character and see what symbols are used for them. Rougina (the antagonist in my webcomic) is a war goddess fallen from grace, and is symbolized with land and volcanoes, so I’ve used volcanic plants to evoke her. Personally I also love going through the tarot for symbols, assigning a tarot card to characters (of the major arcana) is a fun exercise. Which leads us nicely into our next method:

Archetypes! The tarot deck’s Major Arcana is pretty much only archetypes. The Empress as the Mother. The Magician as the Wise Mentor. The Tower as The Worst Thing That Could Possibly Happen Oh Jesus Shit. These can help a lot with who your character is. I’m extremely storytelling oriented, so it helps me knowing What Role a character serves in the story they inhabit. Another thing I love in archetypes in the Zodiac. Yes, I am an astrology bitch. The whole reason I love talking about my methods is my Sag rising, I love giving my wisdoms. But astrology can be used for writing, and not just for excusing and not reflecting on shit behavior (can’t help being a gemini!). The zodiac is FILLED WITH ARCHETYPES!!! From elements to how they function! The four elements (you A:TLA bitches know this), and three modalities. If you’re interested please watch Eugene’s Rank King video, it’s very informative on the signs. Also many symbols! For example, Alice is a Taurus—May 4, Alice Liddell’s birthday—so she’s pretty stubborn while also loving creature comforts. Tomiko’s birthday is August 23, making her a Virgo, so she likes being precise in her work. More archetypes you can look for are DnD classes! I love using that to design costumes. One of Edith’s recent costumes is very wizard inspired, since that’s the class I see her having as she’s very studious and driven. Heck, all of Alice and the Nightmare is derived from the character archetypes of the Alice in Wonderland characters! Rougina is specifically the Red Queen, NOT the Queen of Hearts!! The confusion started with the 1951 Disney animated movie when the two characters were merged!! Lewis Carroll himself said the two were different! The Queen of Hearts is an “embodiment of ungovernable passion” and the Red Queen is “the concentrated essence of all governesses”!! GOD!!! Tim Burton meet me in the fucking pit you’ll pay for your alice crimes. anyways.

Archetypes help a lot in costumes too, figuring out what kind of fashion they’d like to wear. You can start broad and get more specific with it (like going from a wizard type character to a wizard character with steampunk themes). Fashion is just an extent of character. What are they comfy in? Are they confident in their body? What colors do they like? Bright high fashion or simple dark sweaters? Ryoko Kui is a master of character design I HIGHLY HIGHLY recommend checking out her work.

Another method I like using, specifically for Alice and the Nightmare characters, is what I call the “three trait method”. When I was in middle school we did a production of Alice in Wonderland (I was the White Knight), and too many girls auditioned for Alice. So the director’s solution was to split the character into three parts, and assigning each part to an actor. Her temper, her intelligence, and her innocence, all used in different scenes. Now I use that to think about my own Alice character, except with “polite, temper, and curious”. Edith’s keywords are “nervous, tactical, and intelligent”. Hatter’s are “kind, enthusiastic, and intuitive”. Using keywords can help figure out how they’d react in a situation, what side of them would shine the brightest. Hatter’s want to help everyone is his kindness, but overstepping his bounds can be attributed to his enthusiasm. Edith can know what path to take in a pinch, but her nervousness can freeze her in place. Reading the source material helps a lot with Alice characters too, which brings us to our final point:

Character inspiration!! The art of taking things you like and shoving them into your own characters and stories. DISCLAIMER THO!!! If you take things without really EXAMINING what about them you like, WHY you like them, and how you’d like to evoke that same love in the things you make, the interpretations can come off as shallow. (for more on this subject, watch HBomberguy’s RWBY video essay, specifically the section on “anime homework”)

Tomiko’s biggest inspirations are Izutsumi from Dungeon Meshi, April Ludgate from Parks and Rec, Power and Reze from Chainsawman, San from Princess Mononoke, and Mei from LMK. It’s a good cocktail of aloof, biting, vicious, weird, fierce, loving, and bright. Figuring out what I love about the characters and what I want to write in a character like that helps a lot in writing Tomiko. It’s also really fun in a sense for screenshot redraws and memes.

Music is also a HUUUUUUGE source of inspiration for me, I love making playlists. And even as playlists can change as characters grow and change, having a couple of core songs still helps me ground to that character’s center. For Tomiko it’s “Make Them Gold” by CHVRCHES, and “Nice Girl” by Ashnikko. Alice’s is “Headlock” by Imogen Heap and “Demons” by Hayley Kiyoko, Edith’s is “Warrior” by Kimbra, and Hatter’s is “Dementia” by Owl City.

Ok, we’ve gotten though symbols, archetypes, and made a couple of banger playlists. Next is something that can help write your character, the Big Lie. The thing that keeps them up at night. Their biggest fear, their ghost, what haunts them. What’s holding them back from their goals? What do they need to overcome? That can be as central to their theme as any symbolism. For Tomiko it’s the lie that her emotions don’t matter, only what she can do to be of service to her mother. Her arc is about overcoming her dismissing her own emotions and learning to not run away from the people who she truly cares for. Alice dismisses the literal ghost that is haunting her believing that that will let her have a normal life. Edith pushes down abilities that come naturally to her for fear that she’ll be exiled, not just from society, but the world. Rougina believes she must burden the world’s problems on her own shoulders with no one’s help. The outer character and the inner ghost can reflect, mirror, and inform each other.

Now, listen, sometimes characters are hard to get to know! Tomiko was lol. Quinn was for a looong time. And in times like this, I just, let them be. I listen to some music to get inspired, and let them tell me about themselves when they feel like it. And they will, it just take a little while. And a few dozen quick exploration drawings. But they come through. Also, try not to get bogged down with habits and little details of their character, keep their core in mind, what their heart is. Start broad and get specific. That way, if you feel like you’ve lost your way or the character feels different to you, recenter yourself at their heart and go from there. Or, if you find that their center no longer fits, don’t be afraid to change it! Characters are meant to be fun! First and foremost!! I make characters cause I like writing and storytelling, and drawing little comic for fun and me time. Sometimes characters stick around, sometimes they fall by the wayside. You really have to find what sparks joy, and chase your bliss!

So as long as you have your character’s essence in your hands, and you WANT to keep working on them and drawing them, there’s really no wrong way to go. This whole essay I’ve given is just a set of tools that works for ME, and I HIGHLY encourage you to find stuff that works for you! I really really hope that all this has made sense and isn’t just the ramblings of a madman. Good luck and happy charactering!!

#meesh blabs #misha writings #character writing #happy reading and happy writing!#THANKS FOR ASKING <3

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operafantomet · 4 months ago

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Hi there. Idk if this question has been asked before, but where do they find the fabric for the mandarin coat?

I'd say there are as many answers as there are versions of the costume. But some pointers:

Many of the early versions were made with partly antique embroidered textiles from the Qing dynasty. These were a popular collector's item in the 19th and 20th century, to the point where some of them were never intended for use in China, they were made as souvenirs. The original design by Maria Bjørnson suggests antique Chinese fabrics, with a hem showing the classic water-and-mountain motif, the collar being a cloud collar usually seen in women's attires, and the hat a decorated winter hat.

Even if all these costumes are made from scratch rather than bought, I thought it could be interesting to compare it to a similar authentic Chinese robe - without the collar - dated to the 1890s and sold by Augusta Auctions some years ago:

This robe has a badge - an insignia of rank and position of a Mandarin official in the Qing dynasty. These were used both on the chest and back, and the bird or otherwise animal told onlookers all they needed to know, if the person was a civil or military employee, and how high up in the system they were. The badge is not featured in Bjørnson's design, but it has showed up in a few costumes. Maybe most proninently in Michael Crawford's original West End costume, which Bjørnson would have supervised:

To my eye it looks like many of the elder costumes (up until c. 2005) used a lot of antique or vintage fabrics, but used on a new base. Details to look for is distinct gold couching, re-used badges, special dragon embroideres, antique collars and tabards, fringework etc. I am quite convinced some of these are antique or vintage details, like the China blue tabard with water and mountain motif used by John Owen-Jones in West End c. 2002:

The cuff and details on one of the original Australian robes, and continued to shine in the World Tour up until 2015 or so:

The tabard of the Swedish/Danish version, first made in 1989 and still in use in 2019 (maybe not too visible in the stage photo, but definitely when seen up close backstage!):

As a contrast, newer costumes tends to be brassier and bigger, with less embroidery and more appliquées and trims. It looks to me like they mostly rely on new fabrics and materials, maybe with some elements of elder embroidery. This collar made for Ben Lewis in West End is a good example:

And the recent German version, here seen on Mathias Edenborn in Hamburg. It's a costume I got to study up close and I couldn't spot any particular details that looked old:

And this Broadway robe with what looks like a very new firefly pattern brocade and embroidered gold trims appliquéed on:

So why this change? I guess it depends on what is available. Qing textiles has become more rare on the open market, and more expensive. Elder textiles are also more fragile, while new textiles will handle wear and tear, dry cleaning etc. better. Some of these costumes are used on stage up to eight times a week, after all.

Due to the fragility of elder textiles, they may have to cover the embroidery with fine mesh. This dulls down the effect and makes the costume heavier, so it's not always ideal. Better then to use new stuff. Here's an early 1990 West End one covered with mesh, to protect the embroidery:

A last aspect is of course that by using elder textiles you may put specific meaning-bearing motifs on which ideally shouldn't be there. The beautiful embroidered Indian fabric with elephants and swastikas - in India a symbol of the sun and good luck - which appeared in an unfortunate Danish Elissa skirt is a good example. Luckilly the costume crew knew what they were doing by including the five bats - for good luck - on this Broadway Mandarin robe:

If you plan on making your own costume, I would say: Create the base of a Chinese brocade (silk or synthetic) with predominantely black or dark blue base and polychrome pattern. As an inspiration, here's the robe, collar and tabard - fairly undecorated - in making for Scott Davies (top) and Ben Lewis (bottom) in West End, with photos generously shared by head-of-costume Ceris Donovan:

For the back: Go for a main motif, and build everything around that. And layer! Gems upon trims upon embroideries upon fabrics. The more structure, embroidery, couching and details the various materials has, the better. And then add some on top of that.

Note that it varies if a production do both the robe, cloud collar and tabard. Some production only do two of these, some do all three. But whatever the case, the costume with hat should create angles, texture and lines that makes him stand out from the previous scene, where he wore black and white and tight-fitting clothes.

In West End I think they source it in the many amazing fabric shops in Brixton and Soho, including Borovicks, as well as antique dealers. For Broadway I know a lot was bought in the fabric district in NYC. Other productions may be equipped with fabrics and trims from these, or they may source their own materials locally. I also noticed that the Chinese (left) and Japanese (right) productions tend to use more red and purple fabrics for their versions, which I would think was also locally sourced:

So yeah. As many answers as there are versions out there...

#mandarin robe #mandarin coat #phantom of the opera #maria bjørnson #first lair #costume nerding

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the7thcrow · 1 year ago

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Not all that Glitters is Gold -> 10

series pairing: (fem) princess!reader x seonghwa x san x wooyoung. eventual polyamory.

series masterlist | previous chapter

Part Ten: a relic from the past, confession, and dark magic.

series rating: 16+

series genre: action and adventure. romance. angst. fluff. suggestive. fantasy au.

series warnings: character death, blood and violence, weaponry, injury, suggestive content, mxm content, elements of misogyny, language, monsters. (will only be using chapter specific warnings for things not included on this list.)

summary: as a princess fleeing a royal assassination attempt, you have no choice but to put your trust in a band of three thieves in order to reach the kingdom of kuroku alive. however, amongst magic, deceit, and the bounty hunters that are hot on your trail, you realize that you might have stumbled upon a relationship far more complicated than what meets the eye.

chapter details beneath the cut ->

wc: 15.3k

extra chapter warnings: panic attack, a non-consensual kiss, non-consensual drug use (but magical? idk?).

chapter summary:

“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.

Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.

“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”

a/n: guess who’s back :3 sorry this took me a million years to write, hopefully i can be a bit more consistent in the next coming months. hope you enjoy, and don’t be shy to let me know what you think! love y’all, thanks to everyone who has not abandoned this story after this massive hiatus LMAO <3

Seonghwa has never believed anger to suit him.

While Woo wears his anger like a loaded cannon, and San - like most other things - buries it until it inevitably rises to the surface, Seonghwa has tried to avoid fury when he can.

After all, anger is often the replacement of a different emotion. It comes easier than understanding, quicker than resolution. It’s the nasty, winding short-cut off the high road, and Seonghwa has learned that the high road is almost always the safer path in the long term.

Anger is ugly. It’s nonsensical and he doesn’t like how it looks on him. It’s why he prefers the cold shoulder to blind rage, sorting out his feelings on his own rather than lashing out on others. It’s the kind thing to do. The empathetic thing to do.

It’s never been overly difficult for him to settle this rage until now.

It festers in his mind every morning, as well as in the night before he falls asleep. Everytime he accidentally catches your eye over breakfast, letting his gaze drift away in hopes that you will think that his eyes were trailing by rather than staring.

He is so unbelievably angry with you, and he hates it.

From the moment the truth was revealed in the forest, it’s as if someone wrapped a hand around his lungs and began to squeeze, then never let go. A hot, burning fire in his chest that’s smoke rises up his throat, choking him with rage. It stings his eyes, fogs his senses. It feels unbeatable, indestructible. Blinding.

He knows that anger is just an emotion. A bad one, one that he’s had to expel from others countless times before. From San, after The Desert Lotus. It’s just another entity, another plague on the body. Settle down, feel it, think better of it, then let it be gone.

And yet now that feels an impossible task. Seonghwa doesn’t know the last time he was so angry. Perhaps it was the night in the kitchen with his mother, learning of the heights of human greed, the one he relives every time he uses his gift to expel the anger from someone else.

He supposes this memory may replace that one.

When he found out the truth about you it was like the last few weeks came crashing down around him. The closeness, the trust and understanding, the mutual respect and admiration.

All lies. All of it. And he feels like such a fucking idiot.

There was no trust, and by the gods, there was certainly no respect. He was a mere pawn in your game, a part of the plan, and all he can do is beat himself up about being too naive to not see it earlier. Woo has always harped on him for being too nice to people, or as the elemental would put it, “not behaving like an actual person, but more like a rock on a walkway that people like to kick around”. Seonghwa thought that Woo was just being grouchy, the pessimist he always is. But hell, maybe he was right.

After all, Seonghwa should have seen it coming. There was so much he could have done. If he had questioned why a beautiful stranger would have so much immediate interest in him in the first place, or why you constantly asked him questions while dismissing any deeper ones about yourself. If he wasn’t so passive about the parasitic emotions practically radiating off of you. If he looked past the ideal he so desperately wanted and dared to dig up the reality of what was underneath.

He’s not an idiot. The reality is that for you, it was never about him. It was about getting to Kuroku. For him it was about the journey, but for you it was always in the name of the destination.

And well, he certainly did his part in getting you there. He shared his gift with you as a token of trust, he took your pain away and made it his own, he vouched for you against Woo’s constant doubt.

All for a girl who’s name he didn’t even know.

The thought makes more anger - ugly, volatile, and oh-so-unflattering - surge within his chest, and he throws a rock into the lake before him. It doesn’t skip as he intended, and instead sinks with a loud plunk.

Seonghwa frowns. He grabs another rock to throw.

After being met with an even louder plunk, he groans, before creeping further up onto the shoreline to grab a flatter rock. His toes dip in the water, which feels colder than yesterday now that he’s no longer fueled by sheer terror and adrenaline.

The coolness brings him back to Maralya, when he and Yunho would sit on the fishing dock. Feet in the water, even though Seonghwa was older, Yunho was the one who had taught him to skip rocks. His half-brother always had a knack for things like that, or well, for everything it seemed. From medical skills, to scaling buildings, to setting a fishing line; Yunho could master whatever he picked up. He must have inherited it from his father, a man Seonghwa doesn’t really remember, as he died when they were young.

Seonghwa doesn’t remember his own father either, as he disappeared on an escapade to The Mainland directly after he was born. His mother told him that his ship was lost at sea, but Seonghwa is pretty sure he just left and never came back.

It doesn’t really matter, he’s never had much of a desire to know the man. After all, the only thing Seonghwa inherited from him was his foolishness. And maybe his nose.

Seonghwa sighs. Picking up another rock, this one flat and polished, he recalls the steps in his mind. Yunho's voice runs through his head as he goes through the form, before bringing his hand back and letting it fly.

Plunk.

He stares at the ripples surrounding the sinking stone for a moment, before sitting down. He must have forgotten a step. It was a long time ago.

He lays back so that his head presses into the sand, the little grains cold and damp against his scalp. It’s familiar. It’s a little like the shore at home, although the sand isn’t as white, and the water’s colder, nor as blue. There’s no sound of hustle and bustle from back in the village, or his mother yelling at him to take a dip in the ocean before coming back inside because he’s covered in sand and he can’t track that into the house.

So maybe it’s not so similar, but he will pretend.

Seonghwa sighs, grabbing a handful of sand, letting it fall between his fingers. It’s times like these, ones where he’s dejected, broken-down, and lonely, that he wants nothing more than to go home. Only then does he remember that there’s no home for him to return to.

He sighs, his anger drifting to sadness, and yet he doesn’t mind. He believes that at the very least, it suits him better.

Footsteps approach from far off behind him, and he knows that it’s you. Woo walks faster, heavier footed, and he likely wouldn’t have heard San until he was closer. Besides, you’ve been walking with a slight limp since the fall, and he can hear it in the thump of every second step.

A part of him wants to ask what happened, what hurts. If you’re okay.

The angry part of him won’t let the other speak.

He hears your steps stutter, coming to a sudden halt from what he assumes is about a dozen feet off. Silence follows, and he wonders what you’re thinking. If you’re nervous to approach him, taking the time to contemplate your words before you say them.

Eventually, you do come closer. “San and Woo want to head towards Bebbanburg,” you call out from behind him. “I said that I’d come get you.”

“Thanks,” Seonghwa says flatly, making no motion to move. He will, of course, but not until you head back to camp. He’d like to avoid the awkwardness of walking in a strained silence, pretending not to notice as you try to meet his eye.

Although when he doesn’t hear you leave, it seems as if he doesn’t have much of a choice.

Sighing, he pushes himself up into a seated position. Glancing back at you, he has to place a hand over his forehead to block out the rising sun blinding his vision.

You stand with your arms wrapped around yourself, watching him with a dampened expression. Your tunic billows in the wind, torn around the waist and covered in dirt and dust. Chewing on your bottom lip as your fingers tap along your arm, you appear on edge. As if you wish to say something.

Seonghwa hates the way he wishes to know what it is. He hates how he wants to smooth your hair that is violently blown by the wind and wipe away the smudge of mud that has hardened against your cheek.

He hates how even now, after everything, he yearns for you.

Perhaps this is how it always would have ended, anyway. Having grown more attached then he ever should, not ready to lose what he knew was never his.

“Seonghwa,” you say finally, although it’s a little strained. Rigid. “About yesterday, by the fire.”

Ah yes, that. You and San hadn’t noticed him at the time, but when neither he or Woo came back to the fire, the two of you went out looking for them. It only took a moment, finding them sitting against the caves outer wall. Quiet and avoidant. Woo had fallen asleep, but Seonghwa had met your gaze. He held it for only a moment, watching your own eyes widen as you realized he’d seen the whole thing. He looked away when your lips parted to speak.

“With San. I hadn’t expected it to happen,” you say, calling loudly over the wind, and yet somehow your voice still seems quiet. Trapped and tight. “I… I don’t regret it. But after everything, it feels unfair to you-”

“I don’t care about you and San,” Seonghwa butts in. Not aggressively, or overly angry, merely factual. After all, that’s not what he’s angry about. He doesn’t care about you and San. That’s your business.

He wants San to be happy. Whatever it takes, the swordsman deserves a bit of peace.

Besides, now that he will not, perhaps San will wipe the mud from your cheek.

“Oh,” you say, followed by a pause. “You just seem upset.”

“I’m not angry about that,” Seonghwa replies, lips pursing together. He swallows hard. “Just about everything you did before it.”

Your expression falls. Mouth dropping open into a small part, your eyes fill with a sudden sense of shame and hurt. Your hands grip your elbows, hugging yourself tighter, even if only slightly.

Your expression settles like stone in his gut, and he knows that what he said has made you hurt. He has made you feel that same pain that tightens in his chest and floods up his throat.

Seonghwa wishes he hadn’t said that.

No matter his anger, no matter the pain, Seonghwa has never wished to pass an entity on to another.

“I’ll meet you back at the cave in a moment,” he says, because he doesn’t want to say anything else that he’ll regret. He doesn’t want to force his gaze from yours while at the same time feeling a pull towards you like a beacon, begging him to take it away. Take it all away. All the horrible entities that radiate from you like a plague, a blackened sickness.

Turning back towards the lake, he waits. When he hears the sound of your footsteps - fading away, not growing louder - he lets out a sigh of relief.

He doesn’t like what this has made him into. The anger that has filled him, strangles him, stops him from drifting towards you like a moth to a flame. Sure to be burned, but the glow will be glorious.

No, anger doesn’t suit him. And yet he wears it, draping over him, akin to a stranger’s jacket.

If there is any luck to be found following your fall from the cliff, it’s in that at least you’ve found yourselves closer to Bebbanburg.

The journey to the small kingdom only took a few hours, the fact that you had nothing to carry but the clothes on your back having sped up the trek. It was spent in silence.

You know there’s certain to be some of the black-clad men poking around in such a populous city, so upon reaching the kingdom, the first order of business was to purchase you a cloak, as Mingi’s own had remained within a satchel on the horse’s back.

It weighs down on your shoulders, knowing that it’s gone, the final piece of him you had left. You’ve tried to view it as for the better, as the cloak of a Libaiyan Royal Guard could have attracted the attention of the wrong pair of eyes.

Even so, it hurts.

The cloak you wear now isn’t nearly as nice, a tattered brown fabric that’s itchy in the spots where it touches your bare skin, but it only cost a few bronze pieces. Considering that all the group of you have to your name is the pouch of coins attached to San’s waste, you have to know where to ration your spendings.

This is only on the necessities. San is trying to locate a cheap blacksmith to fashion him a new sword. Meanwhile, Woo and Seonghwa are searching if there’s anywhere for your group to stay that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg. Bebbanburg is an expensive kingdom, and so long as you find a place with a roof and walls that doesn’t blow through all of your savings, you’ll consider yourselves lucky.

With all the men on their own errands and a new cloak purchased, you’ve had about an hour to kill before now, as you currently make your way to meet them back at the city center. You’ve spent it wandering, peering into shop windows but never making your way inside. You don’t have the money to spend, nor do you want the undivided attention of a shop-keeper when you’re trying to lay low.

You’ve passed a few of your wanted posters strown up about the town, plastered to bulletin boards, poles, and shop windows alike. On top of being newly adorned with a far more accurate portrait of yourself, they’ve also added the detail of your recent scars. Printed along the bottom is the following: “Last spotted travelling with three young men. Potentially dangerous. Approach with caution.”

As an incentive due to what you assume is the elevated danger risk, they’ve increased the reward for your capture or demise to 300,000 gold pieces.

Apparently, someone at the tavern ratted the group of you out. Likely Yeosang and his band of not-so-merry men, or perhaps the poor shop-keeper desperate for a bribe.

Either way, someone is on your tail. Considering the new addition to the posters, that someone is in this city.

You haven’t seen them yet, but you know that it’s the black-clad men. They have to be lurking around here somewhere, they’re just being quiet about it.

You swallow hard, pulling the hood of your cloak further down.

Fortunately, the street’s are bustling with people. Bebbanburg, while not quite as big as the four major kingdoms, is still a hub for tourism. With money to spend, the streets are clean, the buildings well-kept. Despite being a narrow path in the merchant’s district in town, the air smells fresh.

It doesn’t feel quite right, in your opinion. Between the few towns you’ve visited these past few weeks, there was a certain scent to the air that felt more…natural. A strange concoction of smells as different taverns and homes didn’t agree on a pre-set menu for the night, dirt and pebbles aligning the trails as hunters dragged home their latest catch, or the muddy hoof-prints left by horses that stick to the bottoms of your shoes.

Bebbanburg feels too polished. The sort of polished that takes an effort, that works extra hard to rid itself of anything it deems unclean.

Trying not to obsess too much over the fact, you do your best to retrace your steps in order to return to the city center, taking a turn down another street. A slight limp to your step, ankle still not having fully recovered from your fall off the cliff, you count the shop doors that you pass along the alley’s stone wall. You kept count on your way here in order to know which alley to take back.

Counting down the doors, you pass by a butcher’s shop, cafe, and Zarian boutique for rare gems, all of which you’d passed along the way here. Gaze fluttering passively over the alley next to the boutique, you nearly miss the pair of eyes that lock on your own. Cat-like gaze fixated on yours, the bottom half of the figure's face is covered by a black cloth, their head shrouded in a dark cloak.

You pause. Hesitant, you retrace your last few steps, peering back down the alley.

The figure’s cloak follows behind them as they disappear behind a winding turn.

Swallowing down the bile that arises in your throat as an unsettled chill creeps down your spine, you keep moving along your original route. It was just a stranger. You’re paranoid, on edge, searching to find shadows and enemies in places in which they are not there.

Nevermind how something about the stranger's gaze felt oddly…familiar. Although you cannot place from where.

You continue along your original path, turning down the alley that will take you back to the city center. Glancing over your shoulder, you see nobody behind you, just the bustle of people continuing their way down the mainstreet. You mentally scold yourself. You’re being ridiculous, and casting lingering glances as you loiter in one place for too long is only going to attract attention.

When you turn forward, you catch a glimpse of movement, as something disappears behind a wall up ahead of you. “Shit,” you think to yourself, rushing forward as you place your back against the stone wall, peeking an eye out to see if you can spot them.

All you can manage is the tail end of the dark cloak disappearing down another alleyway. You wait a moment, as if contemplating how daring - or foolish - you’re willing to be, before heading after them.

“This is a bad idea,” you whisper to yourself, hand drifting to the hilt of the sword at your waist as you follow after the mysterious figure. However, even if unwise, you’d rather know your enemy and have them right in front of you compared to being stalked like prey. You’ll get slain in a fair fight any day before getting your throat slit from behind.

It’s a morbid thought, something San would likely say during combat practice, and you wonder if you’ve been spending too much time with these men.

Following the stranger, you keep quiet on your feet. Pulling the sword out from its sheath, you tread carefully, slowing your pace as you near the corner that the cloak had disappeared behind. Holding the sword firm in your grasp, you take a deep and shaky breath, before jumping to face your attacker.

Only to find there is nobody there, just another barren alleyway. Another alleyway that leads to nothing but a dead end, a stone wall looming tall before you.

You frown, confused at how this is possible. Your gaze darts around the narrow alleyway, searching for a cloaked figure, but it remains entirely empty.

Letting out a troubled sigh, you resheath your sword and turn back around.

Only to be met face first with the masked stranger.

Your breath dies in your throat, and you instinctively pull an arm back, aiming to strike them. However, as you swing forward, they narrowly dodge your strike, managing to grab your wrist instead. They twist it, not so hard as to dislodge anything, but enough that it disarms you. Then, using their free hand to push you backwards, they press you up against the stone wall. Elbow against your chest and hand gripping your upper arm, their spare hand grips tightly around your other wrist, rending you immobile.

Your chest heaves, not from tiredness but scheer panic. They’ve got you. Your gaze flickers up, to scan the face of your assailant. The person that will turn you in to the black-clad men, or is perhaps one themself.

The strangers' dark eyes meet yours from beneath their thick cloak, black orbs dancing as they move to scan over your face. Cat-like in their shape, with thick eye-lashes and brows.

Then the stranger laughs.

It’s not a menacing laugh, nor one you would expect from someone who is about to kill you. Instead it’s joyous, almost disbelieving.

“It is you!” The stranger exclaims, their voice light and feminine.

Feminine and familiar. You narrow your eyes.

“Do I…” You start, swallowing down the bile that has arisen in your throat, as well as the tremble of fear in your voice. “Do I know you?”

The stranger’s eyebrows furrow together into a look of confusion, before lighting up in realization. “Oh!” They say, before doing the last thing you would have ever expected of removing their hands from you entirely. “Of course!”

The stranger pulls off the hood of their cloak, revealing a head of long, thick red hair. They follow the removal of their hood by doing the same with their mask, and with it, you are hit with a wave of not only relief, but scheer and unadulterated joy.

“Yeji!” You nearly shout, pulling your back from the wall and wrapping your arms around your old laundress.

She chuckles, and then you are both laughing. In happiness, in relief, in sheer and utter disbelief. You pull away, placing both of your hands along her jaw to cup her face. You scan every detail, to ensure that she is real and actually standing before you, not some sort of trick or illusion.

But is her, just as you had seen her last at the castle. Maybe not exactly the same, wearing far different clothes than the modest beige dress she had adorned as your laundress, hair worn loosely, and eyes holding more of an edge than they ever had before.

Still, it is Yeji.

Yeji with the shimmering grin and freckle on her nose. Yeji who you know, and knows you in return. Yeji from your castle. Your home.

Yeji, a relic from the past that has not been destroyed.

“You nearly gave me a heart attack, following me around like that,” you laugh, taking one of your hands and giving her a slap on the shoulder, playful and not hard enough to actually hurt.

“Sorry,” she grins. “I didn’t want to attract any attention on the street. Figured it would be safer to lure you somewhere quiet, and you know, I also wanted to make sure it was actually you first.”

She then scoffs, returning the slap onto your own shoulder. “I didn’t expect you to pull out a sword on me! Where did you even get one of those?”

You consider answering, but a heavy cloud of unanswered questions hangs over the two of you, its presence loud and rattling like thunder. The jovial nature to your reunion cannot last long, not when there’s so much at stake, not when your world has crumbled to ash since you last spoke.

“What are you doing in Bebbanburg?” You ask, before realizing there’s a far more pressing question at hand. “How did you get out of the castle?”

Yeji smiles, placing her hand over one of your own along her cheek. “After what happened with the king in the ball-room, it was chaos,” she explains. “The Dark Army were rounding up and capturing all those who worked in the castle and may have been close to you.”

Your heart seizes at the statement, and your voice is quiet as you speak again. “Did they hurt them?”

“I don’t know,” Yeji replies, tone equally as somber. “A group of us laundresses escaped together using the underground tunnel system. I didn’t see what happened to those they had rounded up, but…”

She swallows hard, eyes pitiful as they meet your own. “But with how The Dark Army were talking, and the screams that followed behind us…I don’t think it would have ended well for them, Princess.”

Your throat swells at her admission, and it becomes more difficult to breathe as your eyes fill with the remnants of tears. Your mind is flooded with the unwelcome image of all of your old servants - your friends, as they had far surpassed their job description - tortured to try and probe them for information regarding you.

You wipe at your eyes with your hands, stuffing down the rising guilt and pain, placing a lid on these horrible thoughts. You will mourn later, when you have the time to properly grieve and honour all that they have lost because of you. For now, you must keep moving, deal with what is right in front of you.

“You keep calling them The Dark Army,” you begin, changing the subject. “Is that a made up title, or something they’ve defined themselves as? Do we know who they are?”

Yeji shakes her head. “Nobody knows who they are, it’s just what we’ve been calling them because of their armour. Not to mention the fact that they are about the sourest men I’ve ever met.”

“You’ve spoken to them?” You ask, scolding yourself for the fear that seizes in your chest at the thought of it. Of them being anywhere near her, or anyone you care about, for that matter.

She nods. “They’re poking around the city. Trying to keep a low profile, because Bebbanburg doesn’t like any semblance of war or conflict contaminating their streets, but they’re here. We try to keep to ourselves by not causing any trouble or disturbances and they mostly leave us alone.”

Your head buzzes at the confirmation that they are here, within the walls and perhaps a mere alley-way over, which is far, far too close.

“You keep saying we,” you note. “There’s more of you?”

Yeji nods, a soft smile grazing her lips. “Lot’s of us. We’ve set up a refugee camp on the outskirts of the city. Bebbanburg doesn’t want us here, because of course they don’t, but at least it’s safe. Not much crime or Anti-Libaiyan extremists in the city, so even if it’s not much, it’s all that we can really ask for.”

If she had told you this a couple weeks ago, you’d have been startled to know that there were Anti-Libaiyan extremists at all. However, having been given insight into the monstrosities your father was capable of, this no longer comes as a surprise, but rather expected.

“Can you take me to them?” You ask, and Yeji nods.

“Of course,” she says, grabbing your hand as she begins to walk back up the alley-way. “Although, I’d recommend keeping a low-profile, seeing that you're alive might cause a little too much excitement. Draw attention.”

You nod in agreement, following behind her through the winding alley-ways. It’s not until you’re almost back on the main city street that you remember why exactly you were trekking through the alleyways in the first place.

“Wait,” you say, stopping. Yeji turns to face you, raising a quizzical eyebrow. “There’s some people I need you to meet first.”

“Where have you been?” Woo asks as you approach. The three men have gathered around the fountain within the center of the city square, water spouting from the tall and golden statue into a small pond embedded with various coloured jewels along its rim. The falling water casts a veil of mist around them, as well as the various other groups gathered beside it. Many of them are tourists from different kingdoms, which you can recognize by the various types of clothing they wear, such as the vibrant coloured patchwork of the group next to you that is distinctly Zarian. It seems a prime spot to talk, the definition of hiding in plain sight.

“You were supposed to meet us here a half-hour ago,” Woo says with a scowl, before he notices Yeji beside you. His gaze flickers up and down, as if assessing her potential danger. “Who is this?”

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself, before motioning to her. “You guys, this is Yeji.”

She gives them a smile to which none of the men return, and for a moment you stand in silence.

“We’ve heard that one before,” Woo says.

Your face warms with embarrassment, and you clear your throat before beginning to explain. “This is the real Yeji, the girl whose name I used. She was one of my laundresses back at the castle, as well as a close friend.”

Another moment of silence follows, as none of the men appear to know what to say, or how to approach the appearance of a stranger.

Eventually, Seonghwa speaks, tone polite. “It’s nice to meet you,” he says, to which Yeji returns the sentiment. Although he isn’t looking at you to see it, you cast Seonghwa a grateful smile all the same.

“This is Seonghwa, San, and Woo,” you say, pointing to each of them in turn. “They have been helping me get to Kuroku.”

“Thank you for aiding Her Highness,” Yeji says, placing a hand on her chest while delivering a curtsy. A sign of respect. Although…exceedingly formal respect.

San’s lips pull together into a stifled smile, and Woo raises an eyebrow.

“You, um, don’t have to do that,” you say, placing a hand on Yeji’s shoulder and gently tugging her upwards. “It’s not really like that.”

“Oh,” she says, straightening herself as her eyebrows raise in surprise. There’s a silence that follows, as well as a sense of discomfort that hangs in the air, as Yeji chews nervously on her lower lip.

And for all the love that you have for her, you know exactly what she’s thinking, as it’s been drilled into her since the moment she began to work at the castle: The demands of Libaiyan proprietary.

She ponders that if the relationship with this group of men escorting you is not formal, then what is it, and how far have you stretched the rules of etiquette that bind you?

You wouldn’t even know how to answer that question even if she asked.

Instead of dwelling on the subject and the lingering discomfort, you turn to Woo and Seonghwa. “Did the two of you find a place for us to stay the night?”

Woo scoffs in annoyance while Seonghwa shakes his head, defeated.

“Not anywhere reasonable,” Seonghwa says. “There’s a few places we can go if nightfall comes, but we honestly might be better off sleeping in the woods. It should be a clear night, and at least it won’t cost us an arm and a leg.”

You frown, not fond of the idea of spending yet another night on the ground, especially without a tarp or blanket to shield you from the elements.

Fortunately, Yeji pipes up from beside you. “If you’re looking for a place to stay, we’ve formed a refuge on the outskirts of the city. I believe we have an extra tent to spare.”

Now this finally causes the men’s expression to shift, the discomfort and wariness on each of their faces replaced with a glimpse of relief.

“Alright,” San says, gaze shifting over to you even as he speaks to Yeji, and his expression is difficult to read. He appears almost bemused. “Lead the way.”

The refuge, while about as bleak as you expected it to be, fills you with an undeniable sense of glee. Mostly due to how big it is, meaning that even if the mass size of the refuge indicates that there have been hundreds driven from the Libaiyan kingdom, there are also far more people who survived and escaped the castle than you’d originally thought.

Gathered just outside of Bebbanburg’s walls, dozens of the beige and tattered fabric tents are clumped together, creating a sort of maze as people make their way between the narrow passages. Head shrouded beneath your hood, the five of you pass through the different camps, ducking beneath laundry lines hanging between tent poles and maneuvering through the small groups gathered around make-shift fire pits as they roast small rodents and birds for dinner.

You watch their faces, searching amidst them for anger, for loss and resentment. While some are quiet, dark circles of tiredness hanging beneath their eyes, others are not so beaten down. There is the sound of laughter in the air, and a group of children nearly bump into you as they recklessly chase each other through the labyrinth of tents.

You smile. All is not lost.

You’d been so focused on your own survival, of getting to Kuroku alive and fighting to give your kingdom a chance, that you hadn’t realized the fear you had of there being no kingdom to fight for. Of not only the castle being besieged, but the entire kingdom being left in ashes.

Yet, even if this is so, there are still Libaiyans left. There is still a nation, full of life, that will not let themselves be stripped of their pride so easily.

“This way,” Yeji says softly, trying not to draw too much attention to your party. A group of girls wave to her as you pass by, and you recognize some of them as your kitchen maids, although you were never close enough to have learned their names.

The women are seated around a small fire. With the setting sun, they gather closed together, a blanket stretched over them. Or, upon closer look, a Libaiyan flag, its golden sun bright against its stark white background.

There is a man playing the lute sitting beside them. He has light eyes and a soft voice, fingers dancing as he strums the small wooden instrument in tune with his voice.

The man sings a Libaiyan folk song, one about a man arriving home to a small Libaiyan village after fighting many long years at war. The song doesn’t make clear which war exactly, centuries old and deriving from a time of high conflict, but it doesn’t really matter.

After all, the song is less about the war, and more about coming home. The ghosts of his fallen comrades following him, cane in hand to support his leg that will never heal, and his love having left the village to marry another man from the kingdom city.

The song is normally sung in a minor chord. It’s sad and melancholic, painting a tale of loss and grief.

However, the man currently singing has changed its tune to a major chord.

A message of triumph. Of defiance. Of the man’s survival, even after all else is lost and destroyed.

A song of hope.

You want to join them. To listen to this man sing your nation's song, to let his tune of triumph fill not only the air, but your entire body. Your heart, even your soul. Reignite the reason you started this journey, why you couldn’t give up.

These people need you. Your people need you.

Yeji wraps her arm around your wrist, giving you a gentle tug forward as you linger near the fire for a little too long.

“Don’t worry,” she whispers. “You’ll be able to hear his voice late into the night, even from your tent.”

You aren’t sure how to respond, how to depict your gratitude for all of this. For her taking you in and letting you hear these songs that you weren’t so sure you’d ever hear again, for being alive and granting you hope.

All you can do is reach to give her hand a soft squeeze, and hope she understands.

Yeji stops before a small tent, one that doesn’t seem big enough for two men, let alone three. “I know it isn’t much, but I hope it will do.”

“It’ll do,” Seonghwa answers with a smile.

“Especially considering we have no luggage,” Woo grumbles.

If Yeji hears the dissatisfaction in his voice, she doesn’t show it. “My own tent is just over there,” she says, pointing to what is only a few tents over. It’s a bit larger than the one before you, although not by much. She turns to you. “You can stay with me.”

You’re grateful for the sentiment, considering none of the men - except maybe San - would enjoy being forced to share such close quarters with you.

“There’s a table inside, if you’d all like to sit and regroup. I can catch you up on all that has happened since the siege,” Yeji says.

Her gaze flickers over to the three men, and it is hesitant. Curious, as it returns to you. “And you can do the same.”

“Scorpion beasts, a mimic, and a dragon-basilisk hybrid all in just a few weeks?” Yeji gapes, hands clutching tight around her mug of hot tea, as if she needs something to hold onto. “And you’re alive?”

“I take it your journey here wasn’t so exciting?” San asks, sipping his own mug. He seems in good spirits today, as he willingly engages in conversation with Yeji. Especially compared to Seonghwa - who is more hesitant, likely less willing to jump the gun on trusting a new stranger - and Woo, who sits with his eyes bearing down into the table, not touching his mug even as the tea inside grows cold.

“No, we took the main path down the Arila River, so far less rural,” Yeji explains. “Although it was a good thing you didn’t do the same. There were Dark Army ports all along its bank. We were stopped and searched at every one of them.”

If there’s one thing you’ve learnt from Yeji’s recollection of the besiegement and the time that followed, it’s that the black-clad men are relentless in their pursuit. They want you, at any cost. You only wish you knew who they were, so at least then you’d know why.

“I really am glad you’re alive, Princess,” Yeji says suddenly, hand drifting to rest on your own atop the table. “Libaiya has a chance to be strong again, so long as your blood sits on the throne. You’ll make the perfect Queen.”

You open your mouth to thank her, albeit bashfully, but are cut off as Woo pushes himself from the table. It rattles in protest, although the elemental does not seem to care, as he stomps towards the tent-flap. He does not meet any of your eyes as he disappears beneath it.

“I’m sorry,” Yeji says, tone worried. “Did I say something to-”

“It’s not you,” San reassures her. “He’s just been dealing with a lot lately.”

“I’ll go talk to him,” you say, because you have a feeling about what may be bothering him. Your blood, as Yeji had said. Although to him, it’s more like poison.

“No,” Seonghwa cuts you off, already rising to his feet. “You shouldn’t, I don’t think he’d take it well. I’ll go.”

You want to protest, as Seonghwa does not know about Woo’s past, about the orphanage. The Libaiyan orphanage, and all the horrors that happened there. But the empath is already heading towards the tent flap, and the words die on your lips.

Even so, maybe he is right. Woo is upset, upset about you and your nation, perhaps you are not the one who should attempt to console him. Besides, Seonghwa has always been far better at that.

Yet, as you watch Seonghwa disappear after Woo, you have the sinking feeling it may not go as the empath plans.

Wooyoung cannot breathe.

Making his way blindly through the darkness of the refuge, the sun having set over the horizon, he pushes past Libaiyan’s as he heads for the exit. They turn and look at him as he shoves past, and he wonders if they know. If they can smell it on him.

“You were his,” they whisper as he walks by, or is that just in his head? “One of his dogs. Our dogs. A machine for use. Worthless.”

The last word is in Warden’s voice, and Wooyoung places a hand over his ears to try and tune it out. The other clutching his chest.

He can’t breathe. By the god’s, he really can’t breathe.

Each short pant is as unsatisfying as the next. He feels dizzy, wanting to summon a ball of flame to guide him, but he can’t seem to move his hands in front of him. He pushes forward, searching for an exit through the mazes of tents.

Then he’s covered in something. It’s thin, engulfing him, and panic rises hot in his chest. They’ve gotten him. Again. It’s happening again. He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.

It’s only after nobody attempts to drag him away and he gets a whiff of soap that he realizes that what covers him is not a bag, but someone's laundry. With shaky hands, he untangles himself from the fabric, before glancing down at his captor.

It’s a Libaiyan flag.

The bright, golden, and horrible sun stares back at him. The same one hung in the cafeteria, the one he pledged allegiance to three times a day. The one plastered atop the ceiling of his bedroom, watching him every night. The one deckled on Warden’s shoulder, as he tortured them relentlessly, as he murdered Yeonjun.

Wooyoung throws it to the ground, hands still shaking as he walks over it, the dirt on the bottom of his shoe stark against the flag’s white background.

“Woo!” A voice calls from behind him, but it sounds far away. Maybe it’s also just in his head. He keeps walking.

He can hear the sound of the same man singing as when you’d all entered the camp. He has a nice voice as he sings Libaiyan songs. Songs he’s never heard. Songs that were reserved for Libaiyan citizens, not slaves.

Wooyoung’s throat burns with the taste of Libaiyan tea. Only one sip, and it will not leave his tongue.

It tasted like the infirmary tent after Assessment Day in the orphanage. Before Warden got there, but not before Wooyoung got beaten within the sparring ring. They’d given him the tea to calm him down, try and make him forget the burns lacing up and down his arms.

With the taste on his tongue it’s as if he can feel them again, the searing pain starting in his mind and seeping into his skin.

“Woo, hold on!” The voice calls again, closer than the last. This time Wooyoung knows it’s not in his head, as he recognizes it to be Seonghwa. The sound of foot-steps follows behind him, as the empath chases after him.

He does not turn around. He needs to get out of this place.

Wooyoung begins to run.

Tearing through the refuge, he sees Bebbenburg’s outer walls appear ahead of him, the light emitted from the lanterns hung on the outside fortress drawing him in like a beacon.

When he reaches the wall, he makes sure to take a few steps inside and past the gates, to ensure that he is no longer within Libaiyan territory. Here, he is within the Kuroken realm. Safe.

He pauses to catch his breath, less from the running and more from the panic that has seized him. Hands placed on his knees, Wooyoung lets the foggy haze fade from his mind, although it does not relinquish control so easily. His heart continues to race, ears ringing with a constant buzz.

Wooyoung doesn’t know why this is affecting him so horribly. He’s been to the Libaiyan castle since entering the orphanage, having stolen plenty of Libaiyan treasures and heirlooms on their heists within the castle.

Then again, that was in the dark of the night, when there were no songs to be sung or tea to be drunk. When the flags were shrouded in pure shadow, not wrapped around him like bonds of rope.

That was when he was in control. That was when he was taking from them. That was revenge.

That was before he entangled himself with their princess.

“Woo, what the hell?” Seonghwa asks as he approaches, slightly out of breath from chasing down the elemental. “Where are you going?”

“Away,” Wooyoung says, because it is all he can manage. He doesn’t look up at Seonghwa, instead staring at the cobblestone beneath his shoes, blinking blearily as he tries to direct his focus to its stone patch-work.

“Why did you just storm out of there?” Seonghwa asks. He’s not mad. Not yet. He genuinely wishes to know.

“Because of what that woman said,'' Wooyoung answers in his mind. “Because it’s true, she is the Libaiyan throne. Because it is her blood that’s done all of this. That did this to me.”

Wooyoung, of course, does not actually say any of this out loud. Seonghwa won’t understand. He doesn’t know, not only about Wooyoung’s past, but the orphanages in general. He’s from a small town within Zaria’s realm, far away from any news about Libaiyan political treachery.

He won’t get it, and Wooyoung isn’t going to even bother to try and explain it to him, especially when his tongue feels three sizes too large and his heart beats at a million times per minute.

“Leave me alone, Hwa,” he mutters, turning away from Seonghwa and heading deeper into Bebbanburg, hoping the empath will take the hint and piss off.

But he doesn’t, because after all, it’s Seonghwa. The blonde follows after him. “Where are you going to go, Woo? You saw the poster, it’s better to stay together, keep a low profile.”

“Leave me alone, Hwa,” Wooyoung repeats, beginning to walk faster, tone a little more pointed.

“Is this about her?” Seonghwa asks, and now his own tone is rising, annoyed as has to jog to catch up to the elemental. “Look I know you’re mad, I am too. But can’t you just push that aside? We’re almost to Kuroku, then we’ll be past it. We can move on.”

“Right. We’ll get to Kuroku. She’ll leave. San will leave. And then inevitably, you will too.”

After being met with silence, Seonghwa lets out a groan of annoyance, continuing to chase after him.

“Woo, stop!” He calls, reaching out to grab Wooyoung’s arm. Wooyoung slaps his hand away, perhaps a little harder than he should have. “Can’t we just talk about this? Can’t we have an actual conversation for once instead of you shoving me away?”

Wooyoung keeps moving, because no, they can’t. Not right now. Not like this. Not when he can’t think straight.

“I don’t get what you have to be so mad about anyway!”

Wooyoung stops at this, finally turning around to face Seonghwa. “What?”

Seonghwa stares at him for a moment, eyes wide and mouth parted with surprise that Wooyoung actually stopped. Then he frowns, eyebrows furrowing together, as if remembering his annoyance.

“Yes, she lied to you,” Seonghwa starts. “And I know it sucks. But it’s San’s money on the line, and clearly he’s been able to forgive her.”

Seonghwa swallows hard. “And even if I haven’t been able to do the same, even after all she’s done to me I’m willing to swallow my own feelings to get this journey done. For them.”

Them. By that Seonghwa means San and you. You, after all that you have done - to Seonghwa, to San, to Wooyoung himself - he’s still choosing you.

“Well maybe you shouldn’t, Hwa!” Wooyoung says, and now he’s shouting. It’s good. The anger provides him comfort, something familiar to latch onto. “She used you! She used all of us! I know you have this deep-seeded issue of thinking everyone and everything has good in them, but open your eyes! Not all that glitters is fucking gold! A pair of pretty eyes doesn’t repair what she’s done, it doesn’t mean that she isn’t rotten inside!”

“Just as you are too,” a voice reminds him within his mind, but he ignores it.

Seonghwa opens his mouth to cut back, but Wooyoung is not finished. “She lied through her teeth, and you’re really just going to let it slide? Keep quiet because it’ll make things easier for her? For the sake of the gods, grow a spine!”

“Why do you care so much about what I do?” Seonghwa yells back, taking a step towards Wooyoung. Seonghwa’s fist is clenched at his side, and for a moment Wooyoung thinks that Seonghwa might actually hit him. He almost wishes he would.

“Why do you care if I forgive her? Why do you care so much about whether I let people walk all over me? Why do you care?”

Wooyoung doesn’t know why he does it.

Maybe it’s the way his mind still buzzes from moments prior, hazy and foggy and unable to think of anything beyond his anger. Anything beyond the way his heart pounds rapidly and vision blurs with an anxious haze.

Maybe it’s the way Seonghwa’s words sting, more than Wooyoung wants to admit, and he wishes to prove the man wrong. Show him that it’s not so simple. Win, in a strange and possibly fucked up way, but win nonetheless.

Or maybe, more than anything, it’s the way Seonghwa is looking at him. Big brown eyes scanning his face, full of anger, but also passion. Desperately searching for an answer, as if there will be a solution to the enigma that is Wooyoung hidden somewhere on the elemental’s face.

Wooyoung knows what the answer is that Seonghwa seeks.

It’s the part of himself that Wooyoung has never admitted exists. The part that he has shoved down, smothered, pretended wasn’t there. The part that flutters at the sound of Seonghwa whining at his teasing. The part that stalls when Seonghwa lets his hand fall onto Wooyoung’s shoulder, thinking nothing of it, simply trying to get the elemental's attention or leaning in to point out something in the distance.

The part that broke the first night you and Seonghwa spent together. Defeated, angry, and beaten down, crawling into his bed that night in a drunken stooper, aching at the thought of the elemental being intimate with someone. Well, someone else.

The part that he once again shoved away the next morning, and had every day before and has every day since.

It’s that part of himself that he’s dejected and ignored that now comes crawling to the surface, invited by Seonghwa’s searching eyes, that unleashes its presence in a way that will make itself known. That will ensure it will no longer be forgotten, that it cannot be ignored or subdued again.

That part of Wooyoung unleashes itself in the form of a kiss.

It’s a horrible one, teeth smashing into teeth as Wooyoung grabs onto the collar of Seonghwa’s tunic and roughly pulls the man into him. In fact, it’s less of a kiss compared to two faces smashing together, Seonghwa clearly not prepared for it, but the message is sent all the same.

Wooyoung holds him there for three seconds, which feel far more like an eternity as they pass by.

Then Wooyoung pushes Seonghwa off of him, letting go of the man’s collar as the blonde stumbles back.

For a moment they stand in silence, and it’s a deafening one. Seonghwa’s hand drifts up to his lips, grazing them, eyes wide as he stares at Wooyoung. He’s clearly in a state of shock, as he says nothing, just stares with his mouth parted open in disbelief.

“There,” Wooyoung breathes. “Do you get it?”

Seonghwa continues to stare at him. Then his eyebrows furrow together, and when he begins to speak, Seonghwa’s tone is incredulous. “Woo, what are you-”

“Forget it,” Wooyoung cuts him off, because he doesn’t want to know what Seonghwa is going to say. He doesn’t want to hear the empath call him crazy, ask him what the hell he’s thinking.

Because Wooyoung doesn’t know the answer to that either. The mind-numbing fog has returned to his head, his heart racing even faster than it had before.

He needs to get out of here.

“Just go back to the tent, Hwa,” Wooyoung says, and then his feet are set in motion. He heads deeper into Bebbanburg, away from the Libaiyan tent. Away from you and San. Away from what he’s done, the irreversible mistake he just made.

He runs away, and this time Seonghwa doesn’t follow him.

“What were you thinking, what were you thinking, what were you thinking?” Wooyoung repeats the question to himself over and over again in his head, trying to make sense of what he’s done.

The look of bewilderment on Seonghwa’s face, followed by incredulity. Shock, then disbelief. Almost angry, and why shouldn’t he be? How could Wooyoung do something like this? Something so blatantly stupid and thoughtless?

“What the fuck were you thinking?”

Wooyoung still cannot come up with an answer, because frankly, he wasn’t thinking. And he still can’t.

He turns down one of the many alley’s surrounding him, head buzzing, not a clue of where he’s going. All he knows is that it’s away, and for now, that is enough for him.

Wooyoung closes his eyes, hand trailing along the wall beside him as he runs. He feels silly, running with his eyes closed, but he cannot bring himself to keep them open. This way, the world around him fades. He can simply be moving, feel the air rush past him, and pretend that nothing happened.

There are no Libaiyan refugees a few alleyways over. He does not care for the Liabiyan princess, nor did he lose San a mere night ago. He did not reveal his feelings to a man he loves and ruin their entire friendship in one fell swoop.

He is merely running in the darkness, chest heaving for air, fingers scraping along the cobblestone wall.

Maybe, if he keeps running like this, he’ll actually have escaped it all.

Or maybe, running like this is not such an acceptable option, as it stops him from noticing the figure that has been following after him.

Wooyoung does not notice he is being followed until it is too late. Until he’s already been shoved sideways, face smacking into the stone wall beside him.

At the very least, the blows knock him from his stupor, and his eyes fly open as he stumbles. Whirling to face his attacker, fire ignites immediately within his hand, dancing in between his fingers.

However, the second he turns, he’s met with a swift punch to the jaw that catches him off guard. Mostly because it does not come from where he can feel the man beside him - who now pins Wooyoung’s wrist to the alley-wall - but from the other side.

It’s not one attacker, but many.

“Shit,” Wooyoung thinks to himself, spitting out the blood that fills his mouth, the metallic taste thick on his tongue and gritty between his teeth. Eyes searching the darkness around him, his attackers are nothing more than blurs within the night, and he gives the one in front of him a swift kick to the groin. The man lets out a long string of curses, and Wooyoung uses the opportunity to try and rush forward.

It’s of no use, as another man (or two, maybe even three?) pins his wrists to the wall.

It’s not the most efficient way to capture a person, as it leaves their legs functional to kick and mouth free to spit, bite, or scream for help.

Unless, of course, you’re capturing an elemental.

Wooyoung tries to summon fire into his hands, and while it manages to dance around his fingers, the inability to move his arms stops him from managing anything greater. He tries to summon the flame with only his mind, staring at his hand with sheer determination. He knows it’s possible, he’s done it before. Once. The night Yeonjun died.

Of course, he didn’t exactly mean to, and apparently it isn’t the sort of thing he can do by will, as his hands remain barren of flame.

Instead, he’s left helpless, pulling against the grips of the men that bind him. His eyes dart amongst the shadows that surround them, and he tally’s roughly ten of them, although he’s certain that there’s more as he hears shouts from down the alley-way.

One of the men’s hands digs into Wooyoung’s hair, pulling his head forward before slamming it back into the stone-wall. Hard.

Stars dance before Wooyoung, and a darkness creeps into the corners of his vision. He continues to kick out in front of him, although each swing is far weaker than the last, as the pain leaves him sluggish.

The man yanks on his hair again, before slamming his head back into the wall once more, and suddenly Wooyoung is on the ground.

He doesn’t remember crumpling, but the stone pathway is cold against his back, so he must have passed out for a moment. He opens his eyes, vision swaying as he tries to make out the men surrounding him.

He can vaguely spot the face of the man above him. Middle-aged, with a dark beard and intense eyes. He speaks to someone beside him, although Wooyoung’s mind is too muddled to make out the actual words.

Likely not thugs then, as they aren’t even bothering to hide their identities. Besides, there’s too many of them to be a regular mugging. Too conspicuous, so it must be targeted.

But if it’s targeted, then who are they?

“W-who?” He asks, because the full sentence is far too much effort. His words are slurred and he sounds drunk. Which to be fair is an awful lot like how he feels.

The man above him doesn’t answer, but instead places a hand on Wooyoung’s throat, silencing him. With his other two hands, the man pins Wooyoung’s wrists to the ground.

No, no, that doesn’t make any sense. He can't have three hands. Which means it must be somebody else pinning his wrists to the ground, as well as another that slips the cloth bag over his head. How many were there again?

By the god’s Wooyoung really can’t think right now.

“Knock him out,” one of the men speaks from above him. Now that Wooyoung can make out.

Then the world goes black.

“And he seriously didn’t tell you where he was going?” San asks, arms crossed as he leans against the training post outside of the men’s tent. It’s covered in grooves, clearly crafted by a sword, and one in the hands of someone not too pleased. A testament to San’s opinion on Woo not returning to the refuge last night.

“I already told you,” Seonghwa replies. His tone is also frustrated as he sits at an outside table, fingers tapping anxiously in rhythm with his jittering leg. “No. He didn’t.”

“He just took off?” San repeats, and you can understand why Seonghwa is becoming a bit annoyed. It’s also the third time you’ve heard San ask, although you have a feeling the swordsman isn’t actually expecting the answer to change. He simply wants to hear it again, to let him fuel the flame of his annoyance. “Without a word? Without a reason? Out into a city we’re currently being hunted in?”

Seonghwa’s eyes shift to the ground. “Yes.”

“And you let him?”

Seonghwa scowls at this. “What did you want me to do? You know Woo, he’s going to do what he wants no matter what anyone says or thinks.”

Seonghwa has been in a sour mood all morning, and something tells you there may be a little more to Woo leaving than he may be letting on. However, now is not the time to ponder what it might be, nor is it the time to start a fight. You simply need to find him.

“Let’s not start bickering with one another just because Woo’s not around to start it,” you say, attempting to remedy the argument before it can start. Fortunately, neither of the men are overly confrontational, at least not with each other.

“You’re right,” San sighs, turning to Seonghwa. “I’m sorry. I’m just stressed, I know it’s not your fault.”

Seonghwa gives San a sort of half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes before staring back down at his shoes. He appears to immediately lose himself in thought, knee bouncing anxiously.

Yeah, something definitely happened last night.

“This isn’t like him,” San says, pulling his sword out from his sheath and spinning it around in his hand. A nervous habit. “Staying out for the night, sure. But he’s always back by the next day. Always.”

With morning long past, the sun high in the sky with the arrival of late noon, San’s statement of “always” is replaced with “until today”, and a sense of uneasiness passes through you.

Something is wrong. You can feel it.

And with both San’s sword spinning in his hand and the sound of Seonghwa’s fingers tapping the table, you know that they can feel it too.

“I think we should go looking for him,” you say, expecting immediate approval. Instead both men look at you, and San shoots Seonghwa a side glance, to which the empath returns.

“What?” You ask, uncomfortable at the fact that it appears they’re both in on something you’re not.

San sighs. “You shouldn’t come.”

“What?” You say, this time with far more anger than confusion. “If Woo’s in danger then of course I’m going to come-”

“If Woo’s in danger then it’s likely because of the men who are looking for you,” San cuts you off, and while his tone is not accusatory, it is pointed.

You prepare a rebuttal, but it dies on your lips. San is right.

If the black-clad men have done something to Woo, then you going looking for him is likely exactly what they would want for you to do. While the stubborn part of you wants to go anyway, put Woo’s safety before your own. Be daring, bold, and perhaps a little stupid, just as Woo is in the face of danger, you know that this is not an option.

You need to get to Kuroku, and if you aren’t yet certain of the danger Woo may be in, you cannot afford to take such blatant risks.

“Alright,” you say, tone defeated as Seonghwa rises to his feet, San making his way towards the path leading outside of the refuge.

You don’t manage the next words until they’ve already left. Leaving you alone, face shrouded by your hood, suddenly aware of the wind’s chill nipping at your skin. The seasons are turning.

“Good luck.”

They are back sooner than you expected.

You sit at a table with Yeji, playing a game of Skirmish. A traditional Libaiyan game meant for children, due to the fact it has few rules and never really ends, so it can keep them occupied for hours. You didn’t particularly want to play, but Yeji said it might help to keep your mind distracted. You figured it was worth a shot.

It didn’t work.

However, it doesn’t matter, as when both San and Seonghwa approach from down the refuge’s path, the cards are forgotten. Tossing your deck to the side, you give San a look, one that asks: “Any luck?”. Although, you’re fairly certain of the answer, as there is no Woo in tow behind them.

San does not give you a look of his own. In fact, he does nothing. He simply stares back at you, a dead look to his eye.

It’s that look, the emptiness of it, that tells you something has gone wrong.

“What happened?” You ask as he approaches, although San does not reply. Instead he gives Seonghwa a fleeting glance, and the blonde meets it. His own expression is not as empty as San’s. In fact, it is the opposite. Brimming with emotion, Seonghwa’s eyes hold worry, mouth drawn tight, jaw clenched. A look of nothing less than pure fear.

“Seonghwa?” You ask, your own worry settling deep in your chest. Something has gone wrong, but what, and how badly?

The blonde doesn’t answer you with words, instead he moves towards the table. You hadn’t noticed before, but he holds something in his hands. The paper is a light tan colour, the size also familiar, and you recognize it to be one of your wanted posters. Immediately you're confused, as why would Seonghwa show you one of these? You’ve already seen dozens of them plastered all over Bebbanburg.

However, as he lays it down onto the table, the answer is blatantly obvious.

The paper is smeared with blood. The red stark against its light colouring, it doesn’t coat the poster fully, but is rather smothered haphazardly, the semblance of fingerprints notable. It’s testament to a job done quickly, as whoever did this did so with one purpose: to get a message across.

The message is made even more clear by the thick, dark lock of hair tied to the corner of the page.

Woo’s.

Beneath the lock of hair is writing, scrawled in black ink.

The Concursos Mountain Pass.

Three Days.

Wooyoung awakens to the back of his head pounding in a violent, aching fashion. The world sways in front of him, and it takes him a moment to remember where he is exactly.

However, at the sight of tarps on all sides of him, the tent coated in darkness as only the light of the setting evening sun is able to get through, he remembers.

Right, the Libaiyan refuge.

Wooyoung groans, blinking as he tries to get his eyes to focus, his pounding head making his thoughts difficult to string together.

He moves his hand, attempting to wipe the sweat beading along his forehead, only to realize that he can’t.

His hands are tied.

Eyebrows furrowing together, he looks over his shoulder. The chains that tie his wrists to the chair that he sits in are thick and made of iron. If he tried to melt his bonds with the fire between his fingers, rather than catching fire like rope, they’d heat up and burn his wrists.

“What the…” He croaks out, throat raspy. Who would have tied him to a chair? Surely not Seonghwa or San. Not very likely you, as he couldn't see what good that would do you. Maybe your friend, the Libaiyan patriot? But why?

Wait.

Wooyoung’s brain pauses, mind doing a double-take as he stares at his bonds, noting bruising along his wrist. The massive purple marks are dark against his bronzed skin, and are almost line-shaped, as if someone had been holding him.

No, he’s not in the Libaiyan refuge, he’s somewhere else.

The memories of last night come rushing back to him. Running from the tent. The fight with Seonghwa. The subsequent kiss with Seonghwa.

His capture.

The shock of it is enough to cause Wooyoung to jolt awake, mind finally clearing even if the pain at the back of his head does not subside.

As if sensing Wooyoung’s realization, a man appears from under the tent-flap. He’s older, his face like a worn-glove, leathery and wrinkled in its places most used. His dark hair is cropped short, although his beard remains long, as well as scruffy.

Most notably, he’s dressed entirely in black armour. One of your predators.

“Ah, good. You’re awake,” the man says, and his voice is not as deep as Wooyoung expected.

“Who are you and-”

“Don’t speak. Not everyone has arrived yet,” the man cuts him off dismissively. “Besides, we’ll be the ones asking the questions.”

“Oh, my mistake, I thought-”

Wooyoung doesn’t know why he is surprised by the slap, but he is. Maybe because he hadn’t even had the chance to say the insult he was planning yet. Usually the hit would at least come afterwards.

These men, they aren’t playing around, that is clear.

His cheek stings, and he can imagine the bright red mark appearing along his skin as more men in dark armour appear from under the tent-flap. Wooyoung is surprised by the amount of them that manage to crowd into the space, almost a dozen.Then again, it is a big tent. Mostly empty, other than a small table in the corner, scattered with a variety of knick-knacks and spices that seem non-sensensical. Lunadore pollen, silver beads, Alagor Root, and a bunch of other rare ingredients the Wooyoung does not have time to make sense of, although set him on edge nonetheless.

If they plan to torture him, the table should be full of knives. Hammers. Maybe a few pliers to pull off his fingernails. Not plants.

The man who slapped him - their leader, it seems - clears his throat, and the group of men fall silent. Each of them turn to face Wooyoung, eyes glinting with something dark, something that says that they know more than he does.

Wooyoung makes sure to give each of them in turn a glare.

“I’m sure you know who we are by now,” the man says.

Wooyoung considers playing dumb, maybe earning himself a matching slap on the other cheek. However, he needs information, which means at least for now he must play along.

“You attacked the Libaiyan castle. Killed their king,” Wooyoung answers, meeting the man’s gaze. His eyes are sharp, intimidating, and Wooyoung makes sure not to look away. Not to show any fragility. Even if he has been made into the weakest in the room, he need not show it.

“People have been calling you The Dark Army,” Wooyoung says, and then because he can’t help himself, adds: “Cute name. Very scary. Did you come up with it yourselves?”

The man doesn’t answer his question, but instead smirks. “If you know who we are, I’m sure you also know what we’re looking for.”

You. That’s the answer the man wants. But Wooyoung won’t give that to him. “Power?” He ventures instead. “Glory? Access to the king’s many bejeweled robes?”

The man steps forward, grabbing Wooyoung's face in his hand. His fingers squeeze Wooyoung’s jaw, so much so that it not only hurts, but prevents him from speaking.

“Enough playing coy,” the man says. He still does not seem angry, face blank and tone almost bored as he grips Wooyoung’s face between his fingers. “Tell me where she is.”

He eases his grip just enough to let Wooyoung speak. “Where who is?”

The man’s grip tightens once again, fingernails digging into the elemental’s skin, and Wooyoung forces himself not to wince. “The girl you’ve been running all over Burovia with. The princess turned convict. Ring any bells?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wooyoung manages. At this the man lets go of his jaw, but it’s only to deliver another slap that burns along his cheek. The man grips his jaw again, and Wooyoung struggles to focus on the man’s face, blinking away the stars that dance across his vision.

“Yes, you do,” the man says, and this time his tone is almost soft, gentle as he attempts to coax out an answer. Somehow it’s far more unsettling than the blankness. “Is she with the refugees? At one of the hostels, or even a tavern?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Wooyoung says through gritted teeth. This time the man does not slap him, but instead grips his hair as he brings Wooyoung face down into his knee. Pain radiates from his nose through the rest of his face, and when the man lifts him back up, it takes Wooyoung a moment to register the man’s face before him through the blurriness.

It’s not until now that Wooyoung realizes the severity of the danger that he is in.

They want him to hand you over to them, and Wooyoung can’t do that.

But why can’t he do that? It would be the easiest thing to do. Nobody would blame him, after everything that you’ve done, especially if it came down to choosing between his own life or yours. San and Seonghwa would understand.

You are the Libaiyan Princess. Your family sent him to the orphanage. Turning you in would rid himself of the volatile confusion that has plagued him, it would fulfill the dream that his younger self wished for every night and morning. So why can’t he do it?

He knows the answer. How he feels towards you has grown beyond hatred. It’s grown beyond mere toleration for San and Seonghwa’s sake. It’s grown beyond the excuses he’s been telling himself for weeks.

He’s not going to hand you over to them to die, no matter what that may mean for himself. Unfortunately, what that may mean for himself is not looking good.

“You’re going to tell us,” the man states, not to persuade, but to simply state as fact. “It’s just a matter of how much you’re willing to put yourself through before you do.”

“Well I have nothing but time,” Wooyoung answers, grinning, and he knows his teeth are bloody. Can feel the grittiness on his teeth, or maybe that’s still from the night before.

The man smiles back. “You have three days.”

Wooyoung raises an eyebrow. “Because I’m just such lovely company?”

“Because that’s how long we’ve given her to come find you.”

Wooyoung pauses at this, and he knows he’s shown a glimpse of weakness. How did they get a message to you? Is he bluffing?

Would you really be stupid enough to come after him?

“Nobody will come,” Wooyoung says, and even he can hear the uncertainty in his voice. Surely you wouldn’t come after him. Not when you’re so close to Kuroku, to San’s freedom. You have to keep going, there’s no way you, San, and Seonghwa could take on a dozen armed and highly trained men, especially considering there’s more of them out there somewhere. It would be pointless, a suicide mission.

But Wooyoung also knows that none of you would leave him behind to die.

“That’s fine,” the man says with a shrug. “Either she comes to us, or we go to her with the information you’ll give us. It doesn’t matter.”

“You aren’t going to be able to torture anything out of me,” Wooyoung says with a scoff, tilting his chin up, defiant. “Pain? Yeah, I’ve been through my share.”

The corner of the man’s lip curves upward, eyes gleaming. “I know. That’s what they told me.”

Wooyoung frowns. They?

The man chuckles at Wooyoung’s weary expression, finally letting go of his hold on the elemental’s jaw. The group of soldiers step back, creating a pathway for him as the man heads over to the table covered with rare ingredients and spices.

The man begins to fiddle around with them, although what exactly he’s doing Wooyoung can’t make out, his vision obscured by the other men standing before him.

“Do you know what they say about those whose body cannot be broken?” The man calls over his shoulder, and Wooyoung catches a glimpse of what is in his hand: a small bowl and mallet, which he uses to grind down the Alagor Root.

“No,” Wooyoung answers, wary.

“Break their mind instead,” the man states, holding up a small vial of purple liquid that Wooyoung cannot identify, before pouring into the bowl. A strange, dark and odorous smoke wafts up from the concoction. It smells like something burning, although what exactly Wooyoung cannot place. That is, until he can. It’s burnt flesh. It reminds him of the infirmary tent, of his scorched arms.

An inkling of fear settles into Wooyoung’s chest as he becomes increasingly aware of the bonds on his wrist. He can’t move, run, fight back, or do anything, really.

For a man with so much power, he’s grown accustomed to never feeling powerless. For a moment, it’s like he’s thirteen again. At Warden’s disposal and no fire to call his own.

The man places the empty vile back down on the table, before grabbing something else Wooyoung cannot see, although he can hear the sizzling noise it makes as he adds it to the bowl.

Wooyoung cannot take the silence any longer, his curiosity - or better, fear - overtaking him. “What are you doing?” He asks.

Instead of answering him, the man begins to mutter something beneath his breath, making a strange circular motion with his hand above the bowl, which he has set back down on the table. Wooyoung cannot make out what he is saying, but the way the words leave his lips is almost rhythmic, like a priest delivering a chant.

Wooyoung scowls, opening his mouth to interrogate the other men around him as to what the hell is going on, but the words die on his tongue. He knows what the man is doing.

It’s part of the Old Faith. Old Magic.

Dark magic.

Wooyoung has never been a devoted servant to the gods. In fact, for all of his life he’s hated them. He hated them as a child for giving him a gift he could not use. He hated them as a teenager for cursing him with the power to destroy everything he held dear. He hates them as an adult for idly standing by as all of the horrible events of his childhood tumbled down one after the other.

However, even with his hatred towards the gods, he’s always considered worshiping them to be far more understandable than the Old Faith. More particularly, the Old Magic aspect.

It’s a breach of order. If the gods blessed the gifted with their powers, then Old Magic defies that. It’s taking from the earth what was not given to you. It’s blasphemous. Immoral and unnatural. At its very core wrong.

Wooyoung tugs at the chains around his wrists, which clatter in protest. Panic begins to rise in his chest, as one thought fills his head: “What the fuck are they going to do to me?”

The man finishes his chant, before digging into his pocket and pulling out a miniature knife. He uses it to create a small cut along the tip of his finger, holding it above the bowl as a drop of blood collects around the wound, before dropping into the potion.

Smiling to himself in satisfaction, the man takes the bowl with him as he heads back towards Wooyoung. Stopping before him, the man takes a moment to meet the elemental’s eyes, that glimmer of darkness potent within his gaze.

Wooyoung does not look away, but by the gods, he wants to.

“Well,” the man says. “Open up.”

Wooyoung keeps his mouth shut, lips pursing together. He can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, feeling its thump throughout his entire body. He can’t drink that. He isn’t sure what it will do, but he knows that its something horrible.

It will break his mind. That is what the man had said.

And while Wooyoung has always had confidence in his abilities, perhaps even relied on himself more than he should, for the first time that confidence falters.

“So this is what it takes for you to be quiet,” the man jests, earning a few chuckles from the others around him. “Good to know.”

When Wooyoung doesn’t reply, the man nods to a couple of the soldiers beside him. “Open his mouth.”

Four of the men approach him, and Wooyoung fights against the bonds of his chair, even if he knows it’ll be pointless. The chains against his wrists and ankles hold him still, and as two of the men grab his shoulders to stop the chair from rattling, he’s left with nothing but twisting his face away from the men who grab at him.

Hands blur across his vision as he feels one of the men press an arm to his throat. Another digs into his scalp, pulling his hair in order to bring his head back and face upwards. Fingers claw at the crevices of his face, digging beneath his cheekbones, into his ears, scratching along his lips.

It’s overwhelming, but Wooyoung stays focused, repeating over and over again in his mind, “Don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth, don’t open your mouth.”

It’s not until the elbow pressing into his throat has been there for a little too long that Wooyoung registers that he needs to breathe. Black lines creeping into the corners of his vision, head beginning to feel foggy, he does his best to ignore it.

Until he can’t any longer. Against his mind’s will, when the man removes his elbow from the elemental’s throat, Wooyoung gasps for air.

The men do not waste the opportunity.

Fingers dig themselves into his mouth, and while he attempts to bite down on them, their force is too strong as the many hands pull back his cheeks. Limbs bound, hair pinned, and face pulled back, he’s left helpless as the man with the bowl approaches him.

As the man lifts the bowl above the elemental’s face, a smile grazes over his lips, and Wooyoung knows that he is enjoying this.

The liquid burns as it pours down his throat, rubbing like sand-paper along his tongue. It tastes familiar. Like stale bread, but worse. Rotten with mold. Wooyoung gags but the man does not stop, not until the final drops fall from the bowl and into his open mouth.

The men do not release him until he swallows the concoction, and he feels it as it settles down into his gut, twisting and turning like cheap whiskey.

Wooyoung attempts to catch his breath, chest heaving and sweat beading along his forehead as he looks at the man before him. He continues to smile that awful, wretched grin, empty bowl in hand.

“See? Now that wasn’t so hard,” the man says, for no other reason but to rub salt in the wound.

Wooyoung spits on his shoes.

The man does nothing, merely takes a few steps back as he continues to watch Wooyoung with an analytical gaze, as if observing whatever the hell is supposed to happen. For a few moments, Wooyoung feels nothing but the tension that hangs in the room as all of the men stare at him. He feels like a monster in a cage, like one of those griffin’s from a traveling circus he saw passing through Gloria many years ago. Undeniably dangerous, but stripped down to a mere display for people to gawk at.

Then he notices it. It doesn’t start as much, more of a feeling in the back of his mind than anything else. An uncomfortable tingling sensation creeping through him, like an itch beneath his skin, little prickles of worry like ants tunneling through his veins.

He blinks, and his vision goes blurry.

The men in front of him transform into foggy statues and he blinks again, but instead of focusing it only gets worse. He swallows hard, only to find his throat has gone dry, the saliva refusing to go down.

Heat settles itself in his gut, rising into his chest as an aching sensation washes through him. Wooyoung lets out a low whine, one that under any other circumstances would humiliate him, but he can’t bring himself to worry about that right now. Not when his body feels as if it’s rejecting him.

“What did you do to me?” Wooyoung asks, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper. The man hums softly, reaching forward to hold Wooyoung’s chin. This time his grip is gentle, and Wooyoung wants to slap it away, but he doesn’t have the strength. In fact, if it weren’t for the man holding his head up, he’s certain his chin would have fallen down to his chest. Maybe it already had, Wooyoung doesn’t remember.

“This is the easy part, Jung Wooyoung,” the man says, and Wooyoung swears that that is the first time the man has said his name. Although the worry is replaced by agony as another ripple of pain rattles through him.

“Remember. You tell me what I want to know, I’ll make it stop,” the man says. “You’d be wise to accept that offer.”

Wooyoung blinks up at him, and he thinks thaf tears stain his eyes, although his vision is too foggy to notice a difference. “And if I don’t?”

“I don’t know,” the man says, giving a soft, condescending thumb-stroke along his cheek. “They always tend to comply.”

You cannot sleep.

The tent feels crammed, even though you’re well aware that there’s more than enough space. Yeji sleeps soundly, a few feet away and face turned from you as the peaceful sighs of deep slumber escape her lips. It is dark, only the faintest hint of moonlight seeping through the tent’s thin fabric, and yet it feels too bright.

You do not wish to sleep. There are things to be done. This is no time for rest.

They have Woo.

The men you’ve been fearing this entire journey. The ones that ambushed your father, that killed Mingi, that besieged your castle and robbed your life right out from under your feet. The men that have made you paranoid, always keeping one eye over your shoulder, creating wariness with each new city and step you have taken.

The men you have feared would kill you, they have taken him instead.

And somehow that is so much worse.

It’s not something you’d anticipated, always having assumed that if the black-clad men were to find you, you would be the one to face the consequences. The idea that travelling with the three men was putting them in the crossfire of the mysterious army hadn’t occurred to you. After all, it’s your wanted posters on every city street, not theirs.

How stupid you had been, and now Woo is gone. Captured by your family’s assassins, and only the god’s know what sort of danger he is in.

It’s your fault. It’s you they really want, he is just a pawn in their greater game. You’ve been outplayed, and Woo is the one forced to pay the price of your failure.

They could be torturing him for information. You know the sorts of things powerful men do to prisoners, having heard whispers about it in your halls, the dungeons located deep beneath the castle. Using a whip to lash the back until there's more blood left than flesh, spending hours drowning them within a bucket of water, pouring vials of liquid metal along the skin. Maybe one of them is a sadist, and Woo’s face is blistered and burnt beyond repair.

Maybe he’s already dead.

You roll over, eyes accustomed enough to the darkness that you can make out the ceiling of the tent above you. Although really, what you see is Woo, pleading for mercy as one of the black-clad men delivers the final blow. Woo goes silent, his eyes still open, and you know that it is over. He is gone.

Another person you care for, dead.

You cannot just sit here like this and let that happen. However, while you were prepared to head to the Concursos Mountain Pass the moment Seonghwa placed the message down in front of you, both he and San urged caution.

“This is clearly a trap,” San had said, wrapping a hand around your wrist to stop you from heading down the path towards the refuge’s exit. “They’re going to be prepared, which means we need to be. We need to come up with a plan before we do anything.”

“We have three days,” you snapped back, frustrated. “Yeji said the journey is at the very least a full day’s ride. We don’t have the time to sit here and twiddle our thumbs.”

“Then we have a day and a half to come up with something,” San replied, tone calm but also curt. He was not entertaining the possibility of going now, no matter how much anger you added to your glare. “Maybe we can form a group of some of the other refugees and leave together.”

“There’s only two horse’s between the entire refuge,” you cut back. “We cannot make it in time by foot. There’s no chance of us building our own army, if that’s what you're implying.”

“We’ll figure it out,” San said, still not budging. However, beneath his steady gaze, you could see the faintest hint of worry. Of doubt. Of knowing that there may have been no other option but to go alone, although he was not ready to admit it. Not ready to acknowledge the truth that weighed down on each of your shoulders.

The fact that it may come down to Woo’s life, or your own.

Thus, a second truth sat just as heavy. He would choose Woo. They both would.

It’s not until this moment, staring up at the ceiling of the tent, that you realize you would choose Woo too.

You will not have him die for you. You will not have the black-clad men take anything else from you. Not him. Not like this.

If they are to kill you, let it be your own doing. Not ambushed for the money they have placed on your head, or killed silently in an alley-way along the streets of Bebbanburg. You will not be your father, stabbed at his own celebration, unaware of what was coming. If you are to die, let you come to them with your sword in hand, fighting for a man who - even when you haven’t deserved it - fought for you.

Rising to your feet, you pull the blanket off of you, heading towards the tent flap. Stopping in place, you turn back, watching Yeji’s sleeping silhouette, chest rising and falling peacefully.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and it is not only to her, but to all of them. All of the Libaiyan’s uprooted from their homes, left to wander Burovia with no kingdom to call home. They had finally been reunited with their princess, only for you to leave them once more. It is selfish. It is what your father would consider an abandonment of responsibility.

Maybe you are abandoning your royal duty, or perhaps you are fulfilling your duty to another.

Either way, it must be done.

Slipping out from under the tent flap, you can hear San and Seonghwa talking within their own tent, though you cannot make out what they are saying. Good, they're busy. They will likely not notice you’re gone until morning.

Scanning the field, the man continues to sing by the fire, and it is the same song as before. Lute in hand, he serenades the men and women surrounding him, although the number has depleted under the blanket of the night.

As you approach the horse tied to a nearby tent-pole, you sing along quietly beneath your breath, to the words you have known your entire life.

“My love for whom I do come home,”

“I’ve been bathed in scars, both body and soul,”

“And while I’ve returned beneath darkened gloam,”

“Without you this place may never be whole.”

Although, while you may sing his words, unlike the man within the song you will not be so passive.

You will find Woo, and you will bring him home. Even if you do not come back with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next chapter.

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bangchansgirlsblog · 1 year ago

Note

Hey wassup

If you still taking requests may I suggest angsty fic skz xreader where they imply during argument that the MC is after their money (gold digger) idk if it's better as a reaction of all members or maybe it's easier if you just one scenario with one member without adding their names and the readers can imagine whichever member they think is suitable for the scenario

“Such a Gold digger”

- Lee know

Ahh!!! Thank you so much for the request, I hope you enjoy the stories (I’ve made a few with the different boys). 🩷

!Not proofread!

Warnings: Angst/comfort

Pairing: Leeknow x reader

Summary: Basically Leeknow is a jerk and you put him in his place

Tired was what Leeknow was.

His muscles ached, his head was pounding and his throat was sore.

When he walked into the door I could tell he wasn’t in the brightest moods. His hair was messy, his eyes were red and cheeks a light pink.

He looked hot tho. He always looked hot.

“Hey baby.” I say putting down the coffee mug and getting up from my comfy position on the couch. I place a gentle kiss on his pink lips and try to lay down his crazy hair which left me on my tiptoes struggling to balance.

“Hey,” he softly says putting his shoes in the wrack and walking straight into the laundry room to drop his bag. A routine he would do so that he was ready for the next day because he hated waking up early to get his stuff together.

“How was your-“ I begin to ask him a question but was cut off by his irritated sigh.

“Y/n where are my dancing sweatpants?” He says loud from the laundry room.

“I haven’t washed it yet my love, it’s in the dirty pile.” I sit back down and pick up my mug. Watching the cats all pile by my feet as we continued to watch what was playing on the tv.

“Are you serious? I asked you to wash them. I need them for tomorrow.” He says frustrated

“Jeez I’ll just put them in right now. No need to be cranky.” I sigh and get up once again to go deal with his little meltdown.

“I’m not being cranky, I just asked you to do one simple thing and you didn’t even do it. God your so annoying sometimes” I take a step back and eye him top to bottom because I was wondering who he was talking to like that.

My eyes squint at him as I try to take in this little attitude he was having. Annoying? I was the annoying one?

“Jeez Leeknow I was just really busy today with-“ I try to cool down the fire that was about to start but he cuts me off again. This time it was getting under my skin.

“I don’t care.” He slams the cupboards in the laundry room trying to look for whatever it was he was looking for. “I’ll do it myself.”

“I can do it leeknow just go rest.” I say reaching out for the stuff in his hands but he shoves past me making me stumble a little. I stood there shocked, so much anger building up. I understood he had a bad day but did he really have to take it out on me. As I rub my elbow I hear him grumble.

“Your nothing but a gold digger” My heart drops as I turn to the man that was now walking past me to go to the kitchen. I grab his arm and furrow my eyebrows.

Pain and anger filling my chest as I try and process what he said. Was he being Foreal right now? What really was his problem?

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing.”

His boy towered over mine. His eyes were dark and sad. To even look at him right now without punching the shit out of him was hard.

“I’m a gold digger? Wow Leeknow.” I repeat his words. I let go of his hand in disbelief. Now I was leaving the room but I stop to look at him. My vision blurry from the tears threatening to fall from my eyes.

“Why do you always have to take out your bad days on me huh? I was busy the whole day trying to get the stuff you need for your stupid tour! I didn’t have time to be running around doing laundry. I’m not a maid. If you really want one hire a fucking assistant. Then you’ll be grateful right? You’re a fucking prick. Oh I even fucking missed Binna (Y/n’s little sister) recital today! So fuck you. I’ve never even asked you for fucking money. Never in my life. You’ve hurt me Leeknow.” And with that I grab my coffee mug and head into the room where I break down crying.

Leeknow was always short tempered but not in a mean way. More of like a “I’m mad at you so don’t talk to me” way.

Why did he have to be a jerk? Why did he have to make sure to throw things at me that he knew would get to me? He never was appreciative.

The bed was warm but felt empty, the pillows swallowed me and the blanket covered my shaking body. Loud sobs leaving my mouth and little sniffles at the end of each cry. What felt like 10 minutes was an hour. The knock on the door making me pretend to be asleep. I hear familiar footsteps come into the room and the bed sinks beside me.

A sigh leaves his lips before he begins to talk.

“Y/nie? My love? Are you awake my love?” He asks softly. His hands drawing circles on my side but I push them away and turn my back on him. Facing the other end of the bed.

“Okay fair enough, I deserve that.” I hear him say, his voice quavering. Was he crying?

“Y/nie, I’m sorry and I know sorry won’t make you forgive me right now but I’m going to find a way to make it up to you okay? What I said was out of line and so not true. I was just tired and stressed and irritated-“

“But that doesn’t matter Minho.” He looks taken back by the name Minho cause I never call him that. “I have bad days too but you don’t see me calling you names and yelling at you when I get home.” I tell him.

“I know and I need to work on it. This is the first and last time I promise. Just give me some time to make it up to you? I love you so much and never ever will I say things to hurt you.” He’s hand searches for mine and I let them intertwine.

“You were a bitch.” I mumble and I hear him chuckle.

“Yes I was but forgive me? I can’t bare you be mad at me anymore especially when I’m going on tour soon.” I let out a little whine complaining.

“Fine a forgive you,” I roll my eyes and he smiles at me.

“You’re so cute Baby.” He automatically gets on top of me and starts kissing my face everywhere which makes me burst in a fit of giggles.

“Get off babe I’m going to explode!” I yell while trying to push him away.

Soonie and the cats all hop onto the bed and cuddle beside me and leeknow as we slowly drift off to sleep. The night being forgotten.

Hyunjin’s part will be out soon 🩷

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teecupangel · 1 year ago

Note

Do we have a Phonenix yet in the menagire? We need one.

Phoenix!Desmond, probably looking like a normal bird for the most part, and stays with Sef when they go after the mongols (Altair probably thinks he's getting too old he looked a bit ratty lately) and takes the hit when Swami tries to kill him.

Idk whether to have this crack or angest with them thinking Desmond died, had a chick, and was apparently a female bird the entire time.

Okay, so I was checking the Phoenix wiki page for any information if it would be possible that Altaïr would know what a phoenix is and there’s this part written by Herodotus (yes, Kassandra’s Herodotos)

[The Egyptians] have also another sacred bird called the phoenix which I myself have never seen, except in pictures. Indeed it is a great rarity, even in Egypt, only coming there (according to the accounts of the people of Heliopolis) once in five hundred years, when the old phoenix dies. Its size and appearance, if it is like the pictures, are as follow: The plumage is partly red, partly golden, while the general make and size are almost exactly that of the eagle. They tell a story of what this bird does, which does not seem to me to be credible: that he comes all the way from Arabia, and brings the parent bird, all plastered over with myrrh, to the temple of the Sun, and there buries the body.

… which may be a reference to Bennu, the Egyptian deity connected to the sun, creation, and rebirth.

So Altaïr would meet him during his travels with Maria and he just stays. They assume he’s an exotic bird (or eagle), maybe a native to one of the places Altaïr and Maria visited.

Altaïr never told them that the bird flew into his room one night and began to chirp at him as if trying to tell him something. He also tried to tap the Apple but all it did was glow a bit.

The bird had been quite annoyed by it and began to hit it with his talons so quickly the Apple had a taptaptaptaptap sound rapidly before Altaïr could take the Apple.

After that, the bird just decided to sit on Altaïr’s shoulder when he left his room the following morning and Maria assumed he had bought the bird yesterday when they went their separate ways.

Her guess sounded so much better than the truth which was Altaïr spent the entire day yesterday holed up in his room, writing letters to be sent back to Masyaf as part of his deal with Malik in exchange for letting him go on this trip (which was to send letters detailing the geopolitical situations of the places he travels to with suggestion on what the Brotherhood should do in those parts… if they could do anything).

So nobody ever questioned the mentor’s newly acquired bird (except Malik but Malik had been more focused on the ex-Templar that Altaïr brought to Masyaf and married).

Then Darim and Sef were born and the bird (named Desmond because Altaïr thought of the name first when Maria asked what the bird’s name was) usually stayed with the children, letting out loud screeching cries whenever one of the two children were doing something they shouldn’t do.

When they got older, Darim and Sef learned the word ‘bribe’ and how Desmond can be easily bribed to look the other way in favor of delicious food.

Desmond stayed in Masyaf though, regardless if Altaïr or any of his sons left for a mission or to travel to a bureau. At some point, the bird had become a symbol of Brotherhood with its gold and red plumage.

So when Altaïr left with Maria and Darim to take down Genghis Khan, it was only natural for Desmond to stay with Sef in Masyaf.

Altaïr had been a bit conflicted though as Desmond’s feathers had grown quite… dull and he was moving slower than usual.

Maria and Malik both told them that Desmond was growing old and maybe it was time but the Ibn-La'Ahad boys refused to believe that.

Darim also believed that they might find medicine in one of the camps of the Mongols as they have been to many lands.

So when Desmond flew to protect Sef and got stabbed on the chest by Swami, Swami screamed as Desmond became shrouded in flames.

Swami burned as well and Sef could only watch in horror as white hot flames consumed the both of them.

Swami was left as a corpse charred beyond recognition.

While Desmond…

Only ashes remained…

And from those ashes…

Sef heard a small chirp.

As a little chick with red and gold plumage poked his head out of the ashes, shaking the ash from his small body.

Sef could only stare as he asked, “Desmond?”

And the bird gave him an enthusiastic chirp while jumping.

#ngl #super tempted to make desmond a female bird and have him freak out when he suddenly plopped an egg #we can go for the ‘his ancestors get reborn too as his children’ route #and the eggs stay dormant #until the death of his ancestors #so desmond’s gonna be the mother of a flock of phoenix(es)#desmond is turned into an animal subgenre #desmond is turned into a creature subgenre #ask and answer #assassin's creed #desmond miles #teecup writes/has a plot #fic idea: assassin's creed #altaïr ibn la'ahad #sef ibn la'ahad

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r0se1111 · 2 months ago

Note

May I request the fellowship x reader that is afraid of the dark/and or claustrophobic? The idea of being in the Mines of Moria is literally my nightmare.

Idk how you want to write this or if at all (which is fine) but I’ll request either Legolas, Aragorn, or Boromir if you do one character

Ty for the request! You're so real for that, I always think of how freaked out I'd be during those scenes rip. I'm gonna write this for Boromir bc he deserves more love <33

You were a bit apprehensive to enter the mines in the first place, but you pushed this fear aside soon enough once all other routes seemed impassable. Adrenaline led you the first few miles into the earth, but you soon grew more and more wary of the walls of stone around you, seemingly pressing inwards with every step you took further into the mountain. Even Gimli's assurances of "fine Dwarven architecture" couldn't comfort your increasing unease. You imagine the shadows pushing in at you, the ceiling and walls crumbling down and burying you miles deep.

Your carefully upheld picture of self-confidence cracked and shattered as the Fellowship decided to take a moment to rest, right next to the beginning of a staircase which led into the deep dark beneath you. As you sat and sipped at your water you found yourself staring unblinking at the void of darkness. Suddenly the combined stress of the dark corners beneath you and the heavy earth above you collided into a burst of shaking hands and pale cheeks. You turned from your company, attempting to hide your fear. A firm hand on your shoulder and the jostle of a body sitting next to yours made you wince in anticipation, you'd been found out.

"What worries you so?" Boromir's voice came to you in a low murmur. You turned to look at him and were surprised to see such concern in his eyes.

Huffing, you press your shaking hands between your knees. "I um-" You swallow. "I don't like being underground."

The man next to you stares for a second, observing your quivering form, then he nods his head simply and stares down into the same dark abyss you were looking at. "Ah. It can be a bit... oppressive, can't it?"

You swallow and nod stiffly in response, eyes flickering between the cold dark of empty space and the warm gold of his gaze.

His hand pats your shoulder and he moves as if he's going to get up. Seeing your worried glance, Boromir chuckles. "Be at peace, I simply think you might feel better if we moved closer to the rest of our company." He gestures towards where the rest of the Fellowship sat gathered around the firelight of a torch, snacking and chatting as if they weren't currently sat underneath miles of dense rock and dirt, as if one breath couldn't destroy their only source of light.

You shake your head. "I don't want anyone seeing me like this." You stare incredulously at your seemingly content companions and laugh stiffly. "How are they so ok with this? I'm terrified."

Boromir settles back in next to you, his gloved hand moving to rest on your knee to draw your attention back to him. You're surprised to see a reflection of your anxiety in his own eyes. "Who says they aren't as well? Who says I'm not scared of this predicament, just as you are?"

You blink. "You are?" You whisper, as if his newly revealed fear was a deep hidden secret.

He leans closer and gives you his own dramatically loud whisper in reply. "I am. I'd much prefer walking miles above this mine, in the sunlight, to this." He smiles grimly, then his expression turns serious. "Do not feel ashamed of your fear. It's normal to feel uneasy in a place as deep and mysterious as this. Besides," He rubs your knee comfortingly. "I think you are doing a fine job of proving your courage."

A giggle bubbles its way out from your throat, where it had previously been trapped beneath layers of anxiety. You feel a bit flustered at his praise, but you take it in stride. "Thank you." You say meaningfully.

Boromir dips his head and smiles, before standing up and offering you his hand. "Shall we return to our friends? We don't want to miss out on the rest of Pippin's firework story."

Grinning in earnest now you take his hand and follow him to the Fellowship without so much as a backwards glance at the dark staircase and imposing walls which had scared you so much in the first place. Their shadow was nothing compared to the golden warmth of Boromir leading you to the warm, bright fire and greetings of your friends.

#lotr x reader #boromir x reader #boromir lotr #the fellowship x reader

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kyleoreillylover · 10 months ago

Text

Chapter 3- Time

Series Summary/Masterlist

word count: 13,537

tag list: @southerngirl41 @venusesworld @jeysbae @reci1996 @tbonesteakwithasideofmashngrav @hope4more @selena-tyler-564 @saintaquarius @whatdoeseverybodywant @raya-hunter01

warnings: wrestling related violence, manipulation, mentions of cheating.

Chapter Summary: It's time for your test. You have a choice to make. Will you finally get your revenge on Becky and take what's rightfully yours, that title? Will you choose your best friends for over 20 years over Roman, or will you finally be selfish and choose yourself for once? Will you finally put away your kind heartedness in favor for retribution? Only time will tell.

a/n: This chapter is my favorite one that I have written, so I hope you guys enjoy! Also there will be a big time jump in the next chapter from 2020 to 2022, so be prepared for that lol. Love you guys and thank you for reading my silly little stories <3

liked by uceyjucey, trinityfatu, beckylynch, jimmyuso and 600,00 others

y/n: bleeding out red and gonna be dripping out in gold 💋 #eliminationchamber #rawwomenschampionship

view all comments:

user: mother looks so freaking good!!!

user: red hair era makes me go feral

samizaynwwe: wishing you the best of luck <3

↳user: omg this is so cute!! I miss their friendship 😩😭

↳user: more like relationship 😭 friends do not look at each other like the way they used to look at one another 😭

↳y/n: you already know that, you picked out the gear for me

user: the fact that ur still competing when ur bestie has a whole broken arm

↳user: and what do u want her to do? forfeit her title match cause becky got attacked by some rando? pls exit this comment section and never return

user: why all the red suddenly... 👀

↳user: why question it when she looks so good in red 🥰

Beckylynchwwe: may the best women win. 🤝 Love you <3

↳y/n: may the best women win 🤝 Lyt <3

user: you better win!!!

uceyjucey: red looks good on you 🩸

↳y/n: you already know that, you picked out the gear for me 😒♥️

↳uceyjucey: that just means I got good taste ;)

↳user: what's going on here???

↳user: idk but i’m loving it

"Becky, are you sure you should be competing in this type of match like this?"

Your concerned voice rang out in the locker room as you leaned against the wall, looking at Becky who was wrapping her injured arm with a supportive bandage. Her fiery red hair cascaded down her shoulders as she glanced up, meeting your eyes with a determined look.

"I have no other choice," Becky replied, a steely resolve evident in her tone. She continued wrapping up her injured arm, securing it carefully. You stared at it with a unreadable expression on your face, your worries etched in the furrow of your brow. Becky noticed your concern and paused, meeting your gaze once more.

"You always have a choice." You retorted sharply, expressing your concern for her well being.

Becky sighed, a mixture of frustration and determination evident in her eyes. "I know Y/N," Becky said softly, her voice tinged with both determination and a hint of vulnerability. "But I can't back down from this. I've worked too hard to get here, and I won't let anything—no injury, no setback, no attacker—stop me."

You nodded, understanding the gravity of her words. "I get it, Becky. I just don't want to see you hurt any further. This match is brutal, and with your arm—"

Becky cut you off gently, her eyes reflecting a mix of gratitude and determination. "I appreciate your concern, I truly do. But I've made up my mind. I'm stepping into that ring, and I'm going to give it my all."

There was a moment of silence as you both exchanged looks filled with unspoken understanding. Despite your worries, you knew Becky's determination was unshakeable, and you knew that no matter what you said, she wouldn't change her decision.

With a a sigh, you relented, realizing that your words might not dissuade her from her chosen path.

"Alright, Becky. I'll be right there, rooting for you," you said, offering your support despite your reservations. "May the best women win." You offered her your hand, giving her a firm shake before offering a supportive hug. Becky reciprocated the hug, her fiery spirit burning even in the face of adversity.

"Maybe the best women win." Becky mumbled into your jacket, tightening her grip on you like you were all she had before letting go. You gave her a smile that was wiped away when you left the room. The cameras that were waiting for you caught it, and Kayla Braxton, who looked eager to see you before the match, rushed forward, holding a microphone.

"Y/N, could we have a moment of your time before the Elimination Chamber match?" Kayla's voice carried a sense of urgency as she positioned herself to get the best shot for the viewers tuning in.

You offered a quick nod, acknowledging Kayla's request before making your way down the corridor, cameras trailing behind. The anticipation for your upcoming match was palpable in the air, the buzzing energy of the arena adding to the already charged atmosphere.

Kayla posed her first question, her voice projecting professionalism despite the evident excitement. "Y/N, you're about to enter the Elimination Chamber match for the Raw Women's Championship. With Becky Lynch injured and the odds against you, how do you plan to approach this match?"

Your expression shifted to one of confusion and determination, a resolve etched on your face. "Odds stacked against me? Kayla, you clearly didn't do your research before coming to me. I am the "odds." The word rolled off your tongue with a confident smirk.

"Those other competitors are probably hoping for me to be the last one released from the pod so they have a better chance. But guess what? I thrive in this kind of environment. I have fun in this kind of enviornment." Your voice turned cold yet fiery at the same time as you continued, your eyes focused on the camera.

"Shayna, Natalya, Becky, Nia, and Auska wanna act like they have the upper hand? Newsflash, I beat Shayna and Natalya last week, and they showed me that they are nothing but speed bumps on my road to victory. As for the others, I will happily stomp on them on my way to the top. Let's not forget I am the woman that broke Ronda Rousey so badly she had to go take another vacation cause she couldn't handle taking that title from me, and she's the one that won!"

You giggled at Kayla, the fervor in your voice matching the intensity of the situation. "So, in case anyone's forgotten, I am the Princess of Pain." You paused for a moment, a sly grin crossing your face. "And I plan to remind everyone why that's the case when I walk out with that Raw Women's Championship tonight."

Kayla gulped at the intense proclamation, her eyes widening as she attempted to maintain her professional composure. Your demeanor was not your normal one; it was a blend of anger, determination, and a hint of ferocity that spoke volumes about your mindset entering the match.

The aura you exuded was one of someone willing to destroy themselves to destroy their opponents, channeling a potent mix of confidence and aggression that was unlike you to have before you get in the ring.

"And I have to ask, do you feel guilty going into this match knowing you might have to hurt an injured Becky to secure the title?" Kayla's question hung in the air, her gaze expectant as she awaited your response.

Your expression shifted, the fire in your eyes dimming slightly as you considered the weight of Kayla's inquiry. "Kayla, let's get something straight," you began, your tone calmer yet laced with determination. "This isn't about hurting Becky. This is about competition, about proving myself in that ring. Becky and I have mutual respect, and if she's stepping into that Chamber, she knows what's at stake just as much as I do."

You paused for a moment, gathering your thoughts before continuing. "If she wants to go into this match injured, then she needs to be prepared for the consequences. I won't hold back, not because I want to hurt her, but because in that ring, we're all fighting for the same thing—the championship. Becky knows that as much as anyone else in that Chamber. It's every women for herself, and there are no friends once that bell rings. I respect Becky, but I won't let sentimentality cloud my goal—becoming the Raw Women's Champion."

Kayla nodded understandingly, her demeanor maintaining its professional facade despite the charged nature of your response. "And my last question, how do you respond to claims made by a now injured Seth Rollins- who was taken out of his match- that you were the one who attacked Becky?"

You internally smiled at the mention of Seth being injured, but your expression remained serious and composed. "Seth's accusations are baseless and unfounded. I have no reason to attack Becky, especially not before a match of this magnitude. As much as Seth may want to stir controversy, I'm solely focused on this Elimination Chamber match and claiming what I rightfully deserve—the Raw Women's Championship."

Kayla nodded, giving you a bright smile. "Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Y/N. Best of luck in the match tonight."

You nodded in acknowledgment, offering a quick, determined smile before the cameras panned away and the backstage scene transitioned into the electrifying arena.

It was almost time.

All you felt was red hot anger as you were putting on your gear. Your skin was on fire, your thoughts were racing at a million miles per hour, and the sensation of frustration coursed through your veins like a wildfire.

All you could think of was finally getting your hands on Becky and hurting her like she hurt you. Slamming her into the steel. Throwing her into the glass pod and reveling in her agony. Sticking that knife into her back like she had done to you and making her feel what you felt. All of those thoughts made your skin feel even hotter, and you barely registered the voice calling out for you from outside the bathroom.

"Y/N, pretty girl, you finished yet? Match starts in 10 and I wanna see you in your pretty gear." Knocking accompanied Jey's expectant yet concerned tone, and you jumped at the sudden interruption, momentarily pulling you out of the dark thoughts swirling in your mind. Your breathing was ragged, your hands slightly trembling as you tried to compose yourself.

"Yeah, gimme a sec." You replied, your voice low and cold, trying to mask the turmoil brewing within. You took a deep breath, attempting to steady your emotions, knowing you couldn't afford to let this rage control you before the match.

Quickly finishing up, you emerged from the bathroom, wearing your wrestling gear—a crimson ensemble that matched the intensity of your emotions, and opened the locker room door.

Jey was waiting, and any words he was gonna say were quickly forgotten as he took in your beauty. Your beautiful crimson gear hugging your body perfectly, red makeup accentuating your fierce expression, your sun-kissed brown skin on display making Jey's mouth water. It took everything in him to not kiss you right then and there.

"Damn." Jey whispered out, eyes darkening at the sight of you and trying to not look down at your gear and instead maintain eye contact. "You look incredible, Y/N."

You forced a small smile, though your eyes still held a hint of the lingering anger. "Thanks, Jey." You appreciated his compliment, but your mind was preoccupied with the upcoming match and the intense emotions swirling within you.

"You don't look too bad yourself." Not too bad was an understandment, Jey looked like a greek god; sporting his gold chain and his abs on full display since he was shirtless underneath his black jacket that showed off his muscles. The tension between the two of you was undeniable, the charged atmosphere only adding to the intensity of the moment.

Jey stepped closer to you and gently put his hand on your shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring. "Hey, you're gonna do great out there. I know you're feeling a lot right now, but don't let it consume you. Stay focused, okay? You're the Princess of Pain for a reason."

His hand left your shoulder and cupped your cheek, stroking your cheek gently with his thumb.

Your breath hitched slightly at the contact, the warmth of his hand making you get out of your head, if only for a little while. You looked up into his honey-brown eyes that seemed to lighten up just for you before they grew serious again, mirroring the emotions swirling within you.

"What's wrong?' Jey softly asked, his concern palpable in his gaze.

You shook your head, trying to brush off his concerns, but his thumb remained on your cheek, gentle yet insistent. "It's nothing, just pre-match nerves. I'll be fine once I'm out there."

Despite your attempt to downplay your emotions, Jey knew you better than to take your words at face value. He observed you for a moment, and it felt like he was staring into your soul, waiting for you to open up and share what was truly bothering you.

Finally, unable to resist the comfort Jey offered, you sighed, feeling the weight of the emotions crashing over you. "It's Becky," you admitted in a hushed tone, your voice barely above a whisper. "I can't shake off this anger. It's consuming me, and I know Roman told me to let it fester until the right moment, but I feel like I'm losing control."

Jey's face softened at your admission, and he gently brushed his thumb over your cheek again, offering you a comforting gesture. "I get it. But think about it. Finally getting your revenge, taking her down and showing her she can't mess with you again, that's your big moment. And you're gonna have that moment."

Despite his words, you felt the anger lick at your insides like a relentless flame, almost drowning out Jey's comforting words. You blinked, trying to refocus on his face, to ground yourself in his calming presence.

"I want that moment, Jey. I want to make her pay for what she did to me." The intensity in your voice matched the ferocity in your eyes. "But you don't understand. Once I get out there, I don't know if I can control it. I don't know if I can stop myself from going too far."

That was the understandment of the year. You've had this problem for years, you weren't called the Princess of Pain without a reason. It was why you tried for so many years to be the good guy, to fight against the darkness inside you. Sami and Kevin were usually the ones who helped you keep it at bay, but they weren't here this time. They wouldn't be able to pull you back if things got too out of hand.

You've never let your anger out like this before except for one time in the NXT when Kevin cost you your NXT Women's Championship after you took Sami's side in their feud.

That night haunted you- and the moments that followed it haunted you as well. You attacked Kevin in a fit of rage backstage, and injured him, fighting him all the way to the parking lot and breaking his arm in the process.

Sami wasn't in the arena to calm you down, and when the security guards finally sepeated you from Kevin, your eyes red with anger and tears, you found a empty spot to sit at to get away from everyone.

You felt like crying until you had no tears left, feeling the guilt and shame consume you. But before you could, a tap on your shoulder made you look up, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

It was Bray Wyatt, his serene yet enigmatic presence somehow calming the storm raging within you. He sat beside you, not saying anything at first, just offering his silent support. The two of you didn't speak until you eventually found the words amiss the storm of emotions you were experiencing.

"What do you want?" You snapped at Bray, the anger still boiling under your skin, not understanding why he was approaching you at such a vulnerable moment.

Bray didn't flinch at your outburst, his calm demeanor unwavering. "I don't want anything from you, Y/N. I'm here because I understand your pain. I see the turmoil within you, and I'm here to offer guidance if you're willing to accept it."

You scoffed, feeling a mixture of frustration and confusion. "Guidance? What do you know about my pain? About what I'm feeling right now?"

Bray leaned in closer, his piercing gaze fixed on you. "I know more than you think. I've danced with darkness, embraced it, and found my way back. I see the same struggle in you. The anger, the hurt, it's consuming you, because you are scared of it. But you have a choice. You can either be scared of it and push it away, but that will only worsen it, or you can embrace it, acknowledge it, and learn that it is a part of you. The choice is yours, Y/N."

His words resonated within you, cutting through the chaos in your mind with a clarity you hadn't felt in a long time. You looked at Bray, a mix of emotions still swirling within you, but his calm demeanor somehow grounding you in the moment.

"What do I do?" you asked, your voice softer, a hint of vulnerability breaking through the facade you had built.

Bray smiled gently, his eyes holding a depth of understanding. "You will see." With that, Bray stood up and left, leaving you with a sense of intrigue and contemplation. The memory of that encounter with Bray Wyatt was etched in your mind, his enigmatic guidance lingering as you grappled with controlling the anger brewing within you.

Back in the present moment with Jey, you felt a pang of that same uncertainty and inner turmoil, knowing that this time, you might not have someone like Bray Wyatt, Sami or Kevin to guide you through the tumultuous waves of anger and darkness that threatened to consume you.

Jey's voice pulled you out of the memories, his concern evident in his expression. "Hey, listen to me." He gently cupped your face with both hands, his touch grounding you in the present. "I can stop you if things get too out of hand. You know that, right? I won't let you hurt yourself."

You blinked, the sincerity in Jey's eyes cutting through the tempest within you.

"Jey, I appreciate that. I really do," you began, your voice wavering slightly as you tried to express your gratitude, "but this isn't something you can just step in and stop. Not this time. I don't even know if I can control it myself."

You felt a rush of anger and gripped Jey's wrist tightly, the intensity of your emotions almost palpable. "I'm just scared that no one will be able to pull me back from the edge this time."

Jey's gaze softened, his hands gently squeezing your shoulders in a reassuring manner. He knew you had a side to you that he never really saw before until Becky confessed about her and Seth, a side that was darker, more intense, and harbored deep-seated emotions.

But he didn't care about the darkness within you. He cared about the beautiful women that was capable of so much more, the woman who was passionate, driven, and compassionate.

"I won't let you go over the edge." Jey shook his head and grabbed your hand firmly. "You focus on winning, and when you come back, I'll be waiting for you no matter what."

You shook your head, pulling your hand out of his grasp. Jey didn't understand. You could barely control it, how could he pull you from the edge if you were teetering on it? How could he tell you that you'd come back unscathed when the rage within threatened to consume you entirely?

"You can't promise that." You harshly whispered , your voice carrying a mix of fear and frustration. "You don't understand, Jey. This isn't something you can just control or stop. I don't even know if I can."

Jey grabbed your hand back, his eyes locked with yours in a silent exchange of emotions. "I understand that I can help you with this."

"Don't waste your time trying when you can't." You tightened your grip on Jey's hand, your voice desperate yet resigned. "You can't save me from myself, Jey. No one can."

"I can."

"No one can Jey!" You broke free of his grasp, the emotions swirling within you too overwhelming to contain. Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of frustration, anger, and fear threatening to spill over. You turned away from Jey, unable to bear the weight of his comforting gaze. "And I won't risk let you get hurt because of me."

"You can't take that choice away from me. I want take the risk." Jey's words made you turn back to him with a glare that conveyed a mix of emotions. You wanted to push him away, to protect him from yourself yet a part of you longed for his comforting presence, his unwavering support.

"Well too bad, cause I'm not letting you take it." You moved to grab your jacket, but Jey stepped in front of you, blocking your path and capturing your attention with a resolute gaze.

"I'm not gon' let you push me away cause I care about you." Jey stated firmly, his voice unwavering as he held your gaze. "I'll fight for you, even if it's against yourself."

"I can't let you do that." You tried to push past him, but Jey just stood his ground, refusing to let you leave.

"You can't stop me from caring about you, Y/N."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can't."

"Yes, I can!" You raised your voice, frustration and desperation seeping through every word. "I'm not worth it, Jey! I'm not worth risking yourself for!"

Jey remained steadfast, his gaze unwavering as he reached out to gently cup your face, making you freeze in your tracks. His touch was warm and comforting, his eyes locking onto yours with a sense of determination that matched your own.

"You are worth it, Y/N," he said softly, his voice laced with conviction. "You're worth every bit of effort, every bit of care. I won't let you believe otherwise." Tears welled up in your eyes, a mix of emotions churning within you. You wanted to push him away, but his touch, his proximity, just him in general was making you feel things you hadn't allowed yourself to feel in a long time.

"I can't hurt you..." You mumbled softly, Jey's expression softened even more, his thumb gently brushing away a tear that escaped from your eye.

"I can handle the pain, pretty girl, trust me." Something about his words made you internally heat up, feeling a mix of emotions at his unwavering support and care.

Jey felt the shift in your demeanor, felt the tension that threatened to explode between the two of you, and when he looked down at your perfectly glossed lips, he couldn't take it anymore.

The only warning you got was him pulling you into his arms before his lips pressed against yours in a heated kiss. When he felt your lips not moving, his brain started working again and panic began to fill his body.

Holy shit, he was kissing you.

Jey quickly pulled away, his eyes wide with shock at what he had just done. He looked at you and expected to see a disguted expression, but instead, he was met with a look of surprise mixed with something else, something he couldn't quite decipher.

"I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that," Jey stammered, taking a step back and running a hand through his hair, his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. "I understand if you wanna slap me or not wanna be friends anymore-" Jey was cut off by your sudden movement as you grabbed his face and pulled him into another kiss, this time more fervent and filled with an intensity that surprised both of you.

Your lips moved against his in a desperate embrace, your hands sliding around his neck as you deepened the kiss, feeling a mix of emotions surging through you.

Jey's initial shock melted away, replaced by a raw passion as he responded to your kiss with equal fervor, his hands finding their way to your waist, pulling you closer.

The intensity of the moment, the emotions swirling within you, they all converged in that fiery kiss, a collision of desire, desperation, and unspoken words. His lips were rough yet soft against yours, the taste of him sending a wave of warmth through your body.

For a moment, it felt like everything else faded away—the anger, the turmoil, the impending match—leaving only the two of you in that charged, passionate moment.

Breaking the kiss, you both panted slightly, the air around you thick with unspoken emotions. Jey's eyes met yours, a mix of surprise and longing reflected in his gaze, mirroring the emotions you felt within yourself. You both stood there, caught in a moment of unspoken connection, the tension between you palpable yet strangely comforting.

"I... I don't know what came over me," Jey finally managed to say, his voice filled with a mix of confusion and desire, his eyes searching yours for some semblance of understanding.

You shook your head slightly, trying to process the intensity of what just happened, the flood of emotions still coursing through you. "I don't either," you admitted softly, your heart racing with a combination of excitement and uncertainty.

A knock on the door startled you both, making you snap out of the moment. Jey quickly composed himself, adjusting his jacket as he moved away from you, trying to regain his composure. You took a deep breath, attempting to steady your racing heartbeat and clear your mind.

"Y/N, it's time. We're about to start," a voice called from outside the door, interrupting the charged atmosphere that lingered between you.

"Give me a minute." You called out in response, your voice slightly shaky as you tried to regain your focus.

You turned to Jey, who looked like he was still reeling from the unexpected turn of events, and walked over to him, placing your hand on his arm, gingerly making your way to his chest before grabbing his chain, gently tugging on it to bring him down to your level. Both your skins felt like they were still ablaze with the remnants of the intense moment you shared, and you locked eyes with him, a mix of emotions reflecting in your gaze.

"We'll talk about this later, so don't worry about it." You ran your hand along Jey's jawline, your touch light yet conveying a sense of reassurance. "But I promise you we're good. Wish me luck?"

Jey's eyes softened at your words, and he wished that he could say more, that he could express the myriad of emotions swirling within him.

Instead, he gave you a nod, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Good luck, pretty girl. Kill it out there." he replied softly, his voice filled with a mixture of support and love. You gave him a blinding smile, and he watched as you let go of his chain, your hand sliding away from his jawline, and made your way towards the door, steeling yourself for the intense match ahead.

He just hoped that you'd come back to him unscathed.

You glared through your pod, your gaze fixated on Becky as she made her entrance into the Elimination Chamber match. The sight of her intensified the emotions within you, the anger and resentment threatening to consume you once again.

But this time yo would let it consume you, let it overwhelm your senses and take control of your actions. The anger boiled inside you like a tempest, urging you to unleash it upon her, to make her feel the pain and anguish you had harbored since the betrayal.

Natalya and Becky were to start the match, and as the countdown began for the first pod to open, you focused on preparing yourself mentally for the chaos that was about to unfold.

After 30 minutes- it was like a war zone. Natalya was the first to be eliminated by a roll-up by Shayna, who turned on her. One of the pods were broken when Tamina speared Nia through it, who eliminated Nia. Becky was nursing her arm after Shayna targeted it and you eliminated her before she could tap Becky out with your finisher.

And you and Auska were tangled in the corner, exchanging fierce strikes and attempts to gain the upper hand. You slammed her into the steel, blood pouring out of your mouth from where you'd been hit by her kicks.

The match had taken a toll on everyone, leaving bruises, blood, and fatigue as the competitors fought tooth and nail for the coveted Raw Women's Championship.

As you grappled with Asuka, you could barely think, you were barely yourself. You let the darker side of you take over, your vision tunneling to focus solely on inflicting pain and securing victory at any cost. The crowd roared, the steel structure reverberated with the impact of bodies colliding, but it was all a distant symphony to you, drowned out by the internal fury consuming your thoughts.

"You are not ready for Auska!" Asuka screamed at you as she slammed your head into the steel over and over again. But all that did was make you smile with every hit, making Auska angrier and try to fight you even harder.

The pain seared through your body, but you welcomed it, reveling in the agony as it fueled the fire within you. You grunted with each impact, the taste of blood on your lips as sweet as candy.

With a sudden burst of strength, you managed to reverse Auska's assault, throwing her into the steel structure with a resounding crash. You saw her wince in pain, but you didn't relent. Your movements were almost mechanical, your mind was clouded, your vision hazy with the red mist of aggression and determination.

You grabbed her head and slammed it against the steel again, and again, and again, each impact echoing through the chamber. The crowd's chants and screams merged into a cacophony, but your focus remained singular—inflict pain, show no mercy, and secure victory at any cost.

Blood trickled down your face from the earlier blows, mixing with the crimson of your attire, making you look like the darkness that consumed you. The intense desire to win, the need to prove your dominance, all these emotions drove you forward, blurring the lines between competition and the dark turmoil within.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Tamina barreling down at you, and you managed to sidestep her attack just in time, causing her to crash into Auska with a fierce impact. You laughed darkly, the sound almost maniacal as you watched both of them reel in pain, before you grabbed Auska and hauled her into the ring for the pin.

"Auska has been eliminated!" The announcer's voice boomed through the arena as your victory was declared. But there was no elation in your expression, no triumphant celebration. Instead, a cold, almost detached look adorned your face as you stood over Auska, panting heavily, your gaze fixated on the fallen competitor.

Your gaze went to Becky, who was still nursing her arm, watching the chaos unfold in the ring. The sight of her triggered a surge of raw emotions within you, the memories of her betrayal and your desire for retribution resurfacing with an overwhelming intensity. You were consumed by an uncontrollable rage, the darkness within you clawing its way to the surface as you eyed Becky with an unspoken promise of vengeance.

Your gaze went from Becky, to Tamina, then Becky again. You smiled and moved closer to Becky, who was already on her feet, albeit visibly weakened from the match. "The two of us, get Tamina. Then it'll just be us."

Becky nodded, understanding the unspoken plan as the two of you cautiously approached Tamina, who was trying to recover from the previous onslaught. As a team, you and Becky coordinated your attacks, trying to neutralize Tamina's advantage.

You grabbed her from behind, while Becky kicked her in the midsection, trying to weaken her. But Tamina was stronger, and she powered out of your grip, sending you to the mat with a forceful shove. Becky, in her weakened state, tried to fight back, but Tamina's power was overwhelming.

You staggered to your feet, the pain and exhaustion beginning to take its toll, but the fire within you burned fiercely. You knew you had to take down Tamina to secure a chance at the championship, and you couldn't let anything—especially the betrayal that fueled your rage—distract you from that goal.

As Tamina advanced towards Becky, you launched yourself at her, driving your shoulder into her midsection and knocking her down. You and Becky seized the opportunity, both delivering a series of coordinated strikes, attempting to weaken Tamina further. Tamina realized that this could mark the end for her and swiftly ran away from the both of you, climbing the cage and trying to escape.

You and Becky quickly went after her, scaling the cage and trying to get her. Tamina climbed onto the top of the pod to try and get away , but you and Becky both grabbed Tamina's legs to prevent her escape. She struggled, thrashing wildly in an attempt to break free from your grip, but both you and Becky held on, determined to keep her from fleeing.

With a combined effort, you and Becky managed to pull Tamina back down kick her, making her slump in the corner of the pod.

"How do you like that, Tamina!" You yelled at her , your voice filled with a mix of exhilaration and a hint of vindication.

You turned away from her and realized Becky was dangling off the edge of the pod, struggling to maintain her balance. In that split second, the memories hit you— when she had told you she and Seth were seeing each other behind your back — and you knew the choice you had to make.

"Give me your hand, Becks." You extended your hand to Becky, offering her support to pull her back up onto the pod.

Becky sighed a breath of relief, her grip on the edge faltering slightly. "I... I can't reach, Y/N!" Her voice was strained, panic evident in her eyes as she struggled to maintain her precarious position.

"I got you!" You moved towards her and grabbed her hand, and for a moment it felt like everything between the two of you was perfect; that nothing had changed, that she still held your trust.

And then you kicked her away from the edge of the pod.

"Oh my god Corey, Y/N just kicked Becky off the pod!" Cole's shocked voice was drowned out by the cheers and gasps from the crowd as the camera panned onto the sadistic smirk on your face.

You licked your lips as the sound of Becky's body hitting the mat echoed through the arena, a sickening thud that sent a chill down your spine.

The chaos around you, the loud exclamations from the commentators, the roar of the audience—it all seemed distant as your gaze remained fixated on Becky's prone form.

This is what you wanted. This is what she deserved. This is what you needed.

You turned to Tamina, who was knocked out next to you, and grabbed her from the corner of the pod, yanking her by the head and standing her up.

You grabbed her by the throat and looked down at how high you guys were up, and turned back to her with a chilling smile and choke slamming her all the way down to the ring, dropping the two of you from the top of the pod, crashing violently onto the mat below.

The pain from falling felt like a rush of adrenaline, a mix of exhilaration and agony that surged through your body. You laughed at Tamina's howl of pain and rolled her over to pin her.

"Tamina has been eliminated!"

The announcer's voice echoed through the arena, but all you could focus on was Becky's fallen form a few feet away from you. The sight of her lying motionless on the floor made you smile with a twisted sense of satisfaction.

The rush of power, the vindication, the culmination of all the betrayal and hurt fueled your actions. The cheers and gasps from the crowd became distant echoes in your ears, drowned out by the chaotic symphony of your own emotions.

You slowly stood up, never breaking eye contact with Becky's motionless figure. It was like a hunter relishing the sight of their prey, except in this instance, the prey was someone who had betrayed your trust, someone whose actions had fueled an uncontrollable rage within you.

You stalked toward Becky, every step deliberate, every movement calculated. The audience's reaction was a mix of shock, disbelief, and some even cheering at the audacity of your actions. But you were oblivious to it all, fixated solely on the fallen figure before you.

Standing over Becky's motionless body, a myriad of emotions churned within you—anger, hurt, and a dark satisfaction. The memories of betrayal flooded your mind, intensifying the storm of emotions raging inside you.

"You thought I forgot what you did to me, Becky?" Your voice was low, filled with a venomous intensity as you grabbed her head, your fingers curling around her hair. The crowd's hushed murmurs created a haunting backdrop to the tense moment, but your focus remained solely on Becky, on the feelings that surged within you.

"You thought you could just betray me and walk away unscathed?" The words dripped with malice as you pulled Becky up to her knees, your grip unyielding. Her eyes fluttered open, registering the danger in your demeanor as fear etched across her face.

"Y/N, please... I'm sorry. I didn't mean... I never wanted..." Becky's voice trembled, the desperation evident in her plea.

"You never wanted? You never wanted what, Becky?" Your voice rose, punctuated with bitterness and anger. "You never wanted to hurt me? You never wanted to lie to me?"

The memories flooded back, vivid and painful. Both good and bad.

When she hugged you the moment you won your first main roster title. When you snuck from everyone on a international tour in Italy from your time on the Indies and had gotten lost. When you both got signed to the WWE and threw a party and gotten so drunk Sami and Kevin had to carry you both back to your hotel rooms.

These memories flooded back in an instant, as if they were tugging at the last strings of sanity within you. But then you flickered back to the moment when that trust was shattered, when deceit became the foundation of your relationship with Becky.

"I trusted you! I trusted you more than anyone else!" Your voice cracked with emotion, the hurt resurfacing with a vengeance. "And you destroyed it all!"

Becky's attempts to plead or apologize fell on deaf ears. The betrayal had festered deep within, feeding the darkness that had consumed you. Your grip tightened on her hair, a vengeful glare fixed on her.

"But now... now you'll pay for what you did." With a sudden burst of rage, you slammed Becky's head onto the cold, unforgiving steel floor, a sickening thud echoing through the chamber.

The crowd's gasps and cries blended into a cacophony as you repeated the action, each strike fueled by the pain of betrayal, each impact a testament to the seething anger within you. The once vibrant and fearless Becky Lynch was now at your mercy, helpless against the onslaught.

"You thought I forgot everything you did to me?!" You screamed at her as you pushed her head into the steel cage, the clang of metal echoing the chaos within your own mind.

Becky's struggles weakened, her body becoming limp under the relentless assault. The rush of power surged through you with each strike, a grim satisfaction stemming from the torment inflicted upon the person who had shattered your trust.

"You don't get to apologize, Becky! You don't get to plead for forgiveness!" The words tore out of you, laced with an uncontainable rage that had simmered beneath the surface for far too long. Each blow against the steel was a manifestation of the pain she had caused, an outlet for the betrayal that had gnawed at your soul.

You made her stand up, her knees buckling under the strain, her eyes pleading for mercy. But there was no mercy left in you, only the searing desire for retribution. With a cruel determination, you hoisted Becky up, making her lean against the unforgiving steel structure of the chamber.

"This is for everything you didi to me!" The words dripped with a cold ferocity as you speared her into the pod, the glass shattering upon impact. Becky's body crumpled amidst the debris, and you breathed out angrily at the sight.

The rush of adrenaline coursed through your veins, a mixture of vindication and a twisted sense of satisfaction washing over you as you stood there, heaving with exertion and emotion.

But you didn't stop there. You slowly stood up and grabbed her hair, pulling her up once again. Despite the exhaustion creeping into your bones, the rage and hurt refused to ebb away. You wanted her to feel every ounce of pain you had endured.

"You made me suffer, Becky. Now it's your turn." Your voice was a venomous whisper as you dragged her towards the chamber's unforgiving steel walls. The walls were slightly open from where Nia and Tamina had crashed into earlier, creating jagged edges that now served as a menacing backdrop to your vendetta.

You threw Becky down into the middle of the steel, and with a primal roar, slammed the steel wall into her injured arm.

Becky's anguished scream pierced the air. Her body convulsed with pain, her face contorted in agony as she writhed on the unforgiving steel surface. You slammed the door into her injured arm again and again, the metallic clang merging with her cries of agony. Each strike was fueled by the betrayal you felt, the pent-up rage finding release in the physical torment you were inflicting.

"You wanna have Seth? Go right ahead, I'll have something better- your title." You spat out the words, each syllable filled with the bitterness of betrayal as you continued the onslaught. "The two of you can destroyed each other, for all I care!"

The chamber's atmosphere had turned eerily silent, save for Becky's agonized screams and the brutal sound of the steel door colliding with her arm. You didnt stop until Becky lay there, barely conscious, the torment etched into her features. Her arm hung at an unnatural angle, broken and battered from the relentless assault.

You leaned down and took the cast off of her injured arm, tossing it aside with disdain, before leaning down and retrieving the metal pole you had broken her arm with yesterday and smiled at the sight of it. Holding it aloft, a crazed grin etched on your face, you relished in the feeling of power coursing through your veins.

"You really thought I forgave you, Becky? You thought I'd forget what you did? You thought wrong." Your voice was a sinister growl, dripping with malice as you towered over the battered and broken figure of Becky.

She lay there, barely able to move, her gaze filled with pain and shock as she looked up at you. She hoped to see mercy in your eyes, but all she found was a cold, unyielding resolve.

"You are worth nothing. The only thing worthy you have is that Raw Women's Championship, and I'm taking it." You lifted the metal pole, ready to strike again, your eyes filled with a ruthless determination. "And I'll take it by any means necessary."

Becky's howl of pain echoed through the chamber as you crashed the pole into her injured arm once more, a vicious determination driving each strike. The chamber seemed to amplify her anguished cries, the sound bouncing off the steel walls in a haunting symphony. You didn't relent, your movements fueled by an unquenchable thirst for revenge, the need to make her suffer as you had suffered.

You finally stopped when Becky's body convulsed in agony, her voice hoarse from screaming. The once defiant and confident champion now lay broken and defenseless beneath your relentless assault. You threw the metal pole to the side, staring down at her with a mix of satisfaction and a lingering bitterness.

This was it. This was your moment. This was your time.

You hauled Becky up by her hair, her body limp and broken, and dragged her to the ring, pulling her lifeless form through the ropes. The audience watched in shocked silence as you tossed her into the ring, her body barely responsive to the impact against the mat.

With a cold determination, you climbed into the ring, standing over Becky's battered form. The taste of vengeance was bitter on your tongue, but it was the only thing that gave you a semblance of satisfaction amidst the turmoil within. The desire for retribution had driven you to this point, and there was no turning back.

"You did this to yourself." You stated coldly, gently cradling Becky's head in your hands, forcing her to look up at you. Her eyes, once full of fire and confidence, were now clouded with pain and fear. But you felt no remorse, no empathy for the woman lying broken at your feet.

"This is what happens when you betray someone who trusted you, Becky," you continued, your voice laced with a chilling calmness. "You thought you could walk over me, but now, you lie here broken, defeated."

You pushed Becky's head back down to the mat with a disdainful shove, watching her writhe in pain. The taste of victory was bittersweet, the turmoil within you still raging despite the apparent domination you displayed.

"You said I was a sweet girl, Becky," you sneered, your voice tinged with contempt. "But you've awoken the darkness in me. And now, you'll pay the price."

You pulled her into a guittoine submission-courtesy of Roman- and tightened the hold with a sadistic grin, relishing in the agony evident on Becky's face and grabbing her injured arm and twisting it in a way that elicited a scream of agony from her.

"You made me this way, Becky!" Your voice echoed through the chamber, filled with a raw mixture of anger and vindication. "You made me unleash this darkness!"

You maintained the hold, ignoring the desperation in Becky's eyes, the pleas for mercy that fell on deaf ears. Every second felt like an eternity, and despite Becky's best efforts to resist, the pain and exhaustion took their toll. Her struggles weakened, her body succumbing to the relentless submission hold, and she tapped out in excruciating pain.

The bell rang, signaling the end of the match and your victory. The referee rushed in to separate you from Becky, who lay there, broken and defeated, the once-champion now a mere shadow of her former self.

But you didn't let go. You pushed at the security that tried to separate you, tightening even more and refusing to release the hold. The crowd's gasps turned into a chorus of boos as the officials struggled to pry you off, but your grip remained unyielding, a testament to the rage and vindictiveness that had consumed you.

"Let go, Y/N! You've won! It's over!" The referee's voice was a desperate plea, but you were deaf to reason. The need for retribution blinded you, overshadowing any semblance of rationality

"You see what you did?" You screamed at Becky, your voice filled with a chilling mix of triumph and fury.

"This is your fault! You made me do this!" The darkness was beginning to take over completely, clouding your thoughts and senses. The chaos around you seemed distant as you held on to the submission, refusing to release Becky even as she lay there, gasping for air, her face contorted in agony.

"Pretty girl, it's finished, you did it! Let her go!"

That was the only warning you got before Jey's arms wrapped around your waist and forcefully pulled you off of Becky, breaking the hold. You let Jey drag you away, the remnants of your dark rage still coursing through your veins. This was the backup plan- if you were too deep in your own darkness, Jey would be there to pull you back. You relaxed into his embrace, the remnants of your rage simmering beneath the surface but still boiling.

"You won. You did it, you won!" Jey exclaimed into your ear, attemtping to bring you back to reality. You managed a smile, a twisted satisfaction lingering on your lips.

"Gimme her fucking title!" You heard Jimmy arguing with the ref, and looked up to see him holding the Raw Women's Championship, a smile on his face as he moved towards you.

"You fucking won!" Jimmy cheered, hugging you tightly, lifting you off the ground in celebration. Elation and adrenaline is all you felt as you hugged him back tightly before he set you down, handing you your Raw Women's Championship.

The gold felt cold against your skin, a tangible symbol of the victory you had fought so ruthlessly for. The cheers from the audience were a distant hum as you clutched the title, a dark satisfaction washing over you.

"I won." You whispered softly, but Jey heard you. He smiled softly at you- you finally did it, finally captured the championship you sought so relentlessly.

"You did, and you deserve it." He opened his arms for you, and you didn't think twice before falling into the embrace, the chaotic storm within you weirdly subsiding slightly when you fell into his arms. You didn't have time to dwell on it before he pulled away and gently cupped your face in his hands. "You deserve it. Now show everyone why you the champ."

You looked down at the Raw Women's Championship in your hands, the gold reflecting the dim lights of the chamber, and held it high above your head, the sinister satisfaction still lingering in your eyes.

You finally had what you wanted, the Raw Women's Championship, and the whole women's locker room fearing your name. You didn't care if they respected you, because fear was the true power.

Jimmy and Jey stood on either side of you, holding up their hands in a one sign, the three of you standing tall, an embodiment of ruthless dominance, and leaving more questions than answers in the minds of the WWE Universe.

Why were you with the Bloodline? Why did you unleash such brutality on Becky Lynch? Why were Jimmy and Jey by your side in this calculated rampage?

They'd get their answers soon.

"You did good. I'm proud of you." Roman smiled at you with a hint of approval and something else you couldn't pick up on as you came to the back, bringing you into a dark embrace. "You showed them what it means to be a true champion," he continued, his voice low and resonant. "No one will underestimate you again."

You nodded at Roman when he pulled away from you, the darkness in his eyes mirroring the intensity you felt within yourself. "I appreciate it, Roman. It's just the beginning. There's a lot more they haven't seen yet." Your voice held a quiet determination, the fire within you still burning bright. Roman nodded in understanding, a sense of mutual understanding passing between the two of you.

Roman turned to Jimmy and Jey, who were standing next to you with a mix of satisfaction, concern, and pride. "You guys need to deliver too. Jey, get ready for your match. Jimmy, go back to the locker room, I'll take Y/N to the trainers and we'll be back."

Jey furrowed his brows at Roman's command, a slight tension in the air. "You sure you're good, Y/N?" he asked, his concern genuine.

You gave a nod, the dark satisfaction still lingering in your eyes. "I'm fine, Jey. Just go out there and do what you do best. We'll handle the aftermath later."

Jey was confused at Roman's decision. Roman never offered to take someone to the trainers unless there was a significant reason. He didn't think it was smart to have your anger clash with Roman's but he trusted Roman's judgment and giving you one last hug, headed towards the entrance ramp for his match.

Roman led you towards the trainers' area, his steps deliberate and his expression unreadable. Anyone who tried to cross your path would be stopped by Roman's glare that cut through the air like a knife. As you walked side by side with Roman, you couldn't help but feel a sense of validation. You had proven your worth in the most brutal way possible, and now you were under the protection of the Tribal Chief himself.

The trainers' room was a mix of antiseptic smells and the low hum of conversations. The medical staff looked up as Roman entered, their eyes widening as they took in the sight of you, still in your ring gear, holding the Raw Women's Championship. Roman's presence demanded respect, and they quickly shuffled to clear a space for you.

Roman gestured for you to take a seat on one of the medical benches. "Sit down. Let them check you out," he commanded, his voice carrying a stern authority.

The trainers approached cautiously, assessing the visible signs of the intense match you had just endured. They checked for any potential injuries, bruises, or signs of a concussion, but you remained stoic and unresponsive to their efforts. Roman observed with a watchful eye, ensuring that everything was done to his satisfaction.

As the medical staff continued their examination, Roman's gaze never wavered from you. There was a complex mix of emotions in his eyes—pride, perhaps a hint of admiration, and something else that remained elusive. He didn't say much, but his silent presence spoke volumes.

"Don't do that." He piped up when you tried to calm your anger down slightly, his voice cutting through the silence in the room.

"What?" you asked, genuinely confused.

"Don't try to suppress it. Embrace it," Roman said, his tone unwavering. "You showed them what you're capable of tonight. Let that darkness fuel your dominance. The more they fear you, the more control you have. I need that tonight."

You nodded at Roman's cold wisdom, but furrowed your brows at his last sentence. "What do you mean, 'I need that tonight'?"

Roman's expression remained enigmatic, a cryptic smile playing on his lips. "You trust me right? Trust our friendship?"

You nodded slowly, uncertain about where this conversation was heading but choosing to trust Roman's judgment. "Of course, Roman. You know I do."

"And I've never betrayed you, right?"

You stared into Roman's eyes, searching for any hidden motives. "No, Roman. You've always had my back."

"Good." Roman's smile deepened, revealing a rare sense of camaraderie. "Tonight, you've proven yourself. Now, I need you to trust me a little more. I have a plan, and I need you to play a crucial part in it. Can I count on you?"

You studied Roman's face, his eyes holding a mysterious glint. "Of course, Roman. I trust you," you replied, determination in your voice. "Whatever you need, I'm in."

Roman's smile widened. "Against my better judgement, and my ego, I know that Kevin will be the one to win that number one contender's match against Jey tonight. I need him to be the one challenging for my Universal Championship. But I also need him softened up, vulnerable. That's where you come in."

Roman's plan started to unfold, and you listened intently to his instructions. As he laid out the details, you realized the significance of your role in the larger scheme. The darkness within you, the dominance you had displayed in the Elimination Chamber, was now a strategic asset for Roman's plan.

"I need you to make a statement, Y/N. Show everyone in that match, and especially Kevin Owens, that you're not just a champion—they should fear you," Roman explained, his voice a low rumble that resonated with authority.

"I know you and Kevin have a history, and you and Sami as well. But when the cards are on the table, Kevin will always choose to backstab you. Will always choose to betray you. How many years have you given him chances? How many times has he let you down?"

Roman's words resonated, stirring up the memories of past betrayals and the pain that accompanied them.

"When was the last time you gave him a chance and he didn't disappoint?" Roman's question hung in the air, the weight of the truth behind it sinking in. "This is your opportunity, Y/N. Take it. Show everyone that you're not to be taken lightly, and in doing so, finally get the revenge for the years of betrayals. And as for Sami-"

Roman sensed your smoldering anger and paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully.

"Sami Zayn is an annoyance, a distraction. He might be your friend, so I am giving you the leniency to deal with him swiftly, efficiently. But what matters is making it clear that anyone who stands in your way will face the consequences."

If you were in any other mental state, and didn't feel the smoldering anger within you, you would have hesitated and questioned Roman's motives, told him you wouldn't hurt your best friends.

But in this current state, you couldn't think clearly. The darkness within you, fueled by the betrayal and the desire for retribution, clouded your judgment, and Roman's words only resonated and fueled that anger.

And that was Roman's plan all along.

Make you so angry and unleashing that dark side so that you couldn't see your morals in jeapordy, the bigger picture, couldn't question the morality of the actions he was asking you to take. In that moment, you were a pawn in his game, a tool to achieve his objectives.

"I know it's a lot to take in, but trust me, Y/N. This is the path we need to walk to secure our dominance," Roman concluded, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that brooked no argument. "As long as you're with me, as long as you embrace that darkness within you, there's nothing we can't achieve."

You nodded, a cold determination settling within you. The darkness, once a mere undercurrent, now surged to the forefront, shaping your thoughts and actions. "I'm with you, Roman. Whatever it takes to secure our dominance."

Roman clasped your shoulder, a silent acknowledgment passing between the two of you. "Get ready, Y/N. Go to Jimmy. It's time to make a statement."

You watched on the screen as the Men's Elimination Chamber match was taking place, bodies being violently thrown against the steel, the carnage unfolding inside the chamber. The raw aggression and brutality were palpable, and you couldn't help but feel a twisted sense of satisfaction, knowing that you had set the tone for the night.

Jey, Sami, Kevin, Daniel Bryan, and Cesaro were all engaged in a fierce battle for the opportunity to challenge Roman Reigns for the Universal Championship. As the chaos unfolded, you could feel the anticipation building, knowing that your part in Roman's plan was about to come into play.

You winced as Kevin tossed Sami into the steel structure, the impact echoing through the arena. Jimmy patted your back as a silent comfort, and Roman turned to you at the movement.

"You see what he does to his so called best friends, Y/N?" Roman's voice held a mix of disdain and calculated satisfaction. "This is your chance to make them understand, to make Kevin Owens understand, that betrayal comes with consequences."

You nodded in agreement, your eyes fixed on the screen as the chaos continued to unfold. You let out a sigh of relief as Kevin hit Sami with a stunner to pin him for the three count. At least you didn't have to hurt your Sami directly, but the next part of Roman's plan was now in motion.

Cesaro and Bryan were fighting on the top of one of the pods, each trying to gain the upper hand. Kevin and Jey were slamming each other into the steel cage, the sounds of bodies colliding reverberating through the arena. The anticipation in the air was palpable, and Roman's plan was inching closer to its climax.

Cesaro was pinned by Daniel, who had just delivered a brutal running knee. The referee counted, and Cesaro was eliminated.

Jey managed to eliminate Daniel Bryan with a superkick, leaving only Kevin Owens and Jey Uso as the remaining competitors.

Kevin hit a Pop-up Powerbomb on Jey Uso followed by a stunner, securing the victory and earning the right to challenge Roman Reigns for the Universal Championship.

"Now!" Roman roared at you, a command that snapped you out of your intense focus on the screen.

It was time.

Jey, angry after being eliminated, stomped on Kevin, not allowing him a moment of respite after the grueling match. You followed Roman's lead, storming down the ramp with a determined stride and Jimmy right behind you.

Jey had Kevin trapped in between the steel steps and the chamber wall, delivering relentless stomps and kicks. The exhaustion from the match was evident on Kevin's face, but the anger in Jey's eyes fueled the assault.

"Y/N, make your move," Roman's voice echoed through the arena, urging you to unleash the darkness within.

“Y/N!” Jey screamed through the cell, beckoning you to join him.

You looked to Roman; and any slight hesitation you might’ve had was washed away by the adrenaline coursing through your veins and Roman’s relentless gaze that was a silent demand for loyalty. If you backed out now, the consequences were grave.

You stepped into the chamber, the cold steel beneath your boots sending shivers up your spine. Jey motioned for you to come closer to him, and it was like he sensed your inner conflict, giving you a comforting and encouraging look.

The anticipation in the air was palpable as you approached Jey, the steel structure enclosing both of you in a sinister dance of betrayal and loyalty.

“Do it!” Jey roared, his eyes filled with intensity. He kicked Kevin to make sure he stayed down before turning back to you, holding the steel doors open. “Do it, Y/N!”

And for just a second, you felt the weight of the moment, torn between loyalty and the darkness Roman demanded. You were sobered from the darkness, and for a split second, you stared at Kevins face, and wondered, just wondered, if the roles were switched, if Kevin would choose you.

And just like that, the moment ended.

“Ahh!” Kevin groaned out in pain when you took over from Jey, and just like you did with Becky, slammed the steel cage into Kevin’s arm, the steel deliciously meeting flesh.

The impact reverberated through the chamber, a savage exclamation of your allegiance to the Tribal Chief. You slammed the steel into his arm over and over again, yelling at Kevin to stay down.

“I told you to stay out of my business!” You screamed with each vicious strike, the sound echoing in the unforgiving steel chamber. “I told you to stay away from Roman! But you never listen!”

Your voice was filled with a mix of anger, hurt, and frustration, the echoes bouncing off the cold steel walls. “You never listen to me! You never CHOOSE ME!”

You rammed the steel cage into Kevin's arm one final time before letting go of the steel, leaving him writhing in pain on the unforgiving steel floor. You were breathing just as heavily as you ran your hands across the cold steel cage, the darkness within you pulsating with a newfound intensity.

Your loyalty to Roman was now etched in the vicious strikes you delivered to Kevin. The symbolism of the steel meeting flesh resonated with the dominance Roman sought, and you had become the instrument of his will.

Jey wrapping an arm around your shoulder jolted you out of your thoughts, and you looked up at him, meeting his beautiful brown eyes that no longer held fear about your loyalty.

The Tribal Chief stood outside the chamber, a satisfied smirk on his face, witnessing the culmination of your allegiance. The crowd's mixed reactions were drowned out by the satisfaction in Roman's gaze.

Jey squeezed your shoulder and brought you closer to him as Roman made his way towards the ring, the Universal Championship draped over his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you.” Jey whispered into your ear, his words barely audible over the fading echoes of the chaos you had unleashed. His lips grazed your ear, and the tension in the chamber slowly shifted to a moment of eerie calm. “Kevin didn’t pick you, but I chose you, Y/N.”

You know this is the part where the guilt should hit you, but it didn’t. Why would you feel guilty? You warned Kevin that you were a force to be reckoned with, that loyalty to Roman Reigns was your priority.

And what did he do?

Kevin defied your warnings, and now he had to pay the price. And you knew that if the roles were reversed and you were in Kevin's place, he wouldn't have shown you any mercy.

So why should you extend a courtesy he wouldn't offer?

You would only feel guilty if you hurt Sami, and thankfully Sami was eliminated before the crucial moment. Was it fate? You didn’t know. But what you did know was that you had proven your allegiance to Roman in the most brutal fashion, and you didn’t regret it one bit.

Your head snapped towards Roman when he entered the ring, a smirk of satisfaction on his face. The Tribal Chief's presence commanded attention, and he nodded approvingly at the scene before him—the aftermath of your loyalty displayed in a brutal ballet of steel and flesh.

"You've made the right choice," Roman declared, his voice authoritative. He brought you into a dominant embrace, his hand gripping the back of your neck. The intensity in his eyes mirrored the satisfaction of a plan executed flawlessly. “I’m proud of you. Do you acknowledge me?”

You pulled away from Roman, a cold determination in your eyes. "I acknowledge you, Tribal Chief," you responded, the weight of those words resonating with a sense of finality.

Roman smiled at your words, a predatory glint in his eyes. His plan had come to fruition, and now he held not only the Universal Championship but also an unwavering allegiance from you, and that would not only hurt Kevin physically, but also leave an indelible mark on his psyche, solidify his dominance in the WWE and also secure your place by his side.

And that was the night you fully embraced the darkness, fully committing to Roman Reigns as the Tribal Chief.

"You wanted a match with me, Kevin?" Roman continued, tauntingly addressing the writhing Kevin Owens on the cold steel floor. He leaned down, his face inches from Kevin's, a sinister smile playing on his lips.

"Well, you got it. Get up." Roman straightened up, never breaking eye contact with Kevin. "Jey, Jimmy, grab him. Y/N, stand back," Roman commanded, and you complied without hesitation.

Jey and Jimmy, sensing Roman's desire for a prolonged punishment, dragged Kevin up. The once defiant fighter now seemed broken and battered, a shell of his former self.

Roman circled Kevin like a predator closing in on its prey. He reveled in the moment, savoring the defeat he orchestrated. The crowd's cheers or jeers were inconsequential; all that mattered was the dominance he asserted over the WWE and the loyalty you had pledged.

Jey and Jimmy lowered Kevin to the ground on his knees, and Roman chuckled at the pitiful sight before him. The Tribal Chief stood tall, the Universal Championship glistening in the harsh arena lights. Roman's eyes bore into Kevin, the intensity of his gaze almost suffocating.

"Look at me." When Kevin refused to comply, Roman harshly yanked Kevin's face up by his hair. "I said, look at me."

Kevin's eyes met Roman's, a mix of defiance and pain still lingering. Roman chuckled again, a dark amusement coloring the sound.

"You thought you could beat me? Challenge me? Take my place?" Roman's voice dripped with disdain, his words a venomous reminder of the consequences of defiance. "You never had a chance, Kevin."

With a swift motion, Roman delivered a thunderous Superman Punch, the impact sending Kevin sprawling to the mat. The crowd's reactions were drowned out by the dominant presence of the Tribal Chief.

"Your mistake was not acknowledging me," Roman continued, pacing around the fallen Kevin. "You see, Y/N understands. Loyalty is everything. And you seriously thought she would choose you over me when you have no loyalty? When you betrayed her trust time and time again?" Roman's voice was filled with a cold certainty, his words cutting through the air like a razor.

"I might hurt her, but I won't let anyone else hurt her." Kevin spat blood onto the cold steel floor, his defiance unwavering even in the face of such overwhelming odds. Roman chuckled at Kevin's feeble attempt to maintain his pride.

"You think she believes you Kevin? Look at her." Kevin weakly raised his head to glance at you. The conflict in your eyes was replaced with a steely resolve, a clear reflection of the choice you had made. Roman's smirk widened at the sight, the confirmation of your allegiance bringing him a sense of triumph.

"She will never forgive you. She will never be by your side again, she will never be your best friend again. And you know whose fault it is that she choose me? You." Roman laughed, a sinister satisfaction in his tone. "You pushed her away, and now she's where she belongs."

"You see, Y/N," Roman said, turning his attention to you, "this is the price of betrayal. Loyalty is not just a word; it's an action. And tonight, you've shown where your allegiance lies."

He gestured for you to step forward, and you did so with a mix of pride and reluctance. Roman handed you the Universal Championship, the weight of the title in your hands a symbolic gesture of your newfound allegiance.

"Finish it," Roman commanded, his eyes locked onto yours. The crowd's murmurs and gasps filled the arena as you stood over Kevin, holding the championship that now represented your loyalty to the Tribal Chief.

Your eyes locked with Kevins, and you could see the pain and betrayal in his gaze. The conflict within you briefly resurfaced, but Roman's dominance held you in its grip.

"You're not their blood, and even if you were, they'd never treat you like family." Kevin coughed out, his words strained. The bitter taste of defeat mixed with defiance lingered in the air.

"And you are?" You spat at him, the darkness within you responding to Roman's influence. The crowd's boos and cheers seemed distant, drowned out by the intensity of the moment.

"You know the answer to that." Kevin's voice trembled with a mix of pain and disappointment, steeling himself for what he knew was coming. For a second, you hesitated, the weight of Kevin's words lingering in the air. But then, as if on cue, Roman's gaze bore into yours, a silent command to complete your task.

You slammed the title onto Kevin's face with a resounding thud, making him crumple to the mat, sealing your fate with Kevin's defeat.

Roman laughed proudly, raising your hand along with the Universal Championship. The arena erupted in a mix of cheers and boos, but none of it mattered in the face of the dominance Roman had asserted, and you had willingly embraced.

"Ring the bell." Roman ordered at the referee outside the ring, who seemed hesitant but complied with Roman's command. Roman easily pinned Kevin for the three-count, making Kevin's efforts in vain.

The referee signaled for the bell, declaring Roman Reigns the winner, the Universal Champion who had not only conquered Kevin Owens physically but also broken his spirit in the most ruthless manner with you by his side.

You had done it. Proven your loyalty, passed the test, proven that you are the champion you said you are, and that you were willing to go to any lengths for the Tribal Chief.

And as you stared at Kevin lying defeated on the cold steel mat, the red blood drying on his face, your own title wrapped around your waist, you felt a surge of power, the intoxicating allure of victory and loyalty.

You looked down at the red stained title in your hands, the metallic taste of triumph in the air.

Red.

Red was definitely your favorite color now.

"I think we gotta talk about us now." Jey moaned out as you straddled his waist and kissed down his neck in the confines of your hotel room, high on adrenaline and power. The room was dimly lit, and the shadows played on the walls, mirroring the complexities of the choices you had made in the ring.

"Later." You sucked on the sweet spot on his neck, hoping to distract him from the conversation you needed to have. The taste of victory still lingered on your lips, and the primal energy from the ring had seeped into the intimacy of the hotel room.

Jey's hands gripped your hips, his breath hitching at your touch. "Wait, wait-fuck." Jey groaned as you licked a stripe on his chest, savoring the lingering taste of triumph.

"Y/N," he managed to say, catching your attention. You paused, looking into his eyes, the darkness within you still flickering like a flame.

"Is this not okay?" You asked softly, gently tracing your fingers along his jawline. Jey sighed, a mix of pleasure and contemplation in his eyes.

"It's more than okay. It's perfect," he admitted, his hands now cupping your face. "But you made a choice, a powerful one. You embraced the darkness for Roman, for us."

You leaned back, studying Jey's expression. There was a vulnerability in his eyes, a desire to understand the depth of your commitment. "Jey, I did what I had to do. Roman needed me, and I made the right choice."

Jey nodded, but there was a hint of concern in his gaze. "Did you do it for just him, or for me too?"

You met Jey's gaze, your mind processing the weight of his question. The room, once filled with the aftermath of triumph, now felt heavy with unspoken truths. Your allegiance to Roman had solidified, but what did it mean for the connection you shared with Jey?

"I did it for both of you," you admitted, your voice steady. "I did it for the family, for the unity. Roman needed my loyalty, and in choosing him, I'm choosing all of us."

You shifted so that you were now sitting beside Jey, your fingers tracing abstract patterns on his chest. "I want to be with you, I want to have you in any way that you'll let me." You paused, the intensity of the moment hanging in the air. Jey remained silent, his eyes searching yours for sincerity.

"I want us to be powerful together, Jey," you continued, your voice a gentle whisper. "I don't want to lose what we have, but I had to prove myself to Roman, to the family. It doesn't change how I feel about you."

Jey sighed, his fingers gently grazing over your intertwined hands. "And how do you feel about me?"

You looked at him as if he should already know the answer. "Jey, I had the option to back away from all this, to grab that title and hit you with it, but I didn't. I chose this, I chose Roman, and I chose you. I feel… conflicted, yet empowered. This is the path I've taken, and I want you with me on this journey."

You tightened your grip on Jey's hand, seeking reassurance. "I like you, and I want us to be together. I want there to be an us. We can take it slow, I think we both need that after tonight."

Jey took in your words, the complexity of the situation reflected in his eyes. He nodded slowly, a mixture of understanding and acceptance in his expression. His beautiful brown eyes locked onto yours, and he brought your hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles.

"I'm with you, Y/N," Jey said, his voice a reassuring murmur. "Whatever path you choose, I'm riding with you. Just promise me one thing."

You looked at him, waiting for his request.

"No matter what happens, no matter what Roman says or does, you never turn your back on me." Jey squeezed your hand even tighter. "I've had too many people turn their backs on me, and I can't handle losing you like that. Even if Kevin and Sami try to drive a wedge between us, promise me you won't let them succeed."

Jey pressed his forehead against yours, and you could feel the vulnerability in his plea. "Promise me you won't leave me."

"I promise, Jey," you whispered, your fingers gently tracing the contours of his face. "I won't turn my back on you. No matter what."

It felt like hours as you waited for Jey to respond. The room held its breath, the air heavy with unspoken emotions.

Finally, Jey broke out into a genuine, heartfelt smile, and in one swift motion, pulled you into his lap and brought you into a mind numbing kiss.

He licked at your lips, his hands exploring the contours of your body, a mixture of passion and reassurance in his touch. Every touch felt like heaven, every kiss felt like he was bringing you to life after the darkness of the ring.

"You can't leave me." That statement was backed up by the hard press of his lips against yours.

"I won't." A promise from you that was reassured with the soft caress of your tongue in his mouth. And for the rest of the night, the two of you lost yourselves in reassuring each other, not caring who heard or what consequences awaited in the world outside, and you realized that the anger subsided with every touch of his, and with every dampening of it came with an ease you only ever felt with one other person.

Unbeknownst to the two of you, that one other person stood outside your hotel room, heart dropping at the sounds of passion and commitment emanating from within. Sami had pretend to the hotel clerk that he was your manager, needing to check on you after the intense match.

The truth was, he wanted to make things right with you after seeing everything that happened tonight, wanted to try to get the woman he lov- the woman who was his best friend, back.

He had come bearing a bouquet of flowers, and two tickets to Montreal, to see your family that he knew you missed, ready to apologize and express his feelings. However, the sounds of intimacy between you and Jey shattered his hopes like fragile glass.

Sami's heart sank, realizing that he might have lost you for good. That should be him making you feel loved and wanted, not Jey. He leaned against the wall outside your room, the weight of the realization hitting him hard.

The bouquet of flowers in his hands and the gift bag suddenly felt like a pathetic offering in the face of the passion and commitment he could hear behind the door. The satisfaction he had at seeing Kevin broken in the ring was now overshadowed by the bitter taste of his own defeat in matters of the heart.

Sami took a deep breath, fighting back the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He couldn't bring himself to knock on the door, to interrupt the intimate moment between you and Jey.

Instead, he turned away, his steps heavy as he walked down the corridor, leaving the flowers and tickets at your doorstep, a silent acknowledgment of his failed attempt to win you back.

Before he went to the elevator, the sadness that enveloped him left and was replaced by motivation. You were his best friend, and he couldn't let this be the end. Sami would find a way to make things right, to prove to you that he could change and be the person you needed.

As the elevator doors closed, Sami took a deep breath, a determined glint in his eyes. He wasn't gonna let Jey win this without a fight. Sami had lost the battle tonight, but he was ready to wage a war for your heart.

Sami would do anything to make you see that he was the one who truly cared about you, who had been there for you through thick and thin, to have you in his life.

Even if that took hours, days months, or years, he would find a way to win you back. He had some business to take care of first with matters of the IC title, but eventually he would focus on winning back your heart.

Sami Zayn walked away from your hotel room, determined to prove that he was the one who deserved your loyalty and love.

And he would do anything, even join the Bloodline, to prove it.

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