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harryspet · 1 year ago

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bambi eyes (1) r. cameron

[Warnings] soft!dark!rafe cameron x reader, daddy!rafe x little!reader older!rafe, crimeboss!rafe, rafe takes advantage of traumatized reader, DUBCON, dd/lg, sex trafficking, sexual slavery, sugar daddy rafe, stockholm syndrome, spoiling kink, unprotected sex, forced? age regression, little editing, 18+ READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

A/N: My first Rafe fic :)

word count: 4.4k

In which Rafe finds a "healthy" outlet for dealing with his daddy issues.

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bambi eyes masterlist

Rafe finally felt he deserved to be back at Tannyhill. The house had remained empty over the last five years, Sarah wanted little to do with her real family anymore, Rafe made the tough decision to send Wheezie to a boarding school in Georgia and now she was starting college there. Rafe had cleaned up his act and gotten clean, mostly clean, and managed to save Cameron Development from complete ruin.

As soon as the police were off his tail, and he’d brought back some legitimacy to the Cameron name, he could develop the true relationships he needed to become unstoppable. It started with Barry, then gangsters from the mainland, and then Rafe's gained connections with the cartels. He then rebuilt the empire the Camerons once had in the Bahamas and now he owned ten times the amount of properties they used to own there.

He could achieve everything Ward never could have. He could be better a man than his father ever could.

After half a year in Nassau, Rafe was finally back in Kildare, and he had plans to make Tannyhill the ultimate fortress. He had finally acquired the last missing piece of his American dream – you. He eyed you in his rearview mirror, passed out in the backseat of his truck, before parking in front of the huge, white house.

There were already white moving trucks parked nearby, men in black clothing unloading new furniture he’d purchased and “merchandise” he’d acquired from the Caribbean Don he’d been working with. That Don is who he purchased you from, picking you out in a lineup of twenty girls.

The Don clapped his hands together before he said, “Just tell me which ones you would like to have a closer look at. I’ll have them stand and turn for you. If you have something in mind — perhaps a certain skin tone, curviness, hair color, I can make a suggestion.”

Rafe responded that he didn’t have a preference and that he would know you were the one when he saw you.

Looking through one-way glass, Rafe noticed aspects of each girl, including the tiredness behind their eyes and the elegance at which each of them moved their bodies. The Don had each girl stand and spin for him. There was not a single falter or misplaced step until Rafe saw you. When it was time for you to spin, you almost tripped over your own foot. You fixed yourself quickly and fixed your gaze forward however, Rafe noticed your eyes began to wander. It felt like you were looking right at him. Like you could see him.

“One of my favorites,” He said in thick Creole, “She’s quite an angel if you’re looking for someone who’s a little tamer. Good hips, natural hair, the breasts and ass are real too. I’m sure you’ll notice. For you, since you’re a friend, fifteen thousand for the whole night.”

The Don wanted Rafe to become a new investor in his trade and possibly bring girls to Kildare in order to expand his clientele. He wanted to impress Rafe, and let him have a night with one of his well-trained girls, although Rafe was looking to make a final purchase.

He hadn’t had a real conversation with you yet, he was in such a hurry to get back to the States that he had to keep you drugged for the time being. It would be better this way, he convinced himself, since he would be able to have the house ready before you came to. He got out the truck before opening the back door. Although you stirred slightly in your sleep, Rafe knew he wouldn’t wake you as he pulled you across the seat and wrapped you in his arms. Bridal style, he carried you up the patio and through the front doors.

An elaborate security system now kept track of everyone coming and going from the house. He had so much more than his father ever would have, but that also meant he had so much more to lose. He was a different man than the last time he was here. Much more mature. He used to throw meaningless parties so he could appear well-known, favorited by all, and hook up with girls who only cared about getting free drugs from him. This time things would be different.

“Hey, hey, careful with that!” Rafe barked at one of the men carrying a white tea table that he’d spent thousands on. He was attempting and failing to carry it and the two matching chairs that it came with. Rafe should’ve known what quality movers he was getting when he let Barry put his men on the job, “You think I’m paying you to break my shit?”

Rafe carried you up the winding stairs of his childhood home, imagining you feeling like this place was yours, just as much as he did. He thought he’d feel slightly more melancholy, looking at the familiar yellow walls, the elegant chandeliers, and period furnishings. Instead, he felt a weight lifted off of him. Your bedroom was one of the old guest rooms, only a few doors down from the master, and unlocked with his fingerprint.

The large room was freshly painted white, a twin-sized canopy bed was placed on the farthest wall, and Rafe placed you on top of the cloud-like comforter. You were still wearing one of his button-ups and a pair of his briefs that fit you more like shorts, Rafe not having had the time to dress you in the way he actually wanted to.

“Put it over in that corner, carefully,” He spoke to the mover carrying the table, although his eyes were focused on you.

“Mr. Cameron-”

“You’re dismissed. Tell Barry I’m expecting him tonight at nine.”

As the man turned to leave, Rafe quickly followed to shut the door behind him. He took another glance around the room, deciding that the table set was the perfect edition. He could bring you your breakfast there in the morning and, who knows, maybe you’d come to like the expensive tea set he also bought you.

Rafe spent a good amount of time just watching you sleep and obsessively thinking about what might he say to you when you awoke. His anxious thoughts didn’t go away when he stopped doing drugs, they worsened in fact, but you were his new medium to focus on. You were healthy for him.

He spent all the time he had between his meeting with Barry, caring for you, “Daddy’s going to take care of you,” He brought you to the bathtub and gently scrubbed you clean, shaving all the areas he preferred to be hairless, even taking the time to braid your hair so that it was out of your face. He quite liked you like this, like his very own doll, someone he could mold into a perfect Kook princess. Women in the real world often perplexed him, especially women like Sarah, who took the luxuries they were provided for granted.

You’d appreciate everything that Rafe could offer you, he knew that, and you’d be obedient as well. He brought you back to the main room once you were dried, and clean and your skin was moisturized and scented with vanilla. He laid you on the soft carpet in front of your bed and dressed you in a white nightgown and then took his time rolling white knee socks up your leg.

He could take his time, pacing himself, as he ran his fingers over every inch of you. He’d been rock hard ever since he undressed you originally, and he debated whether to take a quick sample of you.

You have plenty of time, Rafe, he reminded himself.

His phone vibrated a short while later after he tucked you back into bed, and he clicked the notification. Video of the driveway appeared on the screen, and Rafe saw Barry climbing from his car, “Daddy will be back very soon,” He spoke although you couldn’t hear, placed a kiss on your forehead although you couldn’t feel it, and shut the door quietly although you wouldn’t wake.

As soon as Rafe opened the front door, Barry was already shouting, “Country Club! How you been, man?” Rafe’s hand was already out to shake his. Truthfully, and sadly, Rafe would consider Barry his oldest friend. “You happy about all the money I’ve been making you?”

“Thrilled,” Rafe spoke sarcastically, leading Barry to his father’s old office. He thought back to the days when he had to creep through this room and steal because Ward didn’t trust him. Now, it was all his, “Speaking of …”

Swiftly, Barry pulled a roll of hundred-dollar bills from his pocket and dropped it in Rafe’s hand. Leaning against the oak desk, Rafe began to count, “That’s what I got for the boats. Those cars are going to take a little bit longer to sell.”

“And why’s that?”

“Those cars are classics, man, so I have a little bit of a bidding war going on,” Barry explained.

“I said I wanted them moved quickly,” Rafe sighed. He needed to get rid of as many of his father’s old things as possible if he wanted this place to be really his.

“I’ll get you everything by the end of the week,” Rafe nodded, continuing to flip through the bills, although normally this would be about the time he’d throw a tantrum, “So … heard you got yourself a beautiful girl-”

“Your guys run their mouths.”

“But it’s true?” Barry flashed his gold tooth, “You whipped, Country Club?”

Rafe opened the safe behind the tall bookcases, punched in the code, and safely tucked away the twenty-thousand dollars.

“Don’t worry about it, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near her anyways.”

Barry scoffs, “That breaks my heart, Rafe. I’m tired of these Pogue girls and the mainland chicks are even worse. In the old days, we used to share. You won’t help a brother out?”

Rafe smirked, “Like you said, that was the old days.”

You felt weighed down by whatever you were lying underneath, your eyelids were so heavy it took you a full minute to blink them open. You moved each limb slowly, trying to get blood flowing through them again. You saw sunlight reflecting off porcelain walls and felt creamy soft blankets enveloping you. You should feel comforted.

Pushing away the blankets holding you down, you pulled yourself up, strong enough to get onto your hands and knees. You stepped off the platform, off the bed, touching your toes against soft carpet but quickly your legs gave out. You whined as your knees hit the ground, surely bruising your skin, and let yourself fall back on your bottom.

Something fell down with you and turning your head slightly you found a teddy bear. You grabbed it by its arm, examining its chestnut fur and the pink bow tied around its neck. What? That was the question forming in your mind. You looked back at the bed you’d fallen out of and your eyes darted around the room. Three doors, a wall with big windows and long curtains, a table with chairs, a toy chest, a tall armoire, and a bookcase. This room did not belong to you, even in your wildest dreams, you’d never been somewhere so nice.

You noticed details in the wallpaper; small pink flowers decorated each wall, and white trim lined all the edges. All the furniture was white as well with elegant designs, and your original thought was that you must be in a castle.

You attempted to stand again and managed to get straight up on your wobbling legs until there was a small click, and the door began to open. You quickly stumbled back before you were sitting back on top of the mattress.

“You’ll go with Mr. Cameron now. To America,” Master said, “And you’ll remember your manners, won’t ya? Don’t want to end up like your friend.”

Mr. Cameron stood in front of you now. You remembered him being tall, but you didn’t remember feeling so small in front of him. With hands holding a tray in front of him, his mouth parted as his blue eyes raked over your figure.

You gripped the comforter tightly as he stepped closer, “You’ll have to take it easy,” He said first, walking over to that small table and placing the tray down, “Let me help you.”

When he came towards you, he held out both of his hands. You felt like you usually did, terrified, but there was always a voice in the back of your head telling you to obey. There would be worse pain than a bruised knee if you didn’t do as Mr. Cameron said. You grabbed ahold of his hands, allowing him to help you up before his hands moved to your hips as he steadied you.

“How do you feel?” He asked, a genuineness in his tone that you weren’t expecting.

Your lips parted and you realized you hadn’t spoken in so long. You also hadn’t had anyone ask you that question in a long, long time, “I’m … okay,” You spoke quietly as he searched your face. He was staring so intently that you grew insecure, turning your eyes away.

“I brought breakfast,” He began to guide you over to the table. You took slow steps, one in front of the other, holding onto him tightly when you felt you might fall. He set you gently down in the chair before taking the seat opposite you. You could see out the windows from this seat, your eyes finding a long dock and the ocean. When he cleared his throat, your eyes snapped back to his, “I’m not much of a cook but there’s a lady who works for me …she makes great pancakes, french toast, anything you could want really.”

You stared down at scrambled eggs, sausage, toast, and a pancake with a chocolate chip smiley face and a whipped cream nose. He started to pour you a glass of water, pushing it towards you, “Drink something,” He said, “You’ve been sleeping for a long time.”

You were really thirsty, you realized, and you took the glass he poured for you. When he didn’t pour himself one, a question rose in your mind, “Will this … make me sleep again?”

He immediately shook his head, “No, no. Drink, please.”

You were thankful, welcoming the nourishment. As you devoured the glass of water, he began to cut up the pancake into small pieces. You watched his concentrated face as he meticulously poured the syrup. Your mind didn’t stay on his interesting behavior because you were focused on eating next.

“My name is Rafe,” He said, “But you’ll call me Daddy.”

You paused, your mouth full of pancakes, “Okay? Nod yes if you understand,” He added.

You nodded your head, starting to chew again, and a smile seemed to pull at his lips. That’s what he must like all his girls to call him. “Good, that’s rule number one …This is your room, from now on. I’ll show you around the house after you settle in more. For now, you need permission to leave this room. Yeah?”

Again, you nodded, before swallowing your food. Rafe reached across the table with a napkin, wiping syrup from your chin, “I’m sorry,” You said, feeling embarrassed.

“No need to apologize,” He assured you, “From now on, I’m going to take care of you.”

Take care of you. You weren’t positive about what he meant.

Your hands moved to your lap, “Can I ask … how many girls you take care of?”

His head tilted, and he seemed amused, “Just you, sweet girl.”

“This whole room is just for me?”

“Yes, and this whole house will be just for us,” He answers, “Here, that reminds me. I was going to wait until dinner but . . . I can’t wait.”

You watched as he reached into the pocket of his khaki pants, pulling out a silver necklace with a beautiful, pearl pendant. Still, you found yourself struggling to wrap your head around what was going on. Rafe stood, coming closer in order to put the necklace around your neck. You heard a small click before Rafe pulled his fingers away. Your fingers reach up to feel the pearl, “You’ll always keep this on. Okay?”

You nodded.

“Tell me.”

“I’ll always keep it on … Daddy,” You remembered to add. Something lit up in his eyes, and he took your chin in his hand and tilted it up further.

“Smart girl, Bambi,” He stated, “That’s what I’ll call you.”

You nodded, although you weren’t sure why he picked it for you. It was better than “whore” or “slut” which seemed to be Master’s favorites. Bambi sounded … cute, which certainly wasn’t a way you would describe yourself, “Daddy … why …all of this, uhm, for me?”

“You’ll have everything I want you to have. And Daddy wants the best for you, understand?”

“Y-Yes, uhm … thank you.”

“C’mere, let me give you a tour of the room” He gripped underneath your arms, helping you stand. The human closeness, his warmness, wasn’t something you were expecting. You couldn’t fully let your guard down though, you were still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“It’s good to have, uh, a routine,” Rafe explained, before showing you every item in the room. He clearly had been involved in picking everything out which you didn’t expect, “You’ll wake up by eight, make your bed every morning. . . your dirty laundry will go here and all your clothes are in here, if I have something specific picked out for you to wear, I’ll hang it here, you won’t wear any panties when you’re dressing for bed …and here’s the bathroom,” When you saw yourself in the mirror for the first time, your eyes widened in disbelief. Your hair was neatly braided, white bows wrapped at the end of each braid, and the nightgown made you look like . . . a doll. In the mirror, you could see Rafe lean his mouth down to your ear, “Do you like what you see?”

“I look …I think I look pretty, Daddy.”

“You do, sweet girl; that’s why I chose you.”

This was right. Rafe couldn’t have made a better decision choosing you. He had more rules to introduce you to but didn’t want to overwhelm you. He left you to brush your teeth while he took your tray of food back to the kitchen. When he returned, he found you peeking inside the toy chest, letting the top shut a little too loudly after he seemed to frighten you, ‘It’s okay, all these things are for you. I wasn’t exactly sure what you might like.”

He kneeled down with you as you took a look inside. There were quite a lot of stuffed animals, some puzzles, coloring sets, and some dolls. “My, uh, my sister Sarah, she used to love American Girl dolls. Have you ever heard of those?” You shook your head, picking up one that was dressed like an 80’s aerobic instructor, “They have all types of dolls. I should order you one that looks more like you.”

Rafe noticed you perk up at that. “One that looks like me?”

Your reaction made him chuckle, “Yeah, why not? If you want anything at all, you can just ask me,” Rafe could tell you didn’t believe him, although you still nodded in agreement, “I know you can’t be entertained forever by these things, but it’s better for your brain than watching TV all day. And we can watch movies together.”

“That would be nice-” Rafe leaned in to kiss you, his intrusive thought winning after staring at your lips. Rafe was surprised by how gentle it was and how gentle he still wanted to be with you. You were reacting so well to everything, he didn’t want to take the chance of ruining this. When he pulled away, you immediately started to lift your nightgown, attempting to expose yourself to him.

“You don’t have to do that,” Rafe gently grabbed your hand, pulling it away from your dress.

“I thought you wanted me …”

“ I do, I definitely do,” Rafe laughed awkwardly, “Let’s wait a little while longer. I want to undress you myself.”

You nodded eagerly, “But I … I could use my mouth?”

Rafe couldn’t believe someone could sound so innocent even while they were offering to give a blowjob, “Not before I taste you first, sweet girl.” Sexually, Rafe liked to be in complete control. He’d decide when they were ready, what positions, and who tasted who. His mind was starting to wander a little too far. He needed to remain composed for the time being, “For now, I want you to play. I need to work for a few hours, but I will bring you lunch, and we’ll eat together, okay?”

“Okay…thank you, Daddy,” You agreed, and Rafe happily placed a kiss on your forehead.

“You’re welcome, Bambi.”

Rafe tried to concentrate on work, he had a million things to arrange now that he was back in Figure 8, but his eyes would wander to the live footage on his computer screen from Bambi’s bedroom. She spent a while going through the toys he bought for her, and then she neatly made up the bed, before deciding on the American Girl dolls. Next thing Rafe knew, he was in virtual meeting with his Cameron Development team but was actively scrolling through the American Girl doll website in another tab.

Like he promised, Rafe took a break in the middle of the day to each lunch with you. Lana, Tannyhill’s newest household manager, prepared grilled sandwiches. Rafe joined you by the window seat where you had made yourself comfortable with two of the dolls and your teddy bear. You asked about Figure 8, of course, and Rafe gladly gave you the basics.

That night, after dinner was enjoyed, Rafe laid beside you in bed. You chose a book to read together, a chapter book called Bridge to Terebithia, “I have to admit, I’m not much of a reader. But this should be easy enough, right?”

“When you were little, did you always have …this?” You asked, a few pages of reading later, “Books and clothes and seats by the window.”

“I guess I did, yeah,” Rafe answered, “It was not all rainbows and sunshine, though.”

“Your father, was he like Master?”

“Yeah, basically. He was not a good man,” Rafe closed the book, turning his eyes to you “And he’s not your Master anymore, okay? It’s me and you now. Just me and you.”

You tilted your head, nuzzling more into the pillow, “If I’m bad, you won’t send me back?”

“No, not ever,” Rafe said steadfastly.

“You’ll punish me?”

Your words made him pause, and he could sense your worry, “I’m not going to hurt you, not in any real way,” Rafe’s hands found your waist, he gripped the bare skin beneath your nightgown, before his fingers roamed over your bottom, “You know how to be a good girl, right?”

You nodded, staring back, “Then you have nothing to worry about,” Rafe kissed you again, this time deeply and with the purpose of fully tasting you. He squeezed your bottom tight, pulling your front further against him so he could buck his hips against you. The book fell unread and to the wayside as Rafe roamed his hands over you.

He should wait, he told himself. It was only your first day here, but you were all that he had been waiting for. The idea that he could have you anytime, anywhere, and anyway he wanted you excited him more. A moan escaped you, and Rafe knew you were overwhelmed with the sensations, but he liked the idea of you feeling too much. He wanted fear in your eyes, fear that you wouldn’t be able to take him, and then he wanted you to fully surrender to him.

Rafe buried his face in your neck, kissing and sucking until you cried out. Rafe knew you were a good girl because you had obediently gotten into bed for the night without your panties. He wrapped a strong arm around your back, easily flipping you onto your back. Rafe pulled away, breathing heavily, as he looked down at you.

“You okay, sweet girl?” Rafe asked, noticing your eyes were still closed. As you nodded, Rafe said, “Open your eyes for me.”

Rafe parted your legs further, reaching down to feel between your lips. Gently, he stroked up and down, feeling wetness at your entrance, “Tell Daddy how you like it.”

“I . . .” As he dipped a finger inside, your eyes shut again, squeezing tightly. This was a look of pleasure, Rafe noted, “Daddy-ah!”

“I think you want it gentle, hmm,” His index finger moved in and out slowly as his thumb caressed your clit, “I can be gentle, don’t worry.”

Rafe moved painfully slow, watching how every movement of his would change your facial expression. Once you were squeezing around his fingers and soaking the sheets, Rafe pulled down his sweatpants. He pressed his length against your entrance, watching your face as he pushed inside. You took a breath of air, your mouth forming an “o” shape as he slowly eased his way in and out.

He pressed his body closer to you, your arms instinctively wrapping around his back, and he tucked his head beside yours, his breath caressing your ear. He was gentle like he said, but he had to test your limits and see how deep he could go. Your whimpers told him what he needed to know and he felt your nails begin to dig into his back.

“Daddy, d-daddy, daddy,” You moaned his name, sounding a bit delirious as you repeated it over and over.

Rafe rocked harder against you, “Tell me. Say thank you for saving me Daddy.”

“Thank you–” Your voice came out barely above a whisper but Rafe could hear your small voice in his ear, “Thank you for saving me, Daddy.” Your hips writhing beneath him, needing more of him, was the final thing that sent Rafe flying towards the edge of the cliff.

He wanted to focus, to make himself last longer, but he needed you in that moment. His thrusts became shorter, and he sank deeper inside of you as he reached his peak, “Jesus,” Rafe gasped as you squeezed him tightly, your warmness pulsed around him, “Fuck.”

He resisted his desire to stay inside of you forever, pulling out and slumping beside you. Rafe’s eyes were wide, and he found himself staring at the ceiling for a moment to process what happened.

“Was that . . . good?” Your voice brought him back down to reality.

“Perfect, sweet girl,” Rafe took you in his arms, and you cuddled into his chest. Again, he whispered, “Jesus.”

Please let me know what your thoughts and predictions are! Reblog with a comment to be added to my taglist!

Part 2

#dark fic #rafe x reader #rafe obx #rafe cameron #outer banks #dark!rafe cameron #black!reader #rafe cameron x black!reader #rafe cameron smut #obx fic #outer banks smut #barry outer banks #rafe smut #rafe fanfiction

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novaursa · 6 months ago

Text

Legacy

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: dinner with a lion

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The heat of Harrenhal’s stone walls suffocates you as you sit, bound and chained, in a shadowed cell, distanced from the other prisoners. The silence presses down heavily, disturbed only by the occasional scurry of rats in the corners and the distant, echoing clamor of soldiers outside. They’ve kept you here as a prisoner of value, locked away from the common rabble. No one dared speak your name aloud, but you know what you are to them—a Targaryen, a relic of a world shattered and hunted by Robert’s Rebellion.

Your eyes trace the rough-hewn stones, your thoughts lost in Winterfell's cold embrace, where you’d been a ward, a stranger among wolves yet somehow belonging. Ned Stark's honor had felt like a shield back then, the North your sanctuary. That safety, of course, had long been stripped away. The warmth of winter fires, the laughter of his children, Arya’s giggling fits as she followed you through halls… You press those memories deep, lest they break you here in this hollowed-out fortress of despair.

The iron door creaks open. You don’t lift your head, knowing that if it’s a guard, his words will be as cold as his chainmail. Instead, you hear the soft scuff of small, light footsteps—a child’s, perhaps, or someone pretending to be one.

“Y/N?” The whisper is barely audible, like a breeze skimming across snow. You jerk your head up, blinking to adjust to the light spilling into the cell. A thin figure stands just outside the barred door, cloaked in rags, dark hair wild and tangled around a dirt-smeared face. The eyes, however, are unmistakable—storm-grey, fierce with a fire that the years hadn’t dimmed.

“Arya…” you breathe, hardly believing what you’re seeing.

She glances around quickly, as if expecting someone to appear out of the shadows, then steps closer to the bars, wrapping her hands around them. She is small, thin, but you can feel her strength through the steel.

“They’ve separated you from the others,” she says, her voice low but urgent. “Why?”

A bitter smile tugs at your lips. “They know what I am. Who I am.” You can’t help but reach through the bars, brushing a thumb over her knuckles. “But they don’t know you, it seems.” You pause, studying her. “Why are you dressed like…?”

Her face hardens, though her eyes still shimmer with the relief of seeing you. “I’m Ary. A boy.” She grins a little. “Keeps me safer that way. They don’t look too closely at boys.”

You nod, understanding. Clever girl. Brave girl. Your heart aches at the thought of her wandering through these deadly halls, relying only on wit and stealth. “You shouldn't be here, Arya.”

“Neither should you,” she retorts, voice fierce. “You think I’d just stay hidden, knowing they have you locked up like some...prize?” She gestures toward your chains. “You’re all they talk about.”

The words sting, though you knew what you were to them—what you’d always been in the eyes of those who held power. “Yes, well, they love parading relics of conquest.”

Arya scoffs, glancing down the hall as the clang of footsteps grows closer. She pulls back slightly, but her gaze holds yours. “I’m going to find a way to help you.”

Before you can respond, the guard rounds the corner, a hulking brute who grunts upon seeing Arya standing too close to the bars.

“Oi, boy!” he barks, jabbing a gloved finger toward her. “What’re you loitering around here for? Get along!”

Arya nods quickly, ducking her head. “Sorry, m’lord. Was just looking for scraps.”

The guard snorts, shoving her away with a meaty hand. “Scavenge elsewhere, rat.” His eyes slide back to you, cold and suspicious, before he turns and lumbers away down the hall.

You exhale slowly, your fingers trembling against the rough metal of your chains. In another life, Arya would have been free to roam Winterfell’s hills, a wild little shadow among wolves. And yet, she’s here, risking herself to reach you. As she slips away, she looks back just once, her expression determined, her eyes flashing with a promise.

The hours blur together after that. Servants and guards move past occasionally, sneaking glances but offering no words. No one knows what to do with you; even here, your Targaryen blood marks you as something foreign, an unpredictable fire they’d rather keep contained.

But then, as night falls and the cold sets in, Arya returns, slipping through the shadows. She brings a small hunk of bread and a waterskin, passing them through the bars.

“Eat,” she whispers, watching you with a fierce, protective glint. “You need to keep your strength.”

You take the food gratefully, feeling a spark of warmth. “Thank you,” you murmur, voice low. “How did you…?”

“I’m faster than most of these lumbering fools,” she says, a spark of pride in her tone. “I’ve learned things. I know how to make myself invisible.”

You chuckle softly, the sound echoing in the quiet cell. “You always did have a knack for hiding. Even in Winterfell, you could vanish like a shadow.”

Her face softens, a brief flicker of nostalgia crossing her expression. “Winterfell feels like a lifetime ago.”

“For both of us,” you reply, meeting her gaze, the weight of shared memories hanging heavy between you. “Promise me you’ll be careful, Arya. These people…they won’t think twice about harming you if they suspect anything.”

She nods, her expression fierce. “I’ll be fine. But I’ll come back. I’ll find a way to get you out.”

There’s a fire in her eyes, a determination that reminds you so painfully of her father. And as she slips away into the darkness, leaving you alone once more, you feel a renewed sense of hope—a fragile, flickering ember amidst the cold stone walls of Harrenhal.

The hours drag on, each one marked by the slow drip of water echoing in your cell, but eventually, the familiar rhythm of Harrenhal’s dungeons changes. You feel it before you see it—a shift in the air, the sound of hurried footsteps, the murmur of anxious voices reverberating through the stone walls. The guards move with unusual purpose, stiffening as they march past, casting wary glances at each other.

And then it clicks. A name floats through the muted conversations, spoken in low, reverent tones. Tywin Lannister.

Of course, he would come. Tywin would never leave something—or someone—of value to fate or neglect, and as a Targaryen in Lannister captivity, you are valuable. The realization sends a chill through you; you know what Tywin’s arrival means. After all, this was the man who orchestrated Robert’s Rebellion from the shadows, who ensured your family’s ruin.

Hours pass, leaving you with your thoughts, steeling yourself for the inevitable. It is nearly dusk when you hear his unmistakable footfalls—a measured, deliberate pace, the stride of a man who owns every room he steps into. The door to your cell opens, and there he stands, backlit by the torches in the hallway, his sharp gaze fixed upon you with that calculating intensity that has always defined him.

You rise slowly, the chains at your wrists clinking softly as you meet his gaze, refusing to bow or avert your eyes. He steps forward, and the guard closes the door behind him, leaving just the two of you in the silence of the cell.

"Y/N," he greets, his voice low and steady, as if he were greeting an old friend rather than a prisoner.

"Lord Tywin," you reply, keeping your tone neutral, though a simmering resentment lies beneath it. "I wondered how long it would take you to come see me."

He inclines his head, a barely perceptible acknowledgment. "I was surprised to learn you were here. I'd thought my orders were… clear."

"Well," you reply, voice laced with defiance, "your orders seem to have missed me by a few years and several hundred leagues."

A flicker of something passes over his expression—irritation, perhaps, or simply the mild inconvenience of something not going precisely to his plans. He regards you with that unyielding gaze, assessing, calculating. "You always did possess a certain… rebellious streak."

You lift your chin, meeting his gaze without hesitation. "It was a trait I shared with my family. At least, those who survived."

"Indeed," he says, with a faint curl of distaste. "And yet here you are, once again, a ward of sorts—though not of Winterfell this time." He studies you a moment longer before taking a step back, hands folded behind his back. "I did not expect you to involve yourself in… certain matters."

"I didn’t choose this," you reply, the bitterness plain in your voice. "Do you think I wanted to end up here, in the middle of this war, far from my family?"

Tywin raises an eyebrow. "Family? The very family that plunged the realm into chaos and left nothing but ashes and memories?"

You grit your teeth, the anger simmering within you. "My family fought for what was theirs. They believed in protecting their own."

"Their own." He almost laughs, the sound devoid of warmth. "A convenient justification." He takes a measured step toward you, his voice lowering. "But there are two choices now—obey, or find yourself utterly without power or purpose in this realm. It’s time to accept which path will ensure your survival."

The implication hangs heavy in the air, but you hold your ground. “And what path is that, exactly?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he gestures toward the door with an almost casual wave of his hand. “You will be brought to me, Y/N. The other prisoners here… they are of no value, save for labor. They’ll be put to work.”

You look away, unable to hold his gaze, a knot of resentment building in your chest. You know what this means—that he intends to keep you close, in his grasp, as leverage, as something he can wield. Just another prize in his relentless pursuit of control.

“Then I suppose I don’t have much of a choice,” you say quietly, resigned.

“Choice?” Tywin’s lips twist into a thin smile. “Perhaps not. But survival? That, you do.”

He pauses, his gaze lingering on you, assessing you once more before turning toward the door. Just before he leaves, he speaks again, softer this time, though there’s no warmth in his tone. “There was a time I believed you would find your place at Winterfell. Let’s hope you find it here in Harrenhal, though I doubt it will be as kind.”

With that, he turns, his cloak sweeping behind him, and the door closes. You are left in silence, the chains at your wrists heavier than ever as you stare at the empty doorway, Tywin's words echoing in your mind.

They bring you through the winding stone corridors of Harrenhal, flanked by guards who grip their weapons as though you might suddenly decide to fight. You don’t look at them, choosing instead to lift your chin, steeling yourself for what awaits. Soon, you reach a heavy iron door and are led into the dimly lit council chamber, where Tywin Lannister sits at a rough-hewn table surrounded by maps and documents. His eyes flick up as you enter, cold and unblinking, assessing you as if you were a pawn on one of his battle maps.

"Sit," he commands, gesturing to the chair across from him.

You hesitate, a beat of defiance thrumming in your chest, but there’s little point in resisting now. With a quiet dignity, you take the seat, keeping your posture poised, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you appear weak.

For a moment, he says nothing, his piercing gaze steady as he studies you, hands clasped before him. The silence between you is thick, heavy with the weight of a past neither of you acknowledges directly.

"Have you thought of what your place here will be, Y/N?" His voice is measured, devoid of warmth. “It’s time you learn that your loyalty—whatever remains of it—has a purpose.”

“Is that what you’re hoping to extract from me?” you reply, tone cool, unwilling to betray any weakness. “Loyalty?”

Tywin’s mouth forms a thin line. “I had thought that was something you would recognize. I recall a time when I gave you something very few in Westeros would have considered—a chance. Yet, here you are.”

You raise an eyebrow, the bitterness you’ve tried to suppress bubbling to the surface. “If you’re expecting a thank you, Lord Tywin, for ‘saving my life’ and sending me North, you’ll be disappointed.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches, though his face remains otherwise impassive. “I expect no gratitude. Only an understanding of what is required.” His gaze sharpens, icy and relentless. “The time for grudges and sentiment is over. We are at war, Y/N, and there are no innocents in war.”

You bite back a retort, letting the words settle. Tywin had always been a strategist, a man who saw lives as currency in his endless schemes for power. To him, you were a valuable piece in this game, nothing more.

Before you can respond, there’s a shuffle at the door. A small figure enters, head down, dressed in rags that disguise her almost entirely. You freeze, a flicker of recognition sparking within you. Arya. She’s keeping her head low, her gaze on the floor, playing the part of a servant boy with remarkable precision.

Tywin barely acknowledges her, but you sense the tension rolling off him as he glances briefly at the child. “Good,” he mutters, gesturing for her to approach. “Pour us some wine.”

You catch her eye just for a split second, then force yourself to look away, masking any flicker of recognition that might betray her. Fear coils in your stomach, a sick dread gnawing at you. Arya is so close to him, close enough to be touched by the man whose armies are locked in a brutal struggle against her brother Robb.

She moves with surprising grace, her hands steady as she picks up a pitcher of wine and fills Tywin’s cup first, then yours. You can sense her nervousness—the slight tremor in her hands, the careful restraint in her movements. Every instinct screams for you to shield her, to pull her away from Tywin’s cold gaze, but you force yourself to remain still, trusting in her disguise.l

Tywin raises his goblet, studying you over the rim, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. “You’ve come a long way from the girl I once sent North,” he says, taking a slow sip. “And yet, I wonder if you truly understand the stakes of the game you’re caught in.”

You meet his gaze head-on, a defiant spark igniting in your chest. “Perhaps it’s not the game I care about, Tywin. Perhaps I’ve come to understand that there’s more at stake than power.”

He sets down his goblet, fingers steepling before him, his expression hardening. “That’s where you are mistaken, Y/N. Power is the only thing that matters. It is the only reason you are here, alive, in this moment.” He gestures to the chamber around him, as though the walls themselves bear witness to his authority.

Beside you, Arya keeps her head down, silent as she completes her task, retreating a step as if hoping to melt into the shadows. Yet, despite her best efforts, your gaze drifts to her, a rush of protectiveness coursing through you, though you know it’s a risk. You want to shield her, to keep her far from Tywin’s attention, from his scrutiny. Her fate hangs by a thread, poised perilously close to discovery, and you cannot allow yourself to falter.

Tywin’s gaze sharpens as he notes your momentary glance toward Arya. He doesn’t ask, but there’s an unspoken question in the air as his eyes linger on you, piercing and calculating.

With Arya now lingering in the background, Tywin returns his attention fully to you, his tone softening just enough to sound almost conversational. “Tell me, Y/N, do you believe that loyalty alone will ensure victory? Or will it take more?”

He waits, and you know that beneath his words lies a deeper question—a challenge, a demand for allegiance that you cannot easily give.

You swallow, feeling the weight of Tywin’s question linger in the room like a shadow. He watches you closely, his gaze dissecting every breath, every shift of your expression.

“Loyalty alone doesn’t ensure anything,” you answer finally, your voice carefully neutral. “It’s a weapon, a means to an end, but hardly the end itself.”

He inclines his head slightly, as if acknowledging your answer. “Precisely. Loyalty is useful—necessary, even—but it is not enough to build a legacy.” His tone is cool, distant, almost as if lecturing a pupil. “Power is what matters, Y/N. Power builds kingdoms, reshapes worlds, burns down houses that have stood for centuries.”

The words are exactly what you expected from him: cold, ruthless, and unyielding. Yet, as he continues, there’s an intensity beneath them, a deeper thread of something that you can’t quite name.

“Legacy,” he says, his voice lowering to a murmur. “What we leave behind is all that remains when we are gone. Our names, our accomplishments… these are what endure. Without them, we are dust, forgotten.”

You meet his gaze, holding it with a defiance you can’t quite suppress. “I thought you cared little for anything but victory, Tywin. For all this talk of legacy, I hadn’t pegged you for someone who worried about what others would remember.”

A shadow of a smirk flits across his face. “Perhaps you misunderstand me. I care little for how others perceive me—but I care greatly for what they cannot ignore. For the things that endure, long after I’m gone. It is not enough for House Lannister to survive. It must be unassailable.”

You nod slowly, absorbing his words, though a part of you bristles against his philosophy. He sees people as tools, pawns in his endless game. That’s all you are to him, a valuable piece he can wield to achieve his vision.

But then, he leans forward slightly, his eyes fixed on you with a sudden, burning intensity. “And that is why I’ve decided to take you as my wife.”

The words strike you like a blow, leaving you momentarily stunned, the breath stolen from your lungs. You blink, trying to process what he’s just said, wondering if you’ve misunderstood. But the certainty in his eyes tells you that he means every word.

“Your… wife?” The words come out in a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

“Yes.” His tone is final, unyielding. “This union would serve both of us well. You would be restored to a place of power—protected, in the only way that matters.”

For a moment, you struggle for words, reeling from the unexpected declaration. You’d braced yourself for talk of alliances, of politics, even of Tywin’s usual calculated strategies—but this? This was something you hadn’t anticipated.

“Is that what you think I want?” you manage, forcing your voice to remain steady. “A position, a title, the protection of your name?”

He studies you, expression unchanging. “You may not realize it yet, Y/N, but your value is not solely in your bloodline. You are a weapon that could be sharpened, a tool with the potential to fortify both our legacies.”

Just then, a clatter erupts from the corner of the room as Arya accidentally knocks over a pitcher. The clay shatters, water spilling across the stone floor, jolting you back to reality. Arya’s face blanches, and she drops quickly to her knees, mumbling apologies as she gathers the broken pieces.

Tywin’s gaze flicks to her, his expression hardening. “Be more careful in the future, Ary,” he says, his tone sharp but controlled. “I don’t tolerate carelessness.”

“Yes, m’lord,” Arya replies, her voice low, strained, as she hurriedly cleans up the mess, hands moving with a practiced grace.

Your eyes dart to her for a heartbeat, concern flooding through you despite your best efforts to mask it. You don’t want to give her away, to betray her presence as anything other than a humble servant, but the fear lingers, sharp and gnawing. She’s too close to him, too vulnerable here under his scrutiny. Each moment she spends in this room feels like a risk, a danger you can’t control.

Tywin’s attention returns to you, his piercing gaze heavy with expectation. “As I was saying,” he continues smoothly, as if the interruption had barely registered, “this union would be… advantageous. For you, for me, for both of our houses.”

You take a steadying breath, suppressing the whirlwind of emotions roiling within you. “And what if I refuse?” you ask quietly, testing him, though you already suspect the answer.

Tywin’s expression hardens, his tone cold as steel. “I am not offering you a choice, Y/N. I am informing you of your future. It would be wise to accept it.”

A shiver runs through you, the weight of his words pressing down upon you. Arya continues cleaning in silence, her movements careful, but you feel the tension radiating from her. You force yourself to look away from her, to keep your focus on Tywin, unwilling to risk drawing his attention back to her.

Tywin’s eyes linger on you, cold and calculating, as he gestures to the guards stationed by the door. With a curt nod, he speaks in that same low, commanding tone, his gaze never wavering from yours.

“Escort Lady Y/N to her chambers,” he orders. “See to it that the servants prepare her properly.” He pauses, considering you for a moment, as if appraising your reaction. “She is to be made presentable.”

You feel the urge to rebel against his words, to refuse, to assert the independence he seems so intent on stripping from you. Yet, you know that any defiance here would only play into his hands. Tywin Lannister has you cornered, and he knows it. His intentions are clear—control, alliance, and power, as always. And now, he intends for you to become part of that legacy.

The guards approach, and as they move to escort you, you stand, casting a final glance at Arya. You want to say something, anything to reassure her, to let her know you will look out for her. But you cannot. Not here, not now. Her head remains down, eyes trained on the floor as she finishes cleaning the broken shards of the pitcher, and you feel a pang of fear for her, lodged deep in your chest. You force yourself to look away, to keep your expression neutral as the guards lead you from the room.

As you reach the doorway, Tywin’s voice calls out, halting you momentarily.

“Ary,” he says, turning his sharp gaze upon her, “go to the kitchens and tell them to prepare a dinner for two.”

Arya nods quickly, bowing her head as she mumbles a quick acknowledgment, then scurries out of the room, slipping past you without so much as a glance. You feel a twinge of relief at her quick escape, but the fear doesn’t ease fully as the guards guide you down the halls.

The walk to your chambers feels long and heavy, the walls of Harrenhal closing in around you, a sharp reminder of your captivity. As you near the chambers Tywin has commanded be made “presentable” for you, your mind races, grappling with the implications of his intentions. A marriage—his twisted idea of protection, of binding you to him, as if that could erase the past or reshape your allegiance.

The door to your chambers opens, and the servants immediately set to work, preparing clothes, linens, a bath—all of it designed to fulfill Tywin’s idea of what a “presentable” lady should be. You endure it silently, your mind still reeling from his words, the promise of a future that feels more like a cage.

And somewhere, perhaps in the very kitchens beneath you, Arya is carrying out his orders, a young wolf in disguise, dancing on the edge of discovery.

#game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #asoiaf x reader #house of the dragon #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #got tywin #tywin x reader #tywin lannister #tywin x you #tywin x y/n #house lannister #house targaryen #house stark #legacy

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choslut · 8 months ago

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˖ ࣪ ، ◞ せ⌇ SAY ‘AHH’ featuring wriothesley.

tags : orgasm delay/denial, public sex, cockwarming, dirty talk, edging, slight exhibitionism, possessive behaviour, public groping, slight praise kink // wc. 0.7k

author’s note : i really like this one, esp since im actually saving for wrio (HOYO LET HIM OUT OF THE DUNGEON PLEAAAAASE) i need him bad and my ovaries scream in joy whenever he appears on screen :3 also there's this one voiceline he says in the archon quest that actually has me arching? joe zieja the man you are :(( anyways notes n reblogs are always welcome here, please don't spam (esp w/o a follow), and that's all the admin stuff done, enjoy your read!

this work is NSFW minors and ageless blogs DO NOT INTERACT.

everyone wants to get close to WRIOTHESLEY. he’s the most feared fighter in the fortress of meropide, having won countless pankration matches and being voted most likely to head the fortress more times than even he himself could count.

everyone’s fear and admiration of this man is partially why you think you can feel a million and one pairs of eyes on you as you sit on his lap in the coupon cafeteria, his throbbing cock nestled deep in the confines of your dripping cunt. “baby…”

“keep it down, angel,” he grumbles, shoving a forkful of food into his mouth before offering you a bite of your own meal. “people are gonna get suspicious.”

as if the scene wasn’t suspicious enough anyways! everyone knows of your relationship with wriothesley (it’s a hot topic in the women’s dorms, the fact that you share a room with him), so it isn’t completely irregular to see you sitting in his lap in the cafeteria.

what is completely irregular and may raise suspicion is the fact that as you sit on his lap, wriothesley’s length is slowly but discreetly pumping into your stretched out cunt, it’s engorged tip nudging against your g-spot with every movement. it’s intoxicating, but he told you that you can’t make a single noise, and just sit pretty until he’s finished eating.

he also told you that you can’t cum either, and that if you do, he’ll have no problem fucking you out in the open for everyone else to see how much of a slut his girl is.

“hnnn, wrio…” muffled moans are directed into the crook of his neck and you bite down gently on his skin. it’s not helping that every time you make a noise a little too loud for his liking, he moves his hips upwards that little bit more, pressing his tip harder onto your g-spot. as a result, you can’t hold yourself back, leading to a cruel cycle of wriothesley’s brutal edging and your pitiful compliance.

“almost done, baby, see?” he points to the nearly empty metal container before lifting a forkful of food to your mouth. “open up now, doll. say ahhh.”

“ahh–ah!” his hips thrust upwards and your eyes roll lewdly into the back of your head as your tongue lolls out onto your bottom lip. a couple of heads turn but you manage to cover it up by burying your head into his chest.

wriothesley has to restrain himself from bursting out with laughter. you’re trying so hard to be good for him that it’s becoming a struggle, and watching you try to stop yourself from giving in and fucking yourself on him like he knows you want to is providing him with ample entertainment. you’re such a good girl, sitting pretty and letting him spoonfeed you your pleasure by edging you in broad daylight.

“what’d i say about being quiet, doll?” his voice is a low whisper in your ear, one hand slipping under your skirt and squeezing your ass harshly. “ ‘s almost like you want to get caught.” he starts to speed up his slow grinding, hands sliding up to your waist as he starts to move you back and forth.

“god, you want it bad, huh?” he feels your teeth brush his neck. “my girl can’t even wait ‘til we got back to the dorms, shit.” you try to gyrate your hips discreetly, your pussy aching to feel him against your sweet spot again. “let up a lil’ bit, sweetheart, you’re squeezin’ too tight.”

“can’t,” you whimper, nails digging into his biceps. “ ‘s too big.”

“remember what i told you? no cummin’ until i’m done.” he shoves another forkful of his food into his mouth. “and if you don’t mind yourself, i won’t let you cum at all.”

“no, nooo..” your voice fades into a pitiful whine as you stop moving, desperate to please your boyfriend. “wanna be good for you, wrio, wanna be your good girl…”

“i know, baby, i know, but you’re gonna have to wait.” he gestures to the rest of the cafeteria, and the open space surrounding it. “can’t let them see how pretty you look when you cum. that’s f’me only.”

he tugs your hair gently, pulling your heated face out of his neck before tapping your bottom lip with a forkful of food. “open up, honey. we’re almost done.”

PREVIOUS : BLACKOUT ft. tartaglia NEXT : BITE ME ft. miguel o’hara

liked that? check out the WE’RE SO BACK main masterlist.

#genshin impact #wriothesley #wriothesley genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #wriothesely x reader #genshin impact smut #wriothesely smut

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shiorihyugawrites · 2 months ago

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Red Regrets

Twelve years ago, Levi Ackerman made the hardest decision of his life—he left behind the only woman he ever loved, believing it was for her own good. But fate is cruel, and when a fiery redheaded boy with a familiar scowl crosses his path, Levi is forced to confront the past he abandoned. The truth he never knew. And the woman whose heart he shattered. (Levi x OC)

Chapter One

A/N: This story begins directly after Season 2 and before Season 3 begins.

Levi rolled onto his side, finally allowing his body a moment’s rest. For once, the barracks in the old Scouts’ HQ were quiet, and the tension of the last few weeks seemed to have eased—if only just a bit. The clash with Reiner and Bertholdt had left bruises and fractures behind, but he was lucky to have recovered from the ankle injury he sustained fighting the Female Titan. The others were scattered around the fortress, either lost in their own thoughts or drifting in a restless sleep. Moonlight trickled in through the high windows, casting elongated shadows across the worn floorboards. Levi, easing into a rare moment of calm, allowed himself a long exhale.

In the dim hush, his consciousness began to waver. His eyes slipped shut, and he surrendered to the pull of sleep. He rarely had dreams—often, they were swallowed up by nightmares of Titan battles, of watchers devoured by monstrosities. But tonight, something else awaited him entirely, reaching out from the deepest corner of his mind…

In that stirring darkness, shapes formed an old memory of the Underground City, tinted with a child’s vantage point and brimming with emotions he had long tried to bury.

He found himself standing in a dingy alley, age eleven, small but already hardened by life’s harshness. The air was damp, the stench of mildew and unwashed bodies all around, the stifling closeness of the underground labyrinth pressing in on him. Flickering lanterns lined the walls, giving the narrow passageway a sickly, orange glow. He was used to these labyrinthine passages. In fact, he knew every corner, every walkway, every hideout. However, something felt different that day—an unease crackled in the air. He could sense it in the pit of his stomach before he even saw her.

He peered around a bend in the alley, only to find a young girl—a year younger than he was—cornered by a small gang of older boys. She looked fragile at first glance, but something fierce flashed in her wide gold eyes, as though she was too stubborn to cower. Her rose-red hair fell in wild curls around her face, framing features that even in that dim alley stood out like a beacon. She wore tattered clothes that had likely seen better days, but Levi could already tell she carried herself differently. She wasn’t the usual pickpocket or petty thief that roamed the Underground. She looked like she didn’t belong in that place at all.

“C’mon,” the biggest of the boys sneered, leaning in toward her, “let’s see that pretty face of yours.” He reached out for her hair, intending to yank her to him.

She slapped his hand away, spitting a furious, “Don’t touch me!” Her voice trembled, not purely from fear, but from anger. “I’m warning you.”

The boy just laughed, the sound echoing against the stone walls. “You’re warning me? You’re just an orphan girl. Nobody’s coming to save you.”

Levi’s grip on the corner of the alley tightened. His heart pounded, not only from the usual rush of potential confrontation, but from an unfamiliar spark he felt at the sight of her. He had never seen a girl so…striking. Even half-starved and clearly exhausted, something about her presence was radiant. She looked alone, cornered, and furious. Levi clicked his tongue.

“Oi,” he said, stepping into the alley. His voice, still a child’s, carried enough ice to make them pause. “You want to back off?”

The group of boys turned sharply, startled. The leader sneered. “Who the hell are you?”

“None of your business,” Levi shot back, stepping closer. He sized them up, noting the trembling fists and the uncertain glances they exchanged. He had a small stature, but the Underground already knew rumors of a strange child whose fists and speed had been making people think twice before crossing him. “I’ll only tell you once. Leave her alone.”

The biggest boy let out a short bark of laughter before charging forward. In a flash, Levi dropped low, dodging the lunging fist, then slammed his elbow hard into the attacker’s ribs. The boy doubled over. Another swung at Levi’s head. Levi twisted sideways, swept the attacker’s leg, and sent him crashing onto the filthy ground with a dull thud. Within seconds, two of them were groaning, trying to scramble away from this small demon of a kid who moved with effortless speed. The remaining few took one look at Levi’s steeled expression and decided they wanted none of it. They ran off, leaving their two injured comrades behind.

Levi stood there, breathing lightly from the short scuffle, and looked at the fallen boys. “Scram. Don’t let me catch you messing around here again.” The two crawled away, muttering curses under their breath.

A hush fell over the alley. He turned to the girl, who stood pinned to the wall. She was trembling, not entirely from fear, but with leftover adrenaline. She stared at him through those golden eyes, her lips parted in shock. He took a step toward her, trying not to scare her, though that emotion was foreign to him. He had rarely cared about scaring anyone. But something about this girl made him…cautious.

“You alright?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

She nodded, brushing dust from her ragged clothes. “I…thank you,” she mumbled, hesitating as though she wasn’t used to leaning on anyone. “I’m Penelope.” She glanced away, fiddling with a loose thread at the hem of her worn shirt. “I…lost my parents. I don’t really have anywhere to go. Been sleeping in corners and…yeah.” She tried to keep her voice steady, but Levi could feel the tremor beneath her words.

Levi pressed his lips together. “Name’s Levi,” he said simply. He looked her over again, noticing the bruises on her arms and the exhaustion in her posture. “You hungry?”

She blinked, the question catching her off guard. “Yeah…pretty hungry.”

For a moment, an awkward hush settled between them. Levi wasn’t one to show compassion freely, especially to strangers, but this was different. He sighed and motioned for her to follow him. “Come on. I know a place we can get something to eat if you don’t mind bread that’s a little stale.” He paused and then added in a low voice, “And if you stay close, I can watch your back. Next time those punks see you, they might try again.”

She followed him without hesitation, a subtle warmth glowing in her eyes.

That day, a bond began to form. Even though the Underground was a grim labyrinth of fear and desperation, Penelope’s presence seemed to shine a small light into Levi’s world.

The dream shifted, like a memory skipping forward…

Images of Levi teaching Penelope how to defend herself blurred together with glimpses of her carefully bandaging scrapes on his arms after a bloody brawl. He heard echoes of his own voice, rarely gentle, but firm: “You have to punch like you mean it.”

Then he’d feel her soft hands, methodical and sure as she cleaned a wound on his cheek.

He saw flashes of them huddled together under makeshift blankets in a cramped corner of a run-down building, sharing a stolen loaf of bread.

Suddenly, the memory sharpened again. Levi was still young, maybe fourteen, sitting in a dimly lit back room that served as a hideout for his growing circle of allies. His fist was closed around a piece of paper—some worthless agreement that had to do with territory in the Underground. He was swiftly rising in power. King of the Underground was a tall claim for a scrawny teenager, but people had begun to fear him and fear was currency. Yet his eyes weren’t on the paper. They were on Penelope, who stood across the room, her red hair spilling over her shoulders as she looked at him with gentle worry.

“You really going through with this?” she asked, voice breaking slightly. “You’re making more enemies than you can handle.”

Levi let out a quiet “tsk.” “I can handle them.” He paused, then softened his tone in a rare moment of frankness. “Better I make enemies now than have them come looking for you. If I control the Underground, nobody’s going to lay a finger on you, Pen.”

She stepped closer, that determined spark in her gold eyes. “I’m not a fragile thing you need to protect every second.”

“Sure you’re not,” he replied, but the subtle concern in his gaze revealed a deeper truth. She’d always be a target. He refused to allow that. “It’s just how it is.”

The dream twisted again. He saw the moment he first confessed his feelings. He was fifteen, she was fourteen, and his heart nearly hammered out of his chest, even though outwardly he tried to remain stoic. Standing in a cramped corridor, he had glowered at her with a mixture of nerves and pride. “I’m… in love with you,” he said, forcing the words out. “So you’re stuck with me now.”

She had laughed, a bright, melodious sound that bounced off the walls. “You’re a bossy idiot, but I love you too,” she replied, cheeks flushed.

His chest had felt warmer than any furnace. Pride, satisfaction, and a rare contentment swept over him in that single moment. The memory softened into more fleeting images: heated kisses stolen in dark corners, Penelope’s laughter, the way her hair felt when he ran his fingers through it, the sleepless nights they shared, some days in quiet conversation, others in sweet comfort.

Then, like every dream, reality began creeping in. The memory turned colder, as if touched by an arctic wind. It was the night he decided to leave with the Scouts. He had argued with her at first. She had demanded to know why he was leaving her, why he was risking everything. He’d spat out cruel words, words that burned him even as he spoke them. He told her she was too clingy, that she’d only hold him back. He had seen her golden eyes fill with tears, heartbreak overshadowing her usual fiery resolve. It was the last sight he had of her before he turned his back, determined that she’d have a safer life in the surface world. It was the last time he’d see her in person, though news of her brilliance traveled quickly.

In the dream, the recollection ended in a swirl of sorrow and regret. The glow of her final tear-filled gaze turned the dream into blackness.

Levi’s eyes snapped open. His body jerked upright, pulling him away from the blanket. His breath was quick, and a thin film of sweat covered his brow. The old HQ was still quiet, and it took a moment for him to recall where he was. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stared up at the ceiling. Outside, the first hints of early dawn were beginning to color the sky with a muted gray. He cleared his throat, feeling an ache in his chest that he rarely let himself acknowledge.

It had been years since he abandoned her. Pen. He hadn’t seen her since. Word reached him that she had excelled in medical studies, that she’d been recognized by Wall Sina’s highest authorities. A brilliant mind. He had always known that would happen. She was destined for more than the Underground. He picked up his canteen from a small wooden table nearby and took a long gulp of water, trying to steady his thoughts. The swirl of emotions that dream had dredged up was threatening to overwhelm him.

He pictured her face again—her red hair, her gold eyes, the way her lips curved into that fearless grin. He imagined her now, older, wearing that doctor’s coat he’d heard she always sported. He remembered how her presence alone lit up a room, how men seemed to trip over themselves at the sight of her. He wondered if she still had that short fuse, that fiery personality that frequently brought out both a grin and an exasperated sigh in him. He also remembered the way her fists could pack a punch if she got mad enough.

“Yeah,” he muttered to himself. “She’d probably kill me on sight.” A humorless huff escaped his mouth at the thought. She was passionate in everything she did—laughing, loving, and definitely fighting. She could hold her own, and that memory always filled him with a quiet pride.

He sighed, capping his canteen and setting it aside. Part of him wished he could see her again, if only to see how she’d grown, how she carried herself. Another part of him knew he had no right to disrupt her life. She had established a place of respect and security in Wall Sina. The chance of him dying on any given mission was high, and he didn’t want to drag her back into that pit of uncertainty and fear. Or, at least, that was how he had always justified his decisions. He told himself it was better for her to live a normal, stable life. She deserved that much after everything she’d been through.

A distant commotion in the hallway told him that the others were stirring. Likely, they were gearing up for whatever orders would come next from Erwin or trying to rouse Eren for an early morning training session. Levi considered lying back down, but he knew he wouldn’t find sleep again, not after the memory of her face had been so vividly etched into his mind. He ran a hand through his hair, fighting off the urge to slip into old regrets.

At last, he rose from his makeshift bed and began pulling on his boots. He steeled himself with an exhale, reminding himself that he had a duty—to Humanity, to the Scouts, to the future beyond these walls. Pen was safe in Wall Sina, living out what he prayed was a better life. Though he felt a pang of longing, or perhaps guilt, gnawing at his chest, he forced it to the back of his mind with practiced ease. He had to be the soldier, humanity’s strongest, the man who put his own desires aside in favor of duty.

Still, even as he made his way to the door, the memory of that brilliant, red-haired girl lingered. The Underground was far behind him, yet that place and that girl continued to shape who he was. She had once been his brightest spot in the darkness. And, though he would never say it aloud, a sliver of him still hoped that she was happy, even if she cursed his name for all the bitterness he had left in her heart.

He cleared his throat again, stepping out into the corridor. Whatever the day brought, he would face it with the same unwavering determination. But somewhere in the back of his mind, he’d carry the reminder of that dream—of a fierce, bright-eyed orphan girl who once stole his heart in a lonely alley beneath the world.

…

Later on that day, the evening sun glinted off the worn cobblestone streets of Wall Rose as Levi, Erwin, and Hange made their way through the bustling main avenue. Dust motes swirled in the warm light, and the air was charged with the everyday rhythm of merchants hawking their wares, soldiers passing by on errands, and townsfolk going about their routines.

Despite the war with the Titans looming on everyone’s minds, life still tried to forge ahead within the walls. Levi walked slightly ahead of the other two, his posture ever-straight, scanning every nook and cranny out of habit. Erwin strode calmly beside him, towering over the shorter man, while Hange lingered at Erwin’s other side, eyes wandering in fascination at the hustle and bustle around them.

They were en route to a small garrison outpost, a routine visit to coordinate resources for the Scouts. Erwin wanted to ensure their supply lines remained stable. Hange was tagging along, half out of curiosity and half to glean any interesting bits of information about local Titan-related rumors. They walked in relative silence, each lost in their thoughts, until a sudden uproar echoed from a nearby side street.

A sharp, angry cry cut through the ordinary din of the crowd. Over the heads of passersby, there was a flurry of movement—an altercation was unfolding. Levi, as always, was the first to react. His sharp gray eyes darted toward the commotion, and he angled his body in that direction without a word. Erwin and Hange quickly followed suit, pushing gently through clusters of onlookers.

When they reached the scene, a ring of townspeople had formed around the fight. At its center, a shock of bright rose-red hair caught Levi’s attention. A kid—no more than eleven or twelve—was ferociously grappling with four other boys, each of whom seemed older, taller, and heftier than him. Yet the red-headed boy was holding his own with startling ease. In fact, from what Levi could see, the kid was winning. Again and again, he threw calculated, powerful punches and deft sidesteps, all with a fierce snarl on his face. His movements were swift and surprisingly precise, betraying a skill that didn’t match his small frame.

Hange gasped softly. “That kid… he’s wiping the floor with them,” she said, her tone wavering between surprise and fascination.

Erwin furrowed his brow, carefully observing. “He’s well-trained. Either someone taught him how to fight, or he’s been picking this up on the streets.”

Levi’s eyes narrowed, zeroing in on the color of the boy’s hair: a rose-red hue so distinct it sent a ripple of unease through his chest. It reminded him of someone he used to know… a woman whose memory still haunted his dreams. Penelope.

But how could that be?

He reminded himself to stay focused on the present. For all he knew, there could be a whole family somewhere with a similar hair color. Yet, an odd tension built in his gut.

Meanwhile, the kid growled, landing a solid strike on one of his bigger opponents, sending the taller boy staggering. The child’s stance, his fists clenched, his expression… something about that ferocity tugged at Levi’s mind. A part of him saw traces of himself in that furious look. But he shoved aside the thought. Right now, the important thing was to prevent a serious injury.

Erwin placed a firm hand on Levi’s shoulder. “We should break this up before the situation gets out of hand.”

Levi gave a short nod and stepped forward. At the moment, the red-headed kid had pinned one of the older boys to the ground and was about to unleash another blow. “Oi,” Levi barked, voice cutting through the clamor. “Stop it, brat.”

His words caused the kid to freeze, albeit briefly. The boy’s eyes flicked toward Levi—sharp, full of resentment, and so startlingly intense for a child. Slowly, he let go of the boy he’d pinned, who scrambled backward, coughing. But the kid did not stand down. Instead, he rose to his feet, tense as a spring, fists still curled.

“I said, enough,” Levi repeated, stepping closer, holding the kid’s gaze without blinking.

Suddenly, the boy lunged at Levi, swinging his fist in a wild arc. The surrounding onlookers gasped. Erwin’s eyes widened, while Hange practically jolted in surprise, exclaiming, “He’s attacking Levi!?”

Levi sidestepped with practiced ease, quick as a shadow, and seized the boy’s wrist in a fluid motion. He twisted the child’s arm behind his back and pressed him down, keeping his own movements controlled to avoid seriously hurting the kid. He’d subdued grown criminals this way back in the Underground, so a child presented almost no challenge. Still, he was mindful not to break anything.

“Calm down,” Levi said in a low voice, forcing the boy’s face toward the ground. “You’re picking a fight you can’t win.”

The boy thrashed, gritting his teeth. “Get off me!” he spat, voice seething with hatred. He tried to kick backward, but Levi shifted his weight, making escape impossible.

“You’re quite a handful,” Erwin said, stepping closer, his deep voice surprisingly gentle. “We’d like to talk, if you’ll allow it. Can you tell us your name?”

“Go to hell,” the kid snapped, then spat at Erwin’s feet, his eyes flashing with defiance.

Hange let out a low whistle. “You’ve got some nerve, kid.” She leaned over, squinting at the scowling face.

Erwin maintained his composure, though an undercurrent of tension passed through him. “Young man,” he began again, voice calm but unyielding, “this is dangerous behavior. If you’re having trouble, we can help. But you need to cooperate.”

“Like I need the help of a bunch of worthless soldiers,” the boy snarled, his tone dripping scorn.

Levi clicked his tongue and twisted the boy’s arm just enough to make him freeze. “Watch your mouth, brat. You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to throw you in a cell for assaulting soldiers.”

The kid’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, it seemed like he might break. But then that fierce glint returned, and he clenched his jaw. “My name… it’s Preston.” The words came out as more of a hiss than an introduction. “Now let go of me.”

Erwin exchanged a glance with Hange, who looked equally intrigued. Erwin cleared his throat and asked, “Where are your parents? Why are you fighting out here on the streets instead of being in school?”

Preston spat again, narrowly missing Levi’s boots this time. “None of your business.”

“Tch,” Levi muttered, pressing down a bit harder. “You realize you’re in no position to argue, right?”

Preston winced but refused to show fear. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

The four older boys who had been on the receiving end of Preston’s beating were now stumbling to their feet. They looked from Levi to Erwin to Hange, clearly recognizing the uniforms of the Survey Corps. A few of them muttered apologies and scurried away from the scene, rubbing bruises and casting fearful glances over their shoulders. One, braver than the rest, or maybe just more foolish, pointed accusingly at Preston. “He started it, sirs,” the boy said in a shaky voice. “He was buying a knife, and when we told him that was dangerous and tried to take it—”

“Liar!” Preston barked. “You tried to steal it from me!”

Levi’s eyes narrowed. “A knife? At your age?”

Preston’s expression was mutinous. “Mind your own business,” he repeated.

Erwin offered a small nod to the older boy, effectively dismissing him. The group took that as their cue to leave, quickly dragging their feet in retreat. Once they had disappeared around the corner, the crowd that had gathered also began dispersing, though quite a few lingered at a distance, curious. The trio of Scouts stood around the subdued child.

Hange stepped closer, leaning in to examine the knife handle peeking out from inside the boy’s coat. She carefully pulled it free and studied it, her eyebrows lifting in surprise at the good-quality steel. “How’d a schoolboy like you manage to get the money for something like this?” she asked, her tone more gentle than Levi’s. “Where do you go to school anyway?”

Preston, his arm still pinned, remained stubbornly silent. Hange held the knife, her expression turning inquisitive. “Looks new. So you just bought this, right?”

Levi, meanwhile, felt a tension growing with every passing second. This boy… Preston… The mention of the red hair, the attitude, the fighting skill—it all coiled in Levi’s gut like a warning. He tried to keep his voice calm as he said, “Answer the question. Why’re you carrying this around?”

Finally, Preston bit out a bitter explanation. “Because I wanted it, alright? People like you always tell us to be safe, but you never protect us. I don’t need anybody else defending me. I can do it on my own.”

Levi studied the boy’s face. Up close, he could see the faint freckles across his nose, the angry flush in his cheeks, and those grey eyes brimming with defiance. An almost unnerving sense of familiarity prickled the back of Levi’s mind, though he couldn’t place it precisely. He released a slow breath and eased his grip on the boy’s arm. “Listen, you’re a kid, so I’m giving you a chance. But you can’t just go around swinging knives in these streets.”

Preston’s lip curled. “Let me go.”

Erwin, who had been watching carefully, stepped forward. “Preston,” he asked, voice even. “We only want to ensure you’re safe. If you are in some sort of trouble, we can help.”

The boy’s eyes flickered with barely contained fury. “I’m not telling you anything. You soldiers think you know everything, but you don’t know a damn thing about me.” The hostility in his tone was unmistakable.

Levi slowly unpinned him, but he kept a hand on the boy’s shoulder as a warning. “Kid, you don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

At that, Hange gave Preston a small grin, though it was tinged with exasperation. “This short soldier you just tried to fight? That’s Captain Levi, Humanity’s Strongest.” She expected to see awe or at least respect flash across the boy’s features, but instead, Preston rolled his eyes.

“I don’t give two shits who he is,” the kid scoffed. “He’s not my boss, and he’s not that impressive.”

Hange nearly choked on a laugh, while Erwin blinked at the sheer gall. Levi, on the other hand, remained perfectly still, though a vein in his forehead seemed close to popping. “You’re a mouthy brat,” he said in a clipped tone. “And maybe you need a lesson in manners.”

“Maybe you need a lesson in not picking on kids, Captain Levi,” Preston retorted.

Levi released an impatient sigh. His tolerance was wearing thin, but something kept him from taking a harsher approach. Perhaps it was the rawness of the boy’s anger, or the uncanny pang of recognition that wouldn’t leave Levi’s mind. Instead of snapping back with cruelty, he looked up at Erwin and shook his head. “He’s not going to talk, at least not here.”

Erwin nodded, thinking quickly. “We can’t force him to come with us if he hasn’t technically broken a law beyond this street brawl,” he said quietly, though his gaze drifted to the knife Hange still held. “But he’s carrying a weapon, and he did try to assault soldiers. That’s enough reason to bring him in for questioning.”

Preston tensed, his features darkening in alarm. “You can’t just haul me away! I haven’t done anything wrong except defend what’s mine.”

Levi looked at him, a cool calm settling on his face. “You fought four older kids and pulled a knife on them. You attacked me. That’s more than enough reason for me to bring you in.”

Preston glanced around, as though weighing escape routes. But he must have realized it was pointless—Levi’s reflexes were far beyond anything he could match. He ground his teeth. “If I get arrested, my mom’s gonna kill me,” he muttered under his breath, sounding more like a frustrated child than a hardened delinquent.

A flicker of interest crossed Erwin’s face. “Your mother?”

Preston clammed up immediately, pressing his lips together. Levi felt his stomach churn at that single word. The mental image of a certain red-haired woman flashed across his mind. Could it really be…?

Hange touched Erwin’s arm lightly. “Commander, maybe we should handle this more discreetly. If we keep standing here, the tension isn’t going to help. We’re drawing a crowd, and it’s not exactly the best look for the Scouts to be grappling with a child in the open.”

Erwin looked around, noticing the stares of bystanders. Some onlookers watched in sympathy for the boy; others showed uneasy distrust toward the uniformed soldiers. Erwin nodded gravely. “Agreed. Let’s move.”

Levi grabbed Preston by the collar with a strong but measured grip. “You’re coming with us. We’ll talk somewhere quieter.”

“You can’t do this,” Preston hissed, feet digging into the ground. He cast a frantic look back to the main street as if expecting someone to appear. But no one came.

Levi leaned in, speaking quietly, “Watch me, kid.” He steered the boy forward, ignoring the string of curses that fell from Preston’s mouth. Erwin and Hange flanked them, making sure the child had no avenue of escape. Together, they guided him down the street, away from the prying eyes of the crowd.

As they walked, Levi’s thoughts raced. The kid’s attitude alone was enough to remind him of Penelope—she had always been fiercely independent, never backing down from a fight. And that hair, that vibrant shade of red… it was almost too much of a coincidence. Levi felt an involuntary clench in his chest. An echo of old memories threatened to surface. He had no concrete proof, of course, that this brat was connected to her. But the suspicion nagged at him.

Twelve years ago, he had left Penelope behind, forcing himself to crush whatever hopes and dreams they’d shared in the Underground. He had done it for her own good, or so he had told himself. But there had always been a sting of regret gnawing at him in quiet moments. Now, seeing this boy with rose-red hair and an unmistakable fiery temperament, Levi felt a swirl of unease that he couldn’t entirely articulate.

Hange, walking at his side, caught Levi’s eye and gave him a meaningful look. She seemed to sense his tension, though she said nothing. Erwin’s calm composure never wavered, but Levi could tell from the hard line of the Commander’s jaw that he was also deep in thought. He remembered that Erwin had once been involved in securing Penelope’s citizenship above ground, paying for her schooling as a part of the deal he made with Levi in exchange for him joining the Scouts. The memory was hazy, but it came back now with alarming clarity.

Preston continued to resist each tug and push, practically vibrating with anger, but he had run out of words. Every once in a while, he shot Levi a murderous glare, only to be met with Levi’s unflinching, impassive stare. In a whispered voice that only Levi caught, the kid seethed, “I won’t talk. You can’t make me.”

Levi’s grip on the boy’s collar tightened slightly. “We’ll see about that.”

They headed toward a quieter side street, not entirely sure how this confrontation would unfold, but each step fueled by the silent question burning in Levi’s mind: Was this child simply a random brat from Wall Sina, or was there a deeper connection that threatened to upend everything he thought he had sacrificed so long ago?

The tension in the air was nearly palpable, and Levi couldn’t help but feel as though each stride brought him closer to an inescapable truth—one that he wasn’t certain he was ready to face.

Levi tightened his hold on Preston’s collar, leading the boy down the narrower back streets of Wall Rose. At first, Preston’s anger still blazed in the set of his jaw, and he clawed at Levi’s grip with a hot scowl on his face. But as they continued walking, the child’s struggles began to subside. His eyes darted around as if he were scanning for an escape route, but it was soon clear he realized that resistance was futile. Instead, his expression shifted from brash defiance to something bordering on worry.

He glanced up at Levi, then quickly averted his gaze, muttering under his breath, “Hurry up and let me go, please.”

Levi’s brows drew together. The slight waver in the kid’s voice made it apparent he wasn’t scared of the soldiers. There was something else going on. “Why the sudden change in attitude?” Levi asked, though the question came out sounding more like a challenge than a genuine inquiry.

Preston exhaled, glancing at the ground. “If my mom finds out about this… I’m as good as dead.”

Hange, trailing slightly behind, leaned forward, curiosity lighting up her eyes. “Oh? And why is that?” she asked, sounding genuinely intrigued by the boy’s worry.

Preston’s lips pressed into a line for a long moment. Finally, he gave a resigned sigh. “Because she’s crazy!” he blurted, shaking his head as if he could barely believe he was saying it aloud. “She’s gonna kill me if she finds out I skipped school. And then she’ll kill me again for fighting in the streets.”

Erwin, who had been walking beside them with measured strides, traded a significant look with Levi. He could sense the boy’s fear was real. “Who is she?” the Commander asked quietly. “And why are you skipping school to buy a weapon in the first place?”

Preston shrugged, then tried to twist away from Levi’s grip. “I told you I’m not telling you anything else!”

Levi’s fingers clenched just enough to keep the kid in place. “You’re better off cooperating.” He paused, realizing the boy might respond to a more direct question. “Where is your mother right now?”

Preston opened his mouth to snap back but stopped. “She’s at work,” he eventually mumbled. “She’s a doctor,” he added, looking miserable. “A real big-shot doctor who thinks she can tell me what to do every second of the day.”

The moment Preston uttered the word doctor, Erwin and Levi froze in unison. They exchanged another glance, their suspicions swiftly solidifying into certainty. Hange, noticing their abrupt reaction, tilted her head. “A doctor, you say? In Wall Sina?” she asked, glancing between Erwin and Levi with growing confusion. “You two look like you just saw a ghost.”

Before Levi could even form a coherent response, a sharp clacking of heels echoed behind them in the alley. The sound bounced off the stone walls, purposeful and brisk. Levi recognized that particular cadence of footsteps all too well—though he hadn’t heard it in years.

He turned first, and there she was, striding toward them with startling poise.

Dr. Penelope Iverson.

Her waist-length, rose-red hair cascaded in loose curls over her shoulders, and her fitted clothes showed the same bold style he remembered from the Underground—though now refined by wealth and status. A white doctor’s coat was draped over her arm, and she looked every inch the successful professional. Yet it was her face that struck Levi like a blow to the chest: the fierce gold eyes, the wide mouth pressed into a determined line, the two deep dimples that betrayed her when her expression shifted.

Levi’s heart pounded in his ears. She was older, yes, but time had only added to her presence. The memory of that bright-eyed, feisty teenager in the Underground collided with the reality of this accomplished, breathtaking woman before him. His grip on Preston’s collar loosened, almost unconsciously.

Penelope stormed closer, her heels punctuating every step. A smoldering fury flickered across her features as she took in the sight of her son subdued by three uniformed Scouts. Then her gaze locked on Levi, and time seemed to stand still.

For one brief, silent moment, they simply stared at each other. Levi’s lips parted, but no words came out. Images spun through his mind in a chaotic rush—her tearful face the night he left, the savage guilt he’d carried ever since, the memory of dreaming about her just the night before. He swallowed, unsure how to navigate the storm of regret that threatened to overwhelm him.

Penelope’s lips trembled as she recalled the last time she’d laid eyes on him, along with the cruel words that had ended everything between them. She remembered how he had told her to move on, that she was better off without him, that she was nothing but a distraction. And she remembered how, two weeks later, she realized she was pregnant.

She took a shaky breath and looked from Levi to Preston, who was now trying to edge behind Levi in apparent terror of her wrath. When she fixed her gaze again on Levi, tears threatened behind that fiery glare, but her anger remained front and center.

In a flash, she reached out and slapped Levi hard across the cheek.

The sharp crack echoed through the alley. Hange’s hands flew to her mouth, her eyes going round. Erwin, usually so composed, looked momentarily rattled, as though caught off guard by the raw force of the blow. Meanwhile, Preston peered out from behind Levi, wide-eyed and thoroughly vindicated in his claim that his mother was, indeed, crazy.

Levi stood rigid, head tilted slightly from the impact, but he made no move to retaliate. His cheek stung, but the pain felt dull compared to the tumult of emotions swirling in his chest. For an instant, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her, so instead he stared down at the cobblestones.

Penelope’s voice trembled with barely contained rage. “You have some nerve, Levi.” She said his name as if it were a curse, and her hand was still poised in front of her, palm tingling from the slap. “After all these years… do you even—” Her breath hitched. “Never mind.”

She turned her attention to her son, her eyes narrowing. “And you,” she said, stepping around Levi to face Preston. “You are skipping school again!? I had to hear about you fighting in the streets from one of my patients.”

Preston had the good sense to look ashamed, though he tried to mask it with annoyance. “Mom, I—”

“Don’t Mom me right now,” Penelope snapped, crossing her arms. “You and I are going to have a very long talk when we get home.”

Preston swallowed hard, then looked around, almost as though searching for an ally. Hange, clearly baffled, stared from Penelope to Levi, then back to Erwin. “Is… is someone going to fill me in on what is happening?” Hange asked, clearly not used to being out of the loop.

Erwin cleared his throat, stepping into the tense silence. “Dr. Iverson,” he said, addressing Penelope respectfully, “it has been a long time. I’m not sure if you remember me from when we—”

Penelope cut him off with an abrupt wave of her hand. “I remember you, Commander Erwin,” she said, though her tone was still laced with anger. “I appreciate what you did all those years ago to help me secure a place in Wall Sina. My medical education wouldn’t have been possible otherwise. But right now, I need to know why the hell you have my son in custody.”

Erwin inclined his head, acknowledging her right to be furious. “We spotted him fighting with four other boys,” he explained. “He assaulted them quite brutally, then tried to attack Captain Levi when we intervened.”

Penelope shot Preston a fierce glare. “Attacking a soldier? Are you out of your mind?” But her next glance flickered over to Levi, and the weight of old resentment flashed in her eyes. “Although I can’t entirely blame you,” she muttered under her breath, her lips curling into a bitter smirk.

Preston shifted uncomfortably. “They were trying to steal from me,” he mumbled. “I just… I had to fight back.”

Penelope exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to her forehead. “We’ll deal with the whys later,” she said, shaking her head. “For now, you’re coming home.” She turned back to Levi, the fury in her gaze not entirely cooled. “Let him go. I don’t want you touching him anymore.”

Levi, still reeling from both the slap and her sudden appearance, relaxed his hold on Preston’s collar. The kid edged away, eyes darting between his mother and the short soldier who’d manhandled him. The silence that followed was thick with tension, memories unspoken, and a swirl of questions.

Hange coughed discreetly. “I’m guessing you two… know each other,” she said, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly.

Levi stepped back, keeping his gaze on Penelope. For a moment, he felt the familiar urge to clamp down on every emotion swirling inside him, show no vulnerability, remain the stoic Captain. But everything about this situation was too raw, too personal to ignore. “Yes, we… had history,” he said quietly, voice catching on the last word.

Penelope’s gaze flickered to him. For a split second, the harsh anger softened, replaced by a deep hurt. Then she straightened her spine, forcing her composure back into place. “We certainly did,” she said, her voice low with bitterness.

Erwin, sensing the personal nature of the conversation, discreetly signaled to Hange that they should give Levi and Penelope a moment. Hange nodded, though she was clearly itching to ask a hundred questions. “We’ll be just around the corner if you need anything,” Erwin said. “There’s a small courtyard nearby. We should move away from the public eye.”

Penelope gave a terse nod. “Fine. Let’s not make a scene.”

With that unsteady truce, they began walking, though the tension remained palpable. Penelope’s eyes never left Levi, and each step seemed fraught with the past. Meanwhile, Preston dragged his feet behind them, hands jammed into his pockets, glaring at everything and everyone as though he resented being the center of this sudden storm.

They reached the courtyard Erwin had mentioned, a quiet space with a modest fountain and a few benches. The sun had climbed higher, illuminating patches of greenery that lined the walls. The thick hush continued as they gathered there. For a moment, no one spoke. Erwin and Hange stayed at a polite distance while Levi stood facing Penelope, searching for the right words but finding none.

Penelope refused to look away, her jaw set. “So,” she said at last, her tone icy. “You’re still alive.”

Levi exhaled, choosing to absorb that pointed remark rather than rebut it. “You look well,” he managed, though his voice was taut with tension. “I… heard you became a doctor.”

Her lips twisted in a half-sarcastic smile. “Yes, thanks to you walking out on me, I had all the motivation in the world to pour my soul into studying.” She shook her head. “You never wrote. Never came to see me. You left me in the dark. Did you think I wouldn’t survive without you?”

Levi’s chest tightened. He couldn’t look her in the eye. “I thought I was doing the right thing,” he finally said, though the words sounded hollow even to him. “I wanted you safe. Away from… everything.”

Penelope’s anger flared again, but before she could unleash the storm of words that likely burned on her tongue, Preston spoke up, voice quavering, “Mom… can we just go now?”

She shot her son a withering look, though her anger wasn’t directed at him so much as at the entire situation. “We’re going,” she affirmed. Then she turned back to Levi one last time. Her gaze pinned him in place. “Don’t ever touch my son again.”

With that, she took Preston by the arm and began to lead him away. He followed, half sulking, half relieved to be out of Levi’s grasp. Erwin started to call after them, perhaps out of concern that further explanation was needed, but Levi lifted a hand, signaling the Commander to let them go.

Penelope strode off across the courtyard, her red curls swaying with each purposeful step, Preston in tow. The sight of them together was almost surreal to Levi—mother and child, a life that had clearly gone on without him. He stood there, jaw clenched, unable to shake the image of her furious eyes or the faint tremor he’d felt in her hand when she slapped him.

Hange finally broke the silence that stretched too long. “Well,” she said softly, “that was… eventful.”

Erwin regarded Levi with a solemn expression. “We need to talk later, when you’re ready,” he said, placing a firm hand on Levi’s shoulder. “But for now, let’s give them space.”

Levi nodded slowly, his mind elsewhere. His cheek still throbbed, but the bruise forming there was nothing compared to the raw ache in his chest. He stared after Penelope and Preston until they disappeared, lost in the crowd and the afternoon sun, wondering if this was the start of a reckoning he’d spent over a decade trying to avoid.

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karuuhnia · 4 months ago

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TF2 Chapter 7 - Karuuhnia's analysis

Christmas came early for the TF2 fandom this year, didn't it? (Well, it really came 7 years LATE if we're completely honest lol)

It was an emotional rollercoaster and had a happy, wholesome ending and conclusion for both the mercs and for us. Several mysteries from the past comics were resolved.

And you know me: I love to overthink and overanalyze every bit of lore and story that I can get my fingers on lmao

So here's my essay:

A) Solved mysteries

1. What the Administrator was planning

It turns out: There WAS no evil plan of world domination or whatever. Just pure hatred for a man who ruined her life - apparently. It's been so long she doesn't even remember the reason. But the thought of revenge was enough to fuel her every life choice.

And to think, it all could have ended in the 1850s already - if it weren't for smart-ass Gray Mann and his narcissistic tendencies to brag about his knowledge and plans. (How he himself figured this out is never explained.)

He was the one who introduced the Administrator to Australium in the first place, around 1850ish. If he hadn't told her that it could bring people back from the dead and prolong life, the senseless Gravel War would have ended with Blutarch's and Redmond's natural deaths.

Well, on the other hand we must be glad that the conflict didn't go on even longer.

Since Dell stated that none of his family members ever went into the room where Zepheniah was kept, the Administrator must have build all of that herself, right? That would certainly explain why it looks so crude and consumes so much Australium. I mean, look at this construction and then compare it to the one Dell built:

The Mark 5 machine gave her ~6 months of life for just a tiny flask of Australium. Imagine what would have happened if one of the Conaghers had improved Zeph's machine as well! She could have kept the zombiefied corpse in a living nightmare for many centuries more instead of burning through tons and tons of Australium so quickly. Good thing it didn't come to that.

2. Who helped the Administrator

Well, we didn't get a clear answer, but I think it's safe to conclude now that it was the Administrator's elite merc teams A-E that obtained all the Australium during the 6 months Miss Pauling and the TF2 team went off the grid. Which only further proves that the Administrator did not really care for Pauling at all and only came to her and her "team of rejects" as a last resort, after everything else had failed.

It's really heartbreaking how much Pauling admired her and wanted to be her trusted second-in-command while the Admin apparently never even invited her to the secret HQ. Nobody there even KNEW of Team Fortress after all. It was such a relief to see Pauling let go in the end and choose a free life instead.

3. Scout's second chance

Well, not really a mystery here, but I really like how Scout had an epiphany that there were other girls out there that would like him as he was and moved on from Miss Pauling. There was no heartbreak, no animosity, no rejection. They are still friends and support each other! I love it!

And then Scout even saved all of humanity by having sex with several women so that God wouldn't have to destroy the world! What a great, selfless guy he is!

I really love Spy and Scout after the time skip. No more bickering, no more annoyance, no more mean comments, just kindness. Spy is also so sweet to his grandchildren! ADSGFSDAF

I hope they all remain in contact and on good terms. Because let's not forget: Scout's health isn't good and he even has a confirmed death date. Which is only 8 years into the future of 1979.

All of his orphaned children would still be minors at that point. When it comes to that I hope Spy and Scout's Ma can take care of their grandchildren.

4. What Charles Darling and Maggie were planning

Darling stated he wanted to obtain Australium in order to make his rare animals immortal and in return he would get Saxton's company back.

The way Maggie always reacted to Saxton led me to believe she knew Darling was planning something ELSE and she felt bad for not telling Saxton and having to betray him in the end:

But turns out, I probably just misinterpreted Maggie's facial expressions. She looked so sad because she loved going on adventures with Saxton again and just hated the thought that he'd go back to Mann Co. afterwards.

I'm very happy that in the end Saxton let go of the company and spent the rest of his days punching wild animals with his true love! (Although he might have started a war again, now between Reddy and Bidwell lol)

B) Unsolved and new mysteries

However, as much as I loved the last chapter, I feel there are still a lot of things that were never cleared up or adequately explained.

So after re-reading every single comic and update page these are some other things I still find inconclusive:

1. Olivia Mann's mother

Not really that important to be fair, but still: Is she really the biological daughter of the 150 old mummy Gray Mann? If so, who is the poor woman who… mated with him and where is she now?

Or was Olivia adopted, abducted or grown in a lab? Well, at least she gets to live a happy and free life now and is provided for by the dad who stepped up. Good on you, Saxton!

2. Darling's knowledge

Back to Darling real quick: Why DID Maggie start working for her nemesis?

HOW did Charles Darling learn about Australium's properties and the Administrator's history?

There is also the fact that the Mann triplets' mother was a Darling!

These things were never brought up again! Whyyyyyyyy?????

3. What was all the set-up with the TFC mercs about?

The TFC mercs made several ominous remarks that made us believe there was more to them:

Both Virgil and Greg were trying to say something interesting, but then got cut off before the revelation. And especially TFC Heavy talked about dying as if it was an immediate danger to all of them. Sure, they were old, but they were still going strong, being able to kill all of the Admin's elite teams after all.

4. Fred's destiny (and identity?)

In Chapter 6 Spy disguised as Fred, trying to trick Virgil. After being found out, the two had this conversation:

Spy managed to impersonate Fred really well apparently. That means he must have studied Fred's personality, mannerisms and way of speaking before he went to Virgil. That also means he must have spent quite a while talking to and studying Fred. Did he and Sniper capture and interrogate him? But more importantly: What happened afterwards? Tbh, they probably just killed him off-screen after learning what they needed.

Because I no longer believe that Fred was Dell's father, as much as that sucks. It would have made for a great plot point and possible conflict within the team.

But Fred obviously had no idea about anything related to Australium or the immortality machines.

Since later on in Chapter 7 Dell says that neither his grandfather, his father nor he himself ever set foot in that basement, we can conclude that they all knew that the Administrator was hiding something nefarious down there. Which also means they WORKED for her and thus must have also worked on her immortality machine. So it makes no sense that Fred would not know anything about that if he really were Dell's father.

That still leaves us with the question: Why was young Fred in the photo with child Dell? Or WAS this guy even Fred?

I mean, a lot can happen in 40ish years between those two pictures:

But my new headcanon now is: These two are not the same person. TFC Medic had to replaced by our beloved Dr. Herbert Ludwig (still not over that name btw lmao), so who says the original TFC Engie wasn't replaced too at one point? TFC Heavy was very obviously worried about his friends dying one after the other.

Virgil said he knew Fred since before the war. So maybe after Dell's father died/left the team, Virgil told TFC Heavy about his old comrade Fred who also happened to be an Engineer. And only then Fred became part of TFC.

But as I said, that's just my headcanon. In reality it's probably just an inconsistency over the many years of convoluted lore. lol

5. Soldier's cave, covered in Australium

In A Cold Day in Hell Soldier and Zhanna have the following conversation:

First it's a stink-barn, then he claims to be homeless. But in Chapter 7 Heavy suddenly says that Soldier lives in a cave.

And it turns out there is tons of Australium in that cave! Now of course I wonder: When did Soldier move into that cave and where is it located? We were always told that Australium only exists in Australia. But I highly doubt this American patriot owns a cave in Australia. Also, how is it possible that the Admin and the elite mercs never managed to find this cave? Did they just not bother to look in America because all known Australium is in Australia?

So in return, does that mean that Australium is NOT exclusive to Australia after all? If so, there could still be hidden caches of the stuff anywhere on Earth. At least the Admin and Gray Mann are no longer around to collect it and Miss Pauling does not look for it anymore either. The only one who still has an interest in it is Charles Darling. Him again...

6. Soldier with the photo of the Mann family

Quick reminder: This is the only version of the family photo we'd seen up until this point:

But when Soldier and Merasmus are held by the mafia and the wizard asks him why he needed so much money, Soldier pulls out an intact, unteared photograph of the Mann family!!!

His thumb conveniently covers up the still unknown person standing in the middle. How did Soldier obtain this photo? How does he even know who everyone is, considering he's, well, Soldier?

Could he have any relations to the unknown person in the middle? And why DOES he need so much money (granted, it was only like 20 $ in the end, but still lol)?

Am I just overthinking this? Has anyone an explanation??? Is he and if yes, HOW is Soldier connected to the frigging Mann family??????

*cough* Anyway. This concludes my analysis of the TF2 lore. For now. If I come up with more things or if Valve ever decides to continue the story (That was a joke, haha, fat chance), I will come back to this. In the meantime, thank you for reading this and please feel free to share your own ideas and opinions! I'd love to read all of it! ❤️

#tf2 #team fortress 2 #tf2 chapter 7 #tf2 comic spoilers #karuuhnia writes

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 29 days ago

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Allow me to request Yu trying to make small talk with Trien during his office hours. The prefect doesn't know much about Trien, but they see a picture of Trien's daughters and decide to ask how his family is doing.

Cue Trien (and Lucius) gushing about his daughters.

A Storied Past.

The framed photograph immediately caught your attention. Trein was imposing, like a palace with towering turrets and a stone wall surrounding it. He kept his desk tidy and free of personal belongings—save for the picture of two young girls. One redhead, one brunette, both in impressively voluminous gowns, grinning from ear to ear.

"Are those your daughters?" you asked, the question slipping out before you could leash it back in.

Trein's eyes flicked up from the essay he was reading. Lucius, who had been napping (and serving as a faithful paperweight) in one corner of his master's desk, opened one eye, his ears perking up.

"Ah, yes. That would be my Anna and Dolly. They may appear as children in the photograph, but they've both since grown up into fine young women and left the nest."

"Meow, mrrrow mrow!" Lucius added excitedly.

Your curiosity continued its roll, like a snowball collecting bulk as it rolled down a hill. "How are they doing? I remember you said they keep in touch."

He seemed to straighten in his chair, expression filling with joy and light. Now he was less a fortress and more like a fireplace, warm and inviting. "Anna married a baker. In our last call, she mentioned a new cake recipe she was working on with her husband. As for Dolly, she currently serves as a governess. Her employer's estate recently hired two scullery maids and Dolly has expressed that it has been difficult training them to meet her standards..."

"Miao meow miao!!"

"Quite right, Lucius. If anyone can whip the new hires into shape, it's Dolly. She's as fierce as fire, that girl--and there's nothing Anna cannot accomplish if she puts her mind to it. She intends on that cake to be feline-friendly so that even you can safely enjoy it."

You chuckled to yourself. "It's great that you're still so close-knit, even if you're not living under the same roof anymore. You must've raised your daughters well, Professor!"

"I--well..." Trein cleared his throat, chasing off the faint pink rising to his withered cheeks. "Excuse me for the breach of professionalism. You're here during my office hours to discuss how to improve your Magic History grade, not your instructor's personal life."

"Aww, but can't we do both? I wanna hear more about your daughters!!"

"Certainly not."

#disney twst #disney twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland #Reader #self insert #Lucius #Mozus Trein #sing sweet nightingale #twst interactions #twisted wonderland interactions

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decagondice · 6 months ago

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༓ EXPERIENCE SHAPES PERCEPTION ༓

༓ 'If lies can save a man once, truth can save him twice.' [The Arabian Nights: Tales of 1001 Nights]

༓ Pairing. Trueform!Sukuna x Bride!Reader

༓ Synopsis. Every night, a fresh girl is forcefully taken away from her loved ones per the King's orders, betrothed for a few hours as his wife, and at dawn, an extravagant silk bind is tied around her throat. Unable to tolerate the unjust wrath of the sovereign and promise to do any means necessary to survive in order to put an end to the King's torment, you offer yourself to the King of Curses as his unfortunate bride.

༓ Content. 1001 Nights inspired, sfw, F!Reader, Slightly reluctant reader, KingofCurses/Trueform!Sukuna, Slightly ooc Sukuna, angst (?), fluff (?), Sacrificial reader who eventually finds the good in Sukuna, Slightly depressed Sukuna, Emotional distress, Lonliness, Resentment, Mentions of death, Talks of violence (brief), Hurt, Conflict of feelings, Not proofread.

༓ Word Count. 8.8k

༓ A.N. I randomly had a vision of a 1001 nights au of Sukuna and reader last night and its been my mission since to bring that to life since then :P But, I was torn between making this fic 18+, however I think I just wanted to portray Sukuna's lack of love and life filled with rejection in a different format first. (When reading the fic, you will soon realise how much the last few chapters of the manga had an effect on me...) Hmm~ I might consider making and exploring a short snippet of a smut scene in this au, though not yet. This is my first ever piece of writing that I mustered up the confidence to present the world with, thank you for tuning in and please enjoy! :D

[Drawn to resemble the classic Arabian tales, 1001 Nights, narrating the story of Scheherazade's sacrifice to the resentful Caliph, captivating him with a story every night to preserve her life and end the wrathful reign once and for all. Artwork by Léon Carré, part of his collection of illustrations for 'The Book of One Thousand and One Nights', 1929]

The King’s palace was a labyrinth of shadows and whispered fears, a fortress carved from malice and crowned with disquietude. In the heart of it, past echoing halls filled with ancient curses and dread, lay his private bedchambers- a sanctuary draped in silks and shadows. The air was thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh as the flickering glow of oil lamps casting a dim, golden light that danced lazily on the walls. Heavy curtains draped from the high ceiling, their rich fabric falling like cascading shadows around the room, veiling the room in an otherworldly haze, as though even the air itself hesitated to settle too close to the King of Curses. Sheer veils billowed softly in the breeze that slipped through the open windows, creating a veil of secrecy, a cocoon of intimacy where the outside world seemed to disappear.

You stood before Sukuna, your hands trembling despite your efforts to still them, your gaze fixed on the dark patterns of the floor rather than meeting those eyes that burned with cruel amusement. You had come here not out of ambition or desire but out of duty—an act of desperation to save the other innocent girls from this fate, to shield them from being torn away from their families and cast into a life of terror at the hands of a monster.

You had heard the tales of Sukuna long before you ever set foot in his palace. His name was a curse whispered in the darkest corners of the village, a warning to children who strayed too far into the shadows. He was the King of Curses, a monster draped in human skin, infamous for his cruelty and insatiable thirst for power. But beneath the layers of horror and bloodshed, there were also whispers of another kind—a story buried in the dust of forgotten tongues, one that spoke of a man who had once been cast out, unloved, and rejected by the world that shaped him into the monster he is today. You knew of the loneliness that had festered within him, the pain of being feared and loathed for reasons beyond his control. And though a part of you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of sympathy for that tragedy, you couldn’t afford to indulge it. How could you feel pity for the very beast who was tearing innocent girls from their homes, who was crushing lives beneath his wrath without a trace of remorse? The same hands that once reached out in vain for love were now stained with the blood of those who had never done him harm. He was a monster by his own making, and even the darkest past could not excuse the cruelty that now defined him.

Sukuna sat reclined on the edge of a low, opulent bed, his form barely illuminated by the oil lamps that sputtered and hissed in their brass holders. He doesn't rise to acknowledge you; instead, he tilts his head slightly, a mocking smile playing at the corners of his mouth, as though your presence is nothing more than an amusing diversion in his endless reign of bloodshed. The silken sheets beneath him were the colour of deep wine, their surface catching the light in a way that seemed to make the room pulse with a dark, muted glow. His eyes, twin embers of malice and something unreadable, tracked your every movement as you entered the chamber, the heavy drapes closing behind you with a shiver of finality.

“Tell me,” Sukuna drawled, his voice as sharp and unyielding as the blade he might have pressed to your throat, “What makes you think you’re any different from the others who came before you? What hope do you have of surviving me?”

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to meet his gaze despite the terror that gripped your chest. Those crimson eyes stared back at you, full of cruel delight, as if he found your defiance entertaining in its futility. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, reminding yourself of the faces of the girls you were trying to save, the way their fear had mirrored your own.

“I have volunteered to become your bride,” you said, forcing your voice to steady as you met his eyes. “Not because I believe I am stronger or braver than the others—but because I couldn’t stand to see another innocent torn from their family. I thought that if I could offer myself, it might be enough to end this cycle of suffering.”

Sukuna’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of amusement and disdain. “You think of yourself as a saviour of some sort?” he asked, the mockery in his voice cutting deep. “Do you believe your pathetic sacrifice will sate my thirst for destruction? The world is built on suffering, and I am its rightful king. Do you think yourself capable of changing the fate that awaits you? That your life is worth so much that I would spare the rest for the sake of your trembling courage?”

He leaned forward from where he sat on the edge of the bed, his posture relaxed yet predatory, the movement causing the heavy silk drapes to sway, turning the chamber into a shifting sea of light and darkness.

“You are nothing but another lamb brought to the slaughter by trembling hands.” He leans forward, chin propped on one hand, his fingers tapping the side of his jaw as he eyes you like a predator watching a mouse dance on its hind legs. “Do you truly not know that you stand in the den of a beast who devours without mercy?”

His words cut deep, but you refused to let them break you. You had to survive this, for their sake, and for your own. As his gaze bore into you, suffocating in its intensity, you did the only thing you could think of—something born of sheer desperation.

“I stand before you, knowing well the beast I face. And yet, I do not come to plead for mercy.” Your voice is steady but soft, like a whispered plea against the storm. “I come to offer you something else— a story each night. I will give you a story unlike any you have ever heard, if you’ll listen. In exchange, you spare me for as long as I can hold your interest."

The words spill from your lips in a rush as you try to barter with him suddenly.

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his lips twitching into a smirk that spoke of both curiosity and disdain. “A story?” he repeated, as if the idea were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “You offer me tales to stave off your death? How utterly quaint. You think words will stay my hand when I tire of you?”

“If they do not, then I will be no worse off than I am now,” you said, meeting his gaze with a defiant glint in your eyes. “But if they do… perhaps I can buy a little more time. Perhaps, in my words, you will find a reason to let me live another day.”

He pauses before speaking again.

“You are a fool to think you could charm a monster with your petty tales, Human.”

His voice drips with scepticism, but you notice the faintest twitch of intrigue in his gaze. It’s a small opening, an aperture in his indomitable armour.

“I don’t believe I can charm a monster,” Your voice unwavering, the words carefully pour out from your mouth. “But, I believe that even a monster seeks a distraction from the loneliness of his throne.”

For the briefest moment, his eyes narrow, something cold and bitter flickering in their depths—a buried wound reopened, a memory of rejection. He hides it quickly, but not before you catch the flicker of vulnerability that you know is your only chance.

His eyes stared at your form, and you could feel his gaze like a physical force, pressing down on you, testing your resolve. Then, slowly, he leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face, though it never touched the cold, glittering malice in his eyes.

You took a breath, your heartbeat thundering in your chest, and said, “I don’t know if I can change anything. But if it means buying a little more time—if it means sparing just one more life—I’ll do whatever it takes.”

He laughed, a sound low and dark that echoed through the chamber like a promise of doom. But there was something in his eyes—something almost curious, as though he were intrigued by your defiance, by the way you held your ground when so many before you had already fallen. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze never leaving yours.

“Then let us see how long your courage lasts,” he said. “Tell me a story, if you dare. Spin your tales and try to keep my interest, little lamb, and know that the moment I tire of you, your life will be forfeit.”

And so, night after night, you returned to that chamber, your voice threading through the darkness like a lifeline, weaving tales of sorrow and hope, of longing and loss. At first, Sukuna listened as if you were merely a distraction, something to toy with until his boredom gave way to cruelty. But as the nights stretched on, something between you began to shift, something so subtle and unspoken that it almost seemed like a trick of the light.

You noticed the way his eyes softened ever so slightly when he watched you, how they no longer held the same cold indifference. There were moments, fleeting but undeniable, when his gaze would linger on your face, following the movements of your lips as you spoke, as if he were more captivated by you than by the story itself. And when he thought you weren’t looking, his expression would change, growing almost thoughtful, almost gentle, as though your words were stirring something in him that he had long since buried.

One night, as you spoke of a warrior who fought not for glory but for the love he could never fully grasp, you saw Sukuna’s jaw tighten, the barest flicker of something raw passing across his face. It was a crack in his mask, a moment of vulnerability that seemed to take even him by surprise. He shifted, turning slightly away as if to hide the turmoil in his eyes, but you could still see the shadow of pain that lingered there, the ghost of something he would never voice.

“The warrior,” you continued, your own voice softening as you ventured into the story’s heart, “he fought because he knew that love, even unreturned, was the only thing that could ever make him feel human. It was the only thing that could make the darkness inside him seem like something less than a curse.”

Sukuna’s fingers twitched slightly where they rested on his knee, his gaze dropping to the floor as though your words had struck deeper than he wished to admit. He let out a slow breath, the sound almost like a growl, as if he were fighting a battle within himself, as if your story had hit too close to the truth of his own guarded soul.

“I told you to amuse me,” he said, his voice rougher now, laced with something almost vulnerable beneath the bravado. “Not to speak to me of things you don’t understand. Love is nothing but a weapon, a lie dressed in silk. Do you think you can wound me with your pretty tales?”

You hesitated, your heart aching at the hardness in his voice, the bitterness that seemed to bleed through his words. “I don’t wish to wound you,” you said softly, meeting his gaze with a steadiness that surprised even you. “I only wish to show you that not everything has to end in darkness. That there is more to this life than the hate and loneliness you’ve known.”

For a moment, he said nothing, his eyes locked on yours, and in that silence, something unspoken passed between you—a fragile thread of understanding, a bond that was as much resistance as it was connection. His hand reached out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing against yours with a touch that was hesitant, almost reluctant. It was as if he didn’t quite know how to bridge the gap between cruelty and tenderness, how to reconcile the monster he had become with the man who still longed to believe in something beyond his own darkness.

When he pulled his hand back, his eyes lingered on yours, softer now, searching your face as if he were seeing you for the first time. And in that look, you saw the flicker of a man who was more than just a monster, a man who was trying, against all his instincts, to understand the strange, delicate thing growing between you.

And though neither of you spoke of it, though the words remained locked behind walls of pride and fear, you knew that something had shifted irrevocably in those moments. The King of Curses, who had once seemed untouchable, unmovable, was beginning to unravel beneath your touch. His gaze, so often filled with fire and malice, now held something softer when it turned your way—something almost like admiration, like a reluctant longing that he could neither deny nor accept.

Blossoming feelings, subtle and unspoken, budding like a flower in the cracks of a stone wall. Fragile, tentative, both of you too proud, too fearful to admit its existence. But it was there, in the way his eyes softened when they met yours, in the way his defences fell just a little more with each night that you shared. A flicker of light in the darkness, a promise that even monsters could yearn for more than the abyss.

༓ ༓ ༓

The nights continued in that hidden, veiled sanctuary, where the scent of incense lingered and the golden glow of the oil lamps painted soft halos around your figures. You could feel the shifting of something unnamed, a tenuous thread that connected you to Sukuna, something deeper than the stories you spun to save your life. There was a pull, a force between you that neither could fully grasp or resist—a slow, inexorable gravity drawing you closer, even as you both tried to pretend it wasn’t there.

Your tales had become a nightly ritual, the words flowing from your lips like a spell, weaving through the stillness of the room. And Sukuna—this terrible creature of wrath and solitude—listened to them, not as a predator listening to the last words of his prey, but as a man who seemed to find solace in your voice. His gaze, once filled with nothing but cruel amusement and hunger, now seemed to soften in the dim light, tracing the lines of your face as if memorising the shape of every emotion that flickered across it.

There were times when he would reach out, almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing the edge of your sleeve or lingering near your own hand. The touch was light, so brief that it could have been mistaken for nothing more than the movement of air, but you felt it all the same—each contact sparking something within you, a rush of warmth that you couldn’t quite name or deny. He’d pull back just as quickly, as if startled by his own actions, a frown creasing his brow like he was punishing himself for that momentary slip of vulnerability.

Despite his silent reprimands, you began to notice the changes in him. The way his sharp words seemed to lose their edge when he spoke to you, the way his anger—so fierce, so all-consuming—seemed to hesitate when it came to you. There were moments when you’d catch him watching you with a look that bordered on wonder, like you were a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve, or perhaps a memory he longed to reclaim. His eyes, once like cold embers burning in their sockets, now held a trace of warmth when they met yours, a softness that seemed to take even him by surprise.

Yet, even with these changes, there was still a wall between you—thick, immovable, built from years of pain and rage that neither of you could dismantle in a single breath. Sukuna would often turn his gaze away just when you thought he might open up, a shuttered look crossing his face, as if terrified by his own emotions. He was a man at war with himself, torn between the beast he had become and the fragile humanity you were slowly unearthing within him.

One evening, after a particularly harrowing tale of two lovers separated by fate, you noticed a shadow flicker across his face—a hint of sorrow that made your chest ache. You paused, your voice faltering slightly, and for a heartbeat, the silence between you was alive with all the things left unsaid.

“What is it about these stories that you think will change me?” he asked, his voice rough, almost bitter, as he met your gaze head-on. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that he tried to mask with his usual disdain, but it was there—a crack in the armour he wore so tightly around his heart. “Do you think words can heal what the world has done to me? Do you think your voice can mend what was broken long before you were born?”

“I don’t know,” you replied, your own voice barely a whisper, the honesty raw between you. “I don’t know if I can heal you, Sukuna. I don’t know if I can change the darkness that you carry. But I do know that I see something in you—a part of you that still remembers what it means to feel, to long for something beyond this anger and vengeance.”

He stared at you, his expression caught somewhere between a sneer and something softer, something almost like pain. “You see what you want to see,” he said, but the words lacked their usual venom, trailing off into the quiet of the room. For a moment, he looked at you not as a king of curses, not as a monster, but as a man—just a man, vulnerable and lost, standing on the precipice of something he could neither name nor understand.

And then, slowly, hesitantly, as if fighting every instinct that told him to turn away, Sukuna reached out. His fingers grazed the side of your face, a touch so light it was almost a question—a silent plea for something he didn’t know how to ask for. You held still, your breath caught in your throat, afraid that even the slightest movement would shatter this fragile moment between you.

“Your stories,” he said at last, his voice so quiet it was barely a murmur, “they make me remember… things I thought I had buried.” His thumb traced a line down your cheek, his touch both tender and hesitant, as though he were afraid of the warmth he might find there. “You’re like a flame in this darkness, something I want to reach for, even though I know I have no right to. Even though I could snuff it out with my own hands.”

You turned your face slightly into his touch, your heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope, the vulnerability between you stretching taut like a thread that could either bind you together or snap in two. “And yet, you don’t,” you whispered. “You could end this now, and you don’t. Why?”

He said nothing, but his eyes told you everything. They spoke of the battle raging within him—the struggle between the curse he had become and the man who was trying, against all odds, to remember what it was like to be something else. To be someone else. Someone who could care. Someone who could love.

Sukuna’s hand dropped back to his side, his expression hardening once more, though the softness in his eyes didn’t entirely fade. “This changes nothing,” he said, though the conviction in his voice wavered. “I am still what I am. Don’t mistake my interest for kindness.”

But you saw it there—the tiny crack in his defences, the fragile tendril of something more that had begun to grow between the two of you. It was subtle, almost invisible, like a seed taking root in the dark soil of a barren landscape, and yet it was there. And in the quiet of his bedchamber, with the flickering light casting long shadows across his face, you knew that you were not the only one who felt its pull.

For in his touch, in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t watching, in the way his words softened when they were meant to wound—you saw the beginnings of something tender and reluctant. The monster within him was still very much alive, still sharp-edged and dangerous, but for the first time, there was something else as well. A flicker of a man who was learning, despite himself, to care for the flame he had found in the darkness.

༓ ༓ ༓

The days bled into nights, and each night that you survived seemed to blur the line between captor and captive, between monster and storyteller. Sukuna’s bedchamber had become your stage, a place where you wove tales to pacify the beast that loomed over you, but also where something unspoken began to pulse between you—a slow-burning warmth that defied the cold cruelty of his presence. The more you spoke, the more your stories reached into the corners of his soul, unearthing the fragments of the man he tried so hard to bury. And in those moments of listening, the mask he wore seemed to slip, just enough to reveal the man beneath the monster.

You found yourself watching him when you thought he wasn’t looking, your gaze lingering on the curve of his lips, the intensity of his eyes, and the way his sharp features softened in the glow of the oil lamps. There was a beauty to him, hidden beneath the menace—a kind of tragic elegance that you could almost reach out and touch. He was like a starless night sky, dark and endless, but with a hint of light just waiting to break through if given the chance. The way he listened to your tales, how his eyes would narrow with thought or flare with emotion, told you that your words were not only buying you time—they were reaching him, drawing him closer to something he could neither name nor understand.

But there was also reluctance in you, a fear that tangled with your hope. You could not forget the darkness that lived in him, the cruelty that could ignite in his eyes with the flick of a thought. Sukuna was still dangerous, still unpredictable, and every night you wondered if this would be the last, if the flicker of humanity you saw in him would be snuffed out by the monster he claimed to be. You felt the tremor of your own hesitation, the way your heart wavered between pity and fear, between hope and doubt. How could you let yourself care for a man whose hands were stained with the blood of so many, who could end your life in a heartbeat if the whim took him?

Yet, despite that, despite everything you knew and everything you feared, you couldn’t help the way your breath would hitch when his gaze softened ever so slightly. Or the way your skin tingles when, during those rare moments, he let his guard down enough to touch you—not in violence or possession, but in something that felt almost tender. Like that night when your tale came to an end, and instead of letting you leave as he usually did, he reached out and caught your wrist, his fingers circling it with a gentleness that stole your breath.

“Stay,” he said, his voice rough with something that could have been longing or anger—maybe both. His grip was firm but not unkind, as if he feared that with one wrong move, you might slip through his fingers and disappear. His eyes searched yours, darker than the night, a swirl of emotions hidden in their depths that he didn’t know how to voice. “Stay a little longer.”

You looked at him, at the touch of vulnerability in his gaze that was as startling as it was heartbreaking, and you nodded. Slowly, carefully, you sat back down, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence, close enough that your breaths seemed to mingle in the space between you. Sukuna’s hand remained on your wrist, the touch turning almost idle, as if he were memorising the shape of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

“What do you see when you look at me?” he asked suddenly, his voice low, roughened with a vulnerability he couldn’t quite conceal. There was a hint of frustration in his tone, like a man desperate to understand something that defied his grasp. “Tell me the truth.”

You hesitated, your throat tightening with the weight of his question. What could you say? That you saw not just the monster he tried so hard to be, but the man he once was and perhaps still could be? That somewhere in his darkness, there was a light fighting to break free, a yearning that had been denied so long it had turned to rage?

“I see…” you began, your voice soft, barely more than a whisper, “I see someone who’s afraid to believe in anything that isn’t pain or vengeance. Someone who’s convinced himself he doesn’t need love because he thinks it’s beyond his reach. But I also see a man who listens to my stories not because he has to, but because they make him feel something he thought he’d forgotten how to feel.”

His fingers tightened just slightly around your wrist, and you could feel the tremor in his touch, the way his breath hitched in response to your words. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, his jaw clenching as if struggling against some invisible force. When he finally spoke, his voice was rougher, more vulnerable than you had ever heard it. “I don’t need your pity,” he said, but the words lacked their usual bite, falling almost hollow in the space between you. “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“It’s not pity,” you replied, holding his gaze, refusing to look away. “It’s just the truth. You’re not as alone as you think you are, Sukuna.”

For a moment, he looked as though he might argue, as though the monster in him wanted to rise up and crush this fragile hope between you. But instead, he just stared at you, his eyes softening, the fight bleeding out of him as something warmer took its place—a flicker of longing, so fierce and raw that it made your heart ache. He reached up then, his fingers brushing the side of your face, a touch so gentle it felt like a question, like he was asking if he was even capable of something as simple as kindness.

“You speak as if you know me,” he said, his voice barely more than a murmur, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. “As if you see past the monster I am. Why?”

“Because,” you said softly, feeling the truth of your own words catch in your chest, “sometimes the hardest stories to believe are the ones we tell ourselves.”

His gaze faltered then, his hand dropping to his side as if suddenly aware of what he’d done, of how close he’d let you come. The mask of indifference snapped back into place, but it was thinner now, more fragile, unable to fully hide the man beneath it. He turned away, his jaw clenched, the set of his shoulders rigid with a frustration that wasn’t aimed at you, but at himself.

“Go,” he said, the word a rough whisper, almost torn from him. “Leave before I change my mind.”

And you did, though your steps were slow, your heart heavy with the knowledge of how close you had come to breaking through his defences. As you slipped through the curtains and out of his chamber, you couldn’t help but glance back, catching one last glimpse of Sukuna standing in the dim light, his face half-hidden in shadow, his eyes fixed on you with an expression that was equal parts longing and fear.

It wasn’t love—not yet. But it was something. Something fragile and new, something that both frightened and fascinated him. And though neither of you were ready to name it, you knew that it was growing between you like a fire waiting to be kindled, a warmth that could one day banish the darkness if only he’d let it. And perhaps, one day, the King of Curses might come to realise that even he was not beyond the reach of redemption.

༓ ༓ ༓

Shifting like the currents of a hidden river beneath the surface of your nightly tales, that fragile something between you and Sukuna continued to grow. As per your routine, you still came to his bedchamber each evening, weaving your stories into the warm, fragrant air, but now there was a difference in how you both lingered in that space. It was no longer just a battleground where words danced to save your life; it had become a place where silences spoke louder than the tales themselves, where the stolen glances and unspoken words built a tension so palpable it filled the room.

Sukuna watched you differently now. His gaze, once sharp and cold, had softened in a way that seemed to unsettle him more than any of his past violence ever had. There was a war in his eyes every time he looked at you, a struggle between the darkness that defined him and the light he couldn’t quite extinguish when he was near you. He tried to mask it, his expression often hardening the moment he felt his guard slipping, but there were cracks in his armour now—cracks that grew wider with every story, every quiet laugh you coaxed from him, every moment that made him feel something other than the hate he’d clung to for so long.

One night, as you finished the tale of a long-lost prince returning to his love, you noticed the way Sukuna’s hand had drifted toward you, fingers almost brushing the fabric of your sleeve. He pulled back before making contact, a scowl flickering across his face, as though furious with himself for that momentary lapse. But you saw through that façade, the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, the way his breath hitched ever so slightly when he thought you might look away.

“You seem moved by that tale,” you said, the words light yet probing, testing the waters of his resistance. “Is there something in it that you recognize?”

He laughed then, a rough, humourless sound, though it lacked the sharp edges it once had. “Moved?” he echoed, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Do not mistake my interest for softness. I am no lovesick fool to be swayed by such nonsense.”

And yet, as he spoke, his eyes never left yours, and there was something in them—a flicker of pain, of memory, that betrayed his words. You could see it clearly now, the way his barriers were beginning to crumble, even as he fought to hold onto the fragments of who he used to be. He was no longer the untouchable King of Curses in those moments; he was just a man, trapped between the monster he’d become and the human he never thought he’d be again.

“Perhaps not,” you replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “But even the hardest hearts can soften, even if they don’t want to admit it.”

He looked at you then, truly looked at you, his gaze intense and searching, as if trying to unravel the mystery of you, this mortal woman who dared to speak to him as though he were something more than a beast. For the first time, he seemed almost uncertain, like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, unsure whether to step forward or retreat back into the darkness that had always been his comfort.

“Why do you persist?” he asked, his voice low and rough, his brow furrowing as if the question was dragged from some deep, wounded place inside him. “Why do you look at me as though I’m not a monster? Why tell me these tales as if they could change anything?”

You hesitated, feeling the gravity of his question, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. It wasn’t just a question about the stories; it was about you, about why you stayed when any sane person would have fled. Why you dared to look at him not as a villain, but as a man capable of more than just destruction.

“Because,” you began slowly, your voice barely a whisper, “I see more in you than you allow yourself to see. I see a man who was once capable of kindness, who wasn’t always this… cruel. I see someone who’s afraid to hope because he’s been denied love for so long that he’s forgotten what it feels like.”

His jaw clenched, a flicker of something raw and aching crossing his face before he masked it with a sneer. “You’re a fool,” he said, though his voice lacked its usual venom. “You think you can save me with words, with your pity? There’s nothing left of the man you think you see.”

“Maybe,” you said, your eyes never leaving his, “but you keep listening anyway. You keep letting me stay when you could have ended my life the moment I entered your chambers. You reach out for me even when you don’t mean to. If that’s not proof that there’s still something human in you, then I don’t know what is.”

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still. The air between you was thick with the weight of unsaid words, with the electricity of something both terrifying and beautiful. Sukuna’s expression was a battlefield of conflicting emotions—anger, vulnerability, denial, and something else, something softer that glimmered beneath the surface like a light struggling to break free from the darkness.

And then, almost without realising it, his hand came up to touch your face. The movement was slow, hesitant, as if he was testing the reality of your presence, of his own desire to reach for something he had long believed lost to him. His fingers brushed against your cheek, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine, and for the first time, he didn’t pull away. He held his hand there, cupping your face like you were something precious, something breakable that he was afraid to hurt.

“You,” he said, his voice cracking with the weight of his own disbelief, “you’re the most infuriating creature I’ve ever met.”

A smile ghosted across your lips, so faint it was almost imperceptible, and you leaned ever so slightly into his touch, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours. “And yet, you let me live,” you whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “You listen to my stories, you reach for me even when you don’t mean to… Why is that, Sukuna?”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t pull away either. The monster in him was silent, subdued, replaced by a man who was lost and yearning, who didn’t know how to handle the tenderness he felt creeping into his heart. He was afraid—afraid of vulnerability, afraid of what it meant to care for someone, even in the smallest, most reluctant way.

But in that moment, with his hand on your cheek and your eyes locked on his, you knew the truth. The King of Curses was beginning to fall, not in defeat, but in a way that neither of you had expected. Slowly, painfully, he was learning to care. For you. And it terrified him more than any curse ever could.

The silence between you was no longer empty; it was filled with a thousand unsaid things, with the unspoken promise of something that might one day grow if either of you were brave enough to let it. And as you stood there, caught in the gravity of each other’s gaze, you knew that this was only the beginning. A delicate, fragile beginning to something that could be more than either of you ever dared to hope for.

༓ ༓ ༓

Dusk had finally arrived, and the dense fragranced smoke made the air feel warm and almost oppressive. You sat across from Sukuna, your voice carrying softly over the quiet hum of the night as you began to tell him yet another tale—this one different, more poignant, more deliberate.

“There was once,” you started, your voice laced with the slow rhythm of an ancient storyteller, “a creature who was not born into darkness, but who fell into it, piece by piece, as the world around him turned its back. He was not always a demon, you see. Once, long ago, he was something else—someone else. He was born of light, meant for greatness, a guardian meant to protect and to love.”

You paused, casting a glance at Sukuna, whose gaze was already fixed on you with an intensity that made the air between you feel electric. He didn’t interrupt, but you could see the shift in his expression, the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers clenched just slightly, almost inconspicuously. He was listening, not just with his ears but with every part of him, as though he was bracing himself against something he didn’t want to admit was reaching him.

“But the world,” you continued, choosing your words carefully, “can be cruel to those who don’t fit into its perfect mould. And this guardian, despite his strength and his loyalty, was different. He was feared for his power, for the potential of what he could become. And so, the ones he had sworn to protect turned on him, shunning him, casting him out into the wilderness as if he were nothing but a beast. They called him a monster, a fiend. They said he didn’t belong among them.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and unspoken, like a truth that neither of you wanted to acknowledge. You could see it in Sukuna’s eyes—a flicker of recognition, the raw wound of a memory he had tried to bury under layers of hatred and pride. For a moment, he was no longer the invincible King of Curses, but something far more vulnerable—a man haunted by the echo of his own past.

“They cursed him to the darkness,” you went on, your voice softer now, almost a whisper. “And in that darkness, alone and forsaken, the creature’s heart hardened. His pain turned to rage, his sorrow to vengeance. He became the monster they had always feared he would be, not because he was born that way, but because they had made him that way. He believed he was unworthy of love, unworthy of redemption, because that’s all the world had ever shown him.”

Sukuna’s face was a mask of stillness, but his eyes were aflame with something that bordered on anguish—a deep-seated hurt that he couldn’t hide, no matter how hard he tried. His hands, which had once been so quick to strike, now lay motionless at his sides, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. You could tell that the story had struck a chord, that it had reached into the deepest part of him, the part he kept locked away even from himself.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked, his voice rough and strained, barely more than a whisper. The question seemed to cost him something, as though he were admitting to a wound he had long denied. His gaze was hard, almost angry, but beneath that anger was a glimmer of something else—pain, vulnerability, the same longing that he had buried beneath centuries of rage.

“Because,” you said gently, meeting his gaze, refusing to look away, “I believe that even in the darkest of creatures, there is a spark of light that refuses to be extinguished. I believe that the demon in my tale, like you, was not born a monster but was made into one by a world that didn’t know how to love him. And perhaps, somewhere deep down, he’s still searching for a reason to believe that he’s more than the monster they say he is.”

The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating in its intensity. Sukuna’s eyes bore into yours, raw and unguarded, as if you had laid his soul bare and he didn’t know whether to thank you or curse you for it. He looked away then, turning his head slightly as if to shield his face from your gaze, but not before you caught the faintest glimmer of moisture in his eyes—a shimmer that could have been from the firelight or could have been something far more human.

“You think you know me,” he said at last, his voice hollow, laced with bitterness and something else—something broken. “You think your pretty words can change what I am. But you have no idea what it’s like to be cast out, to be made into this… thing. To be so hated that you start to hate yourself even more.”

He stood up abruptly, turning his back to you, his broad shoulders tense and rigid as though he were trying to hold himself together by sheer force of will. For a moment, you thought he might lash out, that he might snap back into the beast that he was so comfortable being. But he didn’t. Instead, he stood there, silent and still, his fists clenched at his sides, his whole form trembling with the effort to keep the chaos within him contained.

“You’re wrong,” he said, his voice cracking with the force of his own denial. “There’s no light left in me. There never was. I am the monster they made me, and nothing will ever change that.”

Slowly, you rose to your feet, your heart aching at the sight of him—this man who was so much more than the monster he believed himself to be. You approached him cautiously, your hand reaching out, hesitant, trembling slightly as you placed it gently on his arm. He flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away, didn’t break the fragile connection that bound you both in that moment.

“Then let me be wrong,” you whispered, your voice soft but steady, full of a conviction you hadn’t even known you possessed. “Let me be wrong, Sukuna, but let me try. Let me see the man beneath the curse, the man who still listens to stories even when he says he doesn’t believe in them. Because I think… I think you’re more afraid of being loved than of being hated.”

He turned then, slowly, his eyes locking onto yours with a fierceness that took your breath away. There was a storm in his gaze, a turbulence of emotions that he could no longer hide. Anger, pain, confusion, and beneath it all—a flicker of yearning so raw and desperate that it broke your heart to see it.

“Why?” he demanded, his voice rough, almost pleading now, his hand coming up to catch yours where it rested on his arm. His grip was tight, almost desperate, as if he were afraid that letting go would mean losing the only lifeline he had. “Why do you keep trying to find something good in me when I’ve done nothing but prove I’m a monster?”

You smiled then, a sad, gentle smile that reached the deepest parts of you. “Because even monsters deserve a chance to be saved,” you said softly. “Even monsters deserve to believe they’re worthy of love.”

For a long moment, Sukuna said nothing. He simply stood there, staring at you as if you were something he couldn’t quite understand, something he couldn’t believe was real. And then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he let his forehead fall against yours, his eyes closing as he exhaled a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His touch was still hesitant, still tinged with that reluctance to fully give in to what he was feeling, but it was there—a silent surrender to the possibility of something more.

And in that moment, with your hand still on his arm and his breath mingling with yours, you knew that the demon in your story had not been defeated but had begun to believe in the light again. Not because of some grand act of heroism, but because he had found someone who dared to see the humanity within him, even when he had given up on seeing it himself.

༓ ༓ ༓

The sky outside his chamber was a raging symphony of thunder and rain, the storm’s fury echoing the tempest that had been brewing between you and Sukuna all this time. The wind howled through the narrow openings in the stone walls, the curtains rippling like waves of silk in its wake, casting wild shadows across the room. It was as if the heavens themselves were tearing apart, unleashing their wrath on the earth, and within the shelter of Sukuna’s bedchamber, the storm had found a mirror in the turmoil that raged between your hearts.

You stood before him, drenched in the soft, flickering glow of the oil lamps, your voice trembling as you tried to pierce through the walls he still kept so fiercely around his heart. Sukuna’s eyes were wild, his face a mask of conflicting emotions, a mix of anger, fear, and that same raw vulnerability that you’d seen creeping into his gaze over the past few weeks.

“Why do you fight this so hard?” you asked, your voice cracking under the weight of your own desperation. The words were almost lost to the roar of the storm outside, yet you knew he heard every syllable. “Why do you still pretend you don’t feel anything? That you’re not capable of more than this darkness?”

Sukuna’s jaw clenched, his teeth gritting as he turned away from you, his hands fisting at his sides. The storm’s rage seemed to course through his veins, the lightning outside illuminating his sharp features, casting shadows that made him look every bit the demon he believed himself to be. And yet, there was something in the way he stood there, shoulders trembling, eyes averted—a man on the edge, teetering between surrender and defiance.

“Do you think we are the same? I am not like you.” he growled, his voice like gravel, torn between anguish and frustration. “I don’t know how to be good, how to be anything but this—this thing they made me. I’m not meant for love, for kindness. I’m meant for death and ruin! That’s all I am.”

“No,” you said, your voice firm but soft, unyielding as you closed the distance between you. The storm seemed to quiet in your wake, as though the very air held its breath. You reached out, gently taking his hand in yours, feeling the tension in his fingers, the way he hesitated before finally allowing your touch to anchor him. “You’re more than what they made you, Sukuna. You’re more than the monster you think you are.”

He looked down at your joined hands, his expression twisting into something pained, something that looked like loss and longing all at once. His fingers were trembling now, almost imperceptibly, as if he was afraid to believe in what he was feeling. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet yours, and for the first time, they weren’t filled with anger or resentment but with something far more fragile. Hope. And fear.

“You do not realise what you’re asking of me,” he whispered, the words barely more than a breath. “To hope, to believe that I could be anything other than this… Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? How cruel?”

“Hope isn’t cruel,” you replied, lifting your other hand to his cheek, gently cupping his face. He flinched at first, the motion instinctive, but then he let you hold him there, the warmth of your touch a balm to his storm-ravaged soul. “Hope is the kindest thing there is. And I think, deep down, you want it. You’re just afraid to let yourself have it.”

He swallowed hard, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away, retreat back into the safety of his darkness. But then, in a movement so slow it seemed to defy time itself, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing as if savouring the warmth of your palm against his skin. The tension in his shoulders eased, the storm inside him quieting as he let himself lean just a little closer, as if he were finally too tired to keep fighting.

“Why?” he asked, his voice almost broken, rough with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Why would you care for something like me? After all I’ve done, after all I am?”

You gave him a sad, gentle smile, the kind that was both a promise and a farewell, the kind that said everything words couldn’t. “Because even the fiercest storms pass, Sukuna,” you whispered. “Even the darkest nights have to end. And even you—especially you—deserve to see the dawn again. You deserve to believe in something more, even if it scares you.”

He opened his eyes then, and in them, you saw the storm break, saw the crumbling of a fortress he’d spent centuries building. The fear was still there, the uncertainty, but there was also something new, something that looked almost like surrender. The kind of surrender that wasn’t about defeat, but about letting go of the chains he had wrapped around his own heart.

And then, without another word, he pulled you to him, his arms wrapping around you in a way that was both fierce and gentle, like a man holding onto the only thing that could save him from himself. His forehead pressed against yours, and his breath was warm and uneven against your lips, his eyes searching yours, still disbelieving but filled with that spark you’d never seen before—hope.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispered, the words rough but honest, a confession laid bare. “I don’t know how to be anything but a monster. But for you... for you, I want to try.”

Your heart swelled, a warmth spreading through you like the first light of dawn after the longest night. You reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer, your lips ghosting against his in the barest of touches, a promise of something more—a beginning, not an end. “Then try, Sukuna,” you said softly, your voice trembling with both fear and joy. “Try with me.”

He closed his eyes, his breath hitching as he let the last of his resistance fall away, and for the first time, you felt the true man beneath the curse—the one who had been buried so deep he’d almost forgotten he existed. He held you as if you were his anchor, his lifeline, the only proof that he could still feel something other than rage and pain.

And as the storm outside raged on, battering against the walls of the chamber, the two of you stood together, wrapped in each other’s arms. In that fragile, trembling embrace, Sukuna finally let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t beyond saving after all. That maybe, in the warmth of your touch and the softness of your whispered words, he had found something he thought was lost to him forever—a chance at redemption, a chance at love.

The dawn was still far off, the road uncertain and fraught with the shadows of the past, but for the first time, there was a light on the horizon. And as Sukuna held you close, his lips brushing your temple in a touch so tender it almost broke your heart, he knew that whatever lay ahead, he wouldn’t face it alone.

Not anymore.

The storm raged on, but within that chamber, there was a stillness, a quiet hope that spoke of new beginnings and the promise of something neither of you dared to name. It was not an ending, not yet. Just the beginning of a story that had no easy answers, no simple resolutions—a story that was still being written, night by night, heart by hesitant heart.

A.N. Thank you for reading! :D Please let me know what you think!

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101flavoursofweird · 2 months ago

Text

Someone has probably mentioned this before…

But do you ever think about how Layton invited Aurora to explore the world with the Bostonius crew, as they collected the Azran eggs and Aurora’s memories… but then, Descole stole the Azran key and Layton had no qualms about chasing after him (with Aurora, Luke and Emmy in tow), and then they got caught by Targent at the Azran sanctuary, Emmy betrayed the gang, and Bronev stabbed Aurora in the heart, unleashing the Azran legacy.

Turns out Aurora survived that because she was a golem! But then she still died in the end after Layton refused to take the knowledge and power in the Azran sanctuary. I’m not saying this was Layton’s fault- the Azran were awful for viewing Aurora and the golems as disposable- but wouldn’t Layton still blame himself for Aurora’s death? He still apologises to her (his quiet “I’m sorry” to Aurora always gets me) and then he has to leave her behind because the sanctuary is literally falling apart around them and he needs to get Luke to safety?

A couple of months later, Layton solves the mystery behind a village filled with robots, rather like the golems if they had been given the chance to live a peaceful lives. Turns out the Golden Apple treasure they’ve been searching for is, in fact, Flora Reinhold, an orphaned girl, who’s spent years waiting up in her tower. (Flashback to the mysterious girl trapped in the ice.) They find the room containing the Reinhold family fortune. Layton, very clearly, gives Flora the choice about what she will do with the treasure and her village. Flora decides to leave the treasure and the village as it is, with the villagers continuing their daily lives…

And then, Layton takes Flora back to London with him and Luke. Maybe he would have done the same for Aurora, if he’d been able to save her. Maybe he finds some solace, thanks to Flora…

Still, Layton keeps leaving Flora behind whenever he and Luke go on dangerous adventures. Sometimes he doesn’t even tell Flora when they’re leaving. These fears aren’t completely unfounded - Flora is new to the big wide world and she does get kidnapped. Twice. Layton can no longer depend on Emmy to protect them. There are people who, like Emmy, will betray them. Clive kidnaps Flora and imprisons her in a glass cage in the Mobile Fortress.

I hope Layton had a long talk with Flora after PL3. Maybe he apologises for his treatment of her and admits that he’s still traumatised by the losses he’s faced. (Aurora, mainly, but Claire, Randall and Desmond count too.) Rather than keeping Flora in a metaphorical glass box, he needs to open up to her. Maybe spend time with her outside of adventures, introduce her to some new friends or encourage her to join a self-defence class. Something…

Then, hopefully, when Layton gets a letter from Luke in America, he’ll invite Flora to come with him and investigate the mystery…?

Or maybe Flora will decline, because she’s already got her own plans with some new friends she’s made. Who knows.

#professor layton #flora reinhold #hershel layton #aurora azran #Character analysis #curious village #Azran legacy #Not excusing Layton’s treatment of Flora…#But his actions make A LOT OF SENSE with context from Azran Legacy #I don’t think Level 5 considered this when they were writing AL - they don’t care enough about it Flora for that #But I do think they might have noticed the golem-St Mystere parallels

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masterjedilenawrites · 3 months ago

Note

Hi!!! I listening to the Florence and the Machine song “girl with one eye” and it got me in a super angsty mood, and I had this idea that what if reader saves Rex from being tortured like a heroine and does the dramatic bridal carry and everything, instead of the usual reader being saved like a lot of fics end up writing in terms of super angst (absolutely no hate, I love those too) I just think it would be nice to see the reader being extremely capable!

You obviously do not have to write anything like this, I just had the idea and you are by far one of my favorite writers (my dyslexic ass cant write for shit)

Anyways, hope you have a wonderful day!

Saving Rex

Rex x reader | 4.4k words

Content: torture (not shown but discussed), injuries, general angst, reader with some physical strength/stamina, friends to lovers, hope and love prevail

Note: I'd really like to believe I could carry Rex down a flight of stairs if I needed to. Maybe I'll use that for motivation during my next workout 😝 (Also this got really emotional in some places, please don't hate me)

To say you were panicking was an understatement. Rex had never been this late to a rendezvous. And with comms jammed, there weren't many options to figure out what could be keeping him. It was one of your only nightmares coming true. Something happening to that noble, wonderful man you called a friend.

You paced restlessly between the walls of the bunker, an eye on the door at all times. Any noise, any howl of the wind or scrape of someone's boot on the concrete floor, made you twitch in alarm. You had never experienced the seconds ticking by so slowly. Kriff, where was he?

"You should get some rest."

While you watched the door, Anakin watched you. Normally he would tease over any emotion you showed for his Captain; no matter how much you tried to keep such feelings under wraps, the Jedi always seemed to sense the truth anyway. But now he put jokes aside and did what he could to quell your anxieties.

You only shook your head in response and continued your pacing.

Anakin sighed and fell back in his chair. The other men in the bunker were anxious, too. Even if he couldn't feel it, he could see it all around. Bouncing knees. Fiddling with random objects. Untouched food and unspoken words. No one was going to sleep, even though everyone needed it. It was going to be a long night. Unless Rex found his way back.

Anakin could admit he was worried for the clone, too. They had fought alongside each other for so long now, it didn't seem possible that there'd be a day where one of them was no longer standing. But what he couldn't admit, at least not to anyone else, was that he had a very bad feeling this time. He kept trying to reach out in the Force, find some trace of his comrade out there, and he kept coming back with an even worse feeling than before.

A sudden sound at the door caused everyone to sit up, tense and hopeful. Three knocks with a very specific rhythm. Someone from your team. You could barely breathe as you waited for Anakin to open the door.

Ahsoka hurried through, along with a gust of wind that fluttered some of the more lightweight objects around the room. Anakin quickly shut it behind her. You'd almost forgotten she had been out, too. Gone to look for Rex, help him get back. But she hadn't brought anyone back with her. Now you really couldn't breathe.

"What'd you find?" asked Anakin, noting the urgent expression on the young girl's face.

"They've taken him to the fortress across the south bridge. I followed a... trail," she quickly glanced over at you, omitting what the trail was composed of for your sake, though you could make an educated guess if you had to. "They have him in a tower. I couldn't get eyes on him, but... Well, I could hear him."

Her face screwed up in distress at the memory and everyone in the room knew exactly what she meant.

"Any way we can carry out an extraction?" asked Anakin.

"If not now, then when?" You marched forward, determined and resolute. You could breathe again, though just barely. "Nighttime. Storm. Now is the only time."

Anakin still looked to his padawan for confirmation. She'd seen the fortress and would know whether it was a risk worth taking, even for someone as dear to them as Rex.

To your satisfaction, Ahsoka didn't hesitate to nod quickly. "That's why I hurried back as fast as I could. I couldn't get to him on my own, but with a small team...."

"It'll have to be really small. We can't risk blowing our cover here," Anakin agreed and finally uncrossed his arms. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been holding himself this whole time. But now there was some hope, and all that was needed to reach it was a bit of daring action. Something he was never in short supply of, and something hew knew Rex wouldn't hesitate to do for him if the roles were reversed.

"You, me," you motioned to yourself and Anakin. "Ahsoka can keep guard here."

"And me," came a clone's voice by your side. All of them were intently listening to the conversation, and while any one of them would have been eager to volunteer to save their Captain, one knew he was needed more than any other. Kix.

"There may not be time to administer first aid on sight," Anakin cautioned.

Kix puffed himself up a bit. "I'll do what I can. You two focus on getting us out without a fuss."

Anakin smirked and you cast him a grateful smile of your own. This was not an ideal outcome, learning that Rex was in distress. But at least he wasn't dead yet, and you could work with that. Now his fate was in your hands. And with a burning fire in your heart, you knew you would save him.

- - -

Rex waited until the echoing of their footsteps was gone before allowing himself to collapse. His knees hit cold stone but the jolt was barely felt amongst the rest of the pain radiating throughout his body. He curled in on himself, arms gently folding around the worst of the injuries in his middle, and his head hung low in exhaustion.

He wasn't sure how much more he could take of this. He hated the thought, but it was true. An entire day of torment and torture, relentless and unforgiving. Even with all his training, this situation was proving difficult to bear.

There was only one thing keeping him alive, he was sure of it. You. The memories of your smile, your laughter, all the lovely things you somehow said at just the right times. The thought of you continuing on without ever knowing how he felt. You were strong and capable in your own right, but he still wanted to be there for you. To protect you. To love you.

Gods, how he loved you.

He couldn't be broken in this place. No, not before seeing you one more time. He would give you his heart, and then he could finally let go.

- - -

Your feet thunked against each step of the spiraling stone stairs. Anakin's and Kix's were not far behind. Only a few guards and droids had had to be taken care of thus far, done swiftly and discretely by the two soldiers while you focused on navigating through the labyrinth of the fortress to the tower that held Rex. But as soon as you'd reached the door leading upward, Anakin had voiced his unease. Worse was coming, he insisted. And if they proceeded, they'd be just as trapped in that tower as their Captain was.

You pushed forward without a second thought.

And they reluctantly followed.

You weren't dumb. You knew it was foolish to rush into an enemy's territory with no plan and no backup. You knew you could be condemning Rex with your impulsive actions rather than saving him. But somehow, those sensible thoughts were overwhelmed by a deep and desperate need to find him at any cost. If you could just see him, then everything would be okay.

Thunk, thunk, thunk. One step and then another and another. Your lungs heaved and your thighs burned but you kept climbing. You weren't sensitive to the Force, but you swear you could feel yourself getting closer to him.

The sudden sound of a lightsaber igniting behind you finally gave you pause. You stumbled on the next step as you slowed and turned. Anakin had stopped several steps below and was staring downward, waiting for something.

"What is it, sir?" Kix huffed beside him.

Anakin only held up a finger as if he were trying to listen. You were panting, too, and tried to hold in a breath so you could hear whatever he could. There was only the hum of a lightsaber and the wailing of the wind from the other side of stone walls.

And then suddenly there was pounding. The whole tower seemed to shake with the thunderous footsteps of soldiers making their way upward, blocking your only way back out. Anakin jerked his head toward you.

"Go. Find him. I'll push them back."

As Anakin rushed downward, Kix wavered in between. Rex would need his aid, but his aid would be worthless if they couldn't escape. He finally looked back at you, too.

"You've got this," he stated before raising his blaster and following General Skywalker.

You resumed your trek upward, your attention slipping back to its previous singular focus of finding Rex. Of seeing him again. Alive.

You finally reached the top of the tower and were met with a simple wooden door. Again, you knew you should slow down and think through a strategy. What if there were guards on the other side? What if their blades slipped because you startled them? But you couldn't help yourself. You'd come too far to not burst right through.

There were no guards. There were no blades. But there was, thankfully, distressingly, Rex.

He was slumped against the far wall. Motionless. You crossed the room with a few bounding strides and gently pulled him away from the wall.

You'd anticipated him being in bad shape, but not to this extent. His armor was stripped and the tattered clothes they had him in instead did nothing to hide his condition. Bruises along his arms. A sickly pallor to his skin. Dark circles beneath his eyes and cracks along his lips. His head swung toward you listlessly as you turned him. You quickly positioned his body against yours and your hand cradled his head in support.

"Rex," you coaxed, willing your voice to remain strong. Panic wouldn't help him like this. "Rex, it's okay. We're going to get you out of here. Okay?"

His eyelids fluttered but couldn't seem to stay open. He did turn toward your voice, and through a series of near-unintelligible mutters, you managed to make out your name.

"Yes," you smiled, moving your hand to cup the side of his head so you could run a soothing thumb along his cheek. "Yes, it's me. I'm here. I've got you. You're okay now."

He shifted his arms, and at first you thought he was ready to try standing. You made to move, too, but then noticed he was doing something else. He held his hand over his chest, on the side of his heart. And then slowly, his other hand reached out to rest onto your chest.

You shook your head at him, not understanding. Was he hurt there? Did they do something to his heart?

Then Rex's worn face contorted into what could only be a smile. A small but serene smile, like he'd finally found peace. The smile slowly slipped away and his body started to feel heavier in your arms.

Now you couldn't keep the panic at bay. It came out in full force, along with tears and desperate squeezing.

"No no no. Rex. Wake up, Rex. Please. You can rest soon but we have to leave first. Okay? We have to go now. Please."

You didn't know what to do beyond pleading and shaking him. He couldn't slip away now, not when you'd just gotten here. A part of you had hoped that maybe, just by seeing you, his spirits would lift. That you would be that little kickstart to his heart that'd help him keep going. But sadly, it seemed your fantasies of him returning your affections were only that. In reality, you could have been anybody coming to his rescue, and you'd be too late either way.

No. You shook yourself now. No, it didn't matter how he felt or didn't feel. You loved him. That fire in your heart was still burning, and you were going to get him out of here alive.

You carefully but swiftly got your legs back under you, still keeping Rex's body supported as you maneuvered each other into the right position. You weren't a soldier. You didn't have the same build as the clones. But damn if you weren't just as determined and capable. So with a deep, steadying breath, you heaved his body across your back. One of your arms wrapped around his closest leg, keeping it tight against your side as you reached across to grab at his arm. He was heavy, but secure, and you knew you could carry him this way for as long as it'd take to escape. And as an added bonus, you'd heard a soft grunt from him as he'd bent over your shoulders. He was still alive.

You wasted no time standing around with the extra weight. You were back out the door and heading down the stairs faster than you could register. One hand running along the wall for balance and the other firmly grasped on Rex's forearm. Your thighs had done the most work to get you up the stairs; now it was your knees taking the brunt of effort going down. In your mind you alternated between prayers for your joints and prayers for Rex's life.

The sounds of your steps were drowned by the reverberating sounds of combat. The echoes made it hard to tell their distance away as you continued your descent. You braced yourself for the inevitable, feeling more and more grateful the further you went without sight of any blaster fire. You estimated only a quarter of the way left by the time you met some of the carnage on the stairs. Sizzling metal and blaster marks on the walls. It was another several of floors of picking your way between it all before you then came across Kix and Anakin. They'd made good progress pushing the onslaught back.

You hovered just beyond their reach so as to keep Rex away from the crossfire. Anakin's lightsaber did most of the work to keep the enemy at a distance, though occasionally a shot would ricochet onto the wall by your head. But slowly and surely, you were all able to make it down to the next step. Lower and lower. Closer and closer to the end.

Eventually Kix was able to pause in his help and scurry up to check on Rex. He nodded at you when he confirmed a pulse but was just as unsuccessful as you in his efforts to get the Captain to wake.

"Dehydration, possible blood loss from these wounds here," the medic chattered, more to himself than anyone, as he dug through his pack. He tore open a bacta patch and slapped it across an oozing mess of scabs on Rex's shoulder and then handed you a stim while he continued to rummage.

You jabbed the stim into the back of Rex's thigh, thrilled that you managed to elicit another groan from him. Any sign of life was a good one at this point.

"Need me to take over?" Kix asked once he'd found a breathing mask and stood back up. You shook your head, already heading back down the stairs. Anakin had managed to get through a good amount more of the droids. Kix shrugged and then rushed ahead to continue laying down blaster fire.

The fight to escape took far longer than anyone would have wanted. Even once you'd made it out of the stuffy tower, there was the maze of hallways to run back through, and more enemies to fight along the way. All hopes of a stealthy rescue were long gone. It made you nervous, wondering if you'd be able to make it out at all, at this point. The further you moved into the open, the harder it was to keep fighting. If you were lucky enough to make it outside the fortress of droids, then you'd be surrounded by a storm. You were but a Jedi, a medic, and a civilian staff member carrying a near-unconscious soldier. The path forward was looking rather grim.

You eventually got yourselves into what seemed to be a supply closet. You knew there was a service door leading outside down one end of the hall, and the front entrance to the fortress itself was only around another corner as well. But you were flanked by droids on either side. Anakin kept the door to the closet open so he could continue to pick off the droids, while you were finally able to take a break from carrying Rex as Kix more properly tended to some of his injuries.

"How's he looking?" Anakin asked over his shoulder. He wasn't sure what he wanted the answer to be. He was glad Rex was alive, but they were all running out of options. From his estimates, they'd either need to surrender and think through a better escape plan later, or barrel forward with a Hail Mary and hope for the best. Either option would be difficult with Rex in this state. If he was getting worse... if he wasn't going to make it... Anakin shuddered at the thought of having to make that call.

Kix didn't immediately answer. He'd removed the breathing mask which seemed to have sparked some energy back into Rex. He was groaning and huffing, clutching at his midsection and rolling his head back and forth restlessly. Kix tried getting his attention but the Captain only continued to fidget and groan.

"Was he like this when you found him?" Kix asked you.

"No, he was quieter. He knew who I was, though."

Kix motioned for you to come closer. "See if he'll respond to you again."

"Rex." You quickly saddled up by his side, ignoring the pain in your back and legs from crouching. "Rex, look at me. It's okay. Just breathe. You'll be okay."

Surprisingly, your voice seemed to work. Rex stilled, turning his head toward the sound. That weird little smile crept back on his face.

"Rex?"

He responded with your name, small and rasping, but clear all the same. You couldn't help but smile in return.

"Oh good, you are awake enough."

With lightning speed, Kix was back in view with a vial of... something. He tipped it into Rex's mouth and held his hand over to keep the Captain from spitting it back out. Rex sputtered and writhed against Kix's hand but eventually swallowed the liquid down with a hard, painful gulp. Rex's eyes had shot open in the process. They were red, but alert.

"It's okay," you tried soothing again. Rex relaxed against the wall he was propped against and locked his eyes with yours.

"You... came... for me?" he croaked out.

You nodded. For a second, you could have sworn tears were brimming in Rex's eyes. Maybe it was only the medicine.

"Hate to ruin the moment," Anakin called back out. The blaster fire from the hall had grown louder, closer. "But we're out of time here. Kix, anything in this closet we can fashion into a grenade?"

The medic scrambled up to look amongst the shelves.

"Rex, you able to stand? I need you both shooting blasters if you can manage it."

"I will try."

Rex was already trying to push himself off the wall. You wrapped an arm around his back and help hoist him up. His legs shook wildly from the sudden weight. You kept him leaning against you, one arm over your shoulder.

"It's okay, I've got you."

Rex smiled down at you, far too softly for what the situation allowed. You held his gaze with surprise.

Kix was pouring random bottles into each other, hoping they'd make the desired effect. Anakin was cursing as the droids drew nearer. Rex seemed to be trying to tell you something with his eyes. And just when you were about to suggest looking into the air vent situation of this place, there came a large and reverberating kaboom.

You all froze. Including the droids, who then appeared to have been given new orders as they neatly turned in the opposite direction and marched away. Something had happened by the entrance. After a few moments, you could hear their blasters firing again, along with the sounds of other weapons. Familiar weapons. Anakin grinned.

"Obi-Wan," he said before running after them.

You could've cried. Instead, you looked back up at Rex and smiled.

"Ready to go home?"

- - -

You hadn't left Rex's side for a second, much to Kix's chagrin. It was that much harder to heal a battered brother with a stubborn civvy sitting in the way. But, despite his many grumbling complaints, he still let you stay. He knew your heart. And Rex's. It'd be best for both of you to keep close, until you knew each other's.

Though when Rex did wake, you could barely get out one tearfully happy hello before seemingly everyone else on base came to his side, too.

"Thank the gods you're alive!"

"Glad you're okay, brother."

"Good to have you back."

"Can't keep a good man down."

Rex appreciated their words, he really did. He tried not to notice how silent you'd fallen amongst them. It was your words he wanted to hear most.

"How did we get out of there?" he instead asked Anakin. He remembered waking in a dark room, Kix shoving something down his throat, your voice as you sweetly called his name. Beyond that was a blur. He was pretty sure he'd passed out once he tried walking.

"I kept think about the storm," Ahsoka was the one to answer instead. "And how it would give them cover getting to the fortress. And then I thought if they happened to get caught, that'd provide just enough distraction for us to start with a good attack."

"And by us, she of course means the 212th," smirked Cody. Obi-Wan was busy sending word back to Coruscant on the mission, though they all owed it to the Jedi's decision to go looking for General Skywalker and the missing 501st. Without the added reinforcements, Ahsoka's plan wouldn't have stood a chance.

"We're just really glad you're alive, Rex," Ahsoka said softly.

"Yeah, we don't know what we would have done without you," said Anakin, though he was looking toward you as he said it. Everyone else followed his gaze, causing you to blush at the sudden attention.

"They carried you the whole way, you know," Anakin added, now directed toward Rex.

Rex's eyes grew wide, impressed.

"Don't you remember?" prompted Kix.

"I... remember you finding me," Rex told you. "In that cell. I remember feeling hope again."

Your ears were still hot from Anakin's obvious insinuations of your feelings, and now everyone was giving each other looks at Rex's words. You decided to deflect with some humor.

"Right before you tried to cop a feel," you smirked.

That did the trick. A chorus of salacious oohs and laughter rang through the rank of clones gathered. Fives went up and clapped Rex's shoulder, his bad one. Rex's wincing caused Kix to hastily shoo away Fives and everyone else making a ruckus. You remained, noticing that through it all, Rex had a blush rivaling your own.

"I... I didn't..." he stammered once most of his visitors had disappeared. Anakin gave you one last look before then coaxing Ahsoka to leave as well.

"It's okay," you reassured. "You were out of it."

"No, I wasn't, I... I was..." Rex huffed. He was having a hard time finding the right words. "Never mind, it's silly."

He fell back against the pillows with a sigh. You scooted your stool forward and rested your hands on the bedside.

"Please tell me, Rex. I feel like you've been trying to tell me something ever since I found you. But I was so focused on trying to keep you alive, I didn't understand. I'm sorry."

Rex smiled back at you, encouraged. "It's alright. To be honest, I wasn't sure if I would make it out alive. But I... well... I didn't want to let go without..." He paused, embarrassed again. This was going to sound ridiculous if you didn't feel the same.

"Without...?"

"Without giving you my heart first."

He looked at you hesitantly to find your lips had parted in surprise.

"I know. It was a silly thought--"

"No," you breathed. Your hands now slid from the blanket onto his. The memory of him in your arms, beaten and bruised, using what strength he had left to gesture between his heart and yours... you wished you'd understood then. You'd thought he hadn't cared for you in that way at all.

Rex's eyes watered along with yours as your hands clasped together and a newfound understanding settled in between.

"You can't ever disappear on me like that again," you said with a wobble in your voice. "Anakin's right, I don't know what I would have done without you. I... I love you too much to even think of it."

Rex brought your hands up to meet his lips. He kissed your knuckles softly.

"I love you, too. And... I think I'm going to need to reconsider some things, knowing that you love me back."

He gazed over your clasped hands and met the eyes of Anakin, on the other side of the medbay looking in on the other patients. He wasn't the only injured soldier from the mission. General Skywalker was a good man for checking on them, just as he would do once he could stand on his own feet again. The look he now shared with the Jedi was one of agreement. A lot had changed from this mission, and a lot would need to still change. Love, sometimes, took priority even in war. Anakin knew that better than most.

"I don't want you to--" you started to say as realization dawned. But Rex quickly shook his head.

"We have time to discuss it. Right now, just let me hold you."

You didn't need to be asked twice. Helping him carefully scoot over, you then slipped under the hospital blanket and tucked yourself in at his side. It felt right, like where you were always meant to be.

Your worst nightmare had played out in a harrowing day of panic and fear. And now your greatest dream was nestled at your side, safe and sound and alive. It had been a frightening price to pay, one you hoped you'd never have to spend again, but the heart you now held was surely a worthy reward.

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#star wars #the clone wars #captain rex #rex x reader #angst #rescue #reverse damsel in distress trope #january fics

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benispunk · 4 months ago

Text

Who's That Girl?

Chapter 10: Pillow Fight

Movie night turns into a pillow fight. Turns out feelings hit a lot harder than any cushions thrown Logan's way.

logan howlett x reader

TW: language, D&W.

A/N: hello! second chapter of the week, a short one indeed but no less important than any others.....the movie reference in this is a 1986 terrible movie called Howard The Duck (obviously marvel related) that I talked about with my friends, and the images I saw of it gave me nightmares so yeah. I think wade would enjoy it. alright, enjoy!!!

→ this fic is inspired by the TV Show New Girl, Wade and Logan aren't Deadpool and Wolverine (no powers/mutant gene etc) but I did take most of their character traits and storyline!!

Masterlist /Previous Part / Next Party

There was something uniquely comforting about Wednesday nights in the apartment. It wasn’t about the tradition— they weren’t that organized. It wasn’t about the snacks either, though Wade insisted his popcorn was “life-changing.” No, it was the way they all sank into the couch like they belonged there, as though the world outside didn’t matter for a few hours.

This night had been no exception. Logan was stretched out at one end, his feet resting on the coffee table, his arms crossed over his chest like he was guarding something. Wade, of course, occupied the middle, surrounded by a fortress of snacks, commenting on how he was “the glue holding this dysfunctional family together.” Y/N had claimed the other end of the couch, her legs tucked underneath her, a blanket half-draped over her lap, more to shield herself from Wade’s crumbs than for warmth.

The credits of a movie from the eighties rolled across the screen, but no one made a move to turn it off just yet.

“All right, that movie was ridiculous,” Wade said, stretching his arms behind his head. “But in the best way possible.”

Y/N laughed. “I can’t believe you made us sit through that.”

Wade grinned. “Come on, Howard The Duck is so charismatic.”

She shook her head, chuckling. “I think you’re looking for the word horrific.”

Logan snorted quietly from his corner of the couch. “Horrific’s putting it kindly.”

Wade placed a dramatic hand over his chest. “You wound me, Logan. I bet Howard would have saved Y/N at that bar just as brilliantly as you did.”

Logan shot him a warning glance, but Y/N tilted her head in curiosity. “Oh, are we still on this?”

“Of course we are,” Wade replied, his grin widening. “It’s not every day you see ol’ broody over there pull out his knight-in-shining-armor act. So, tell us, Y/N, what’s your type? Is it the strong, silent, gloomy hero, or are you more into, you know, devilishly handsome comedians?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, caught off guard but amused. “I don’t know, Wade. But I’m curious, why do you care so much about my type?”

Wade leaned back smugly, turning towards Logan. “Oh, I’m just conducting important research, obviously.”

Logan sighed, cutting in with a warning tone. “Don’t bother her with your stupid questions.”

Wade smirked, unbothered by Logan’s irritation. “Those are not stupid questions, Peanut. Stop deflecting.”

Logan rolled his eyes, but suddenly, his lips quirked in a triumphant smirk, “Speaking of deflection, Bub… How’s Vanessa these days?”

Wade’s face immediately fell. “Low blow, man.”

Y/N blinked, intrigued. “Who’s Vanessa?”

Wade shot Logan a glare before turning back to her. “She’s, uh, someone from my past. Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“Didn’t you say you saw her a few months ago?” Logan interjected, the smirk still on his face.

Y/N’s curiosity deepened. “Did you? What did she want?”

Wade shifted uncomfortably, clearly wishing the conversation hadn’t taken this turn. “Yeah, she wanted to catch up. Said something about grabbing coffee or whatever. I haven’t gotten around to it.”

“Well,” Y/N said gently, “do you want to?”

Wade hesitated, glancing at Logan, who still looked annoyingly smug. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s complicated.”

Y/N nodded, sensing his discomfort but wanting to encourage him. “I think it’s worth figuring out, for your own sake.”

Wade’s jaw tightened briefly before he sighed, looking back at Logan. “You’re the worst.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

The tension between them was thick, but Y/N didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she turned the tables unexpectedly. “What about you, Logan? Anyone stealing your heart at the moment?”

Logan froze, caught entirely off guard. His heart skipped a beat as he looked at her, but before he could answer, Wade’s face lit up with renewed mischief.

“Right, Logan?” Wade said, leaning forward with a mock-innocent grin. “What’s going on in your love life these days?”

Logan scowled. “I’m single.”

Y/N laughed softly. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me nobody’s caught your eye. Not even a little crush?”

Logan groaned internally, feeling like the conversation would never end. “Crushes don’t matter,” he muttered.

“Bullshit,” Wade said immediately, and before he could say another word, Logan hurled a pillow at him with enough force to knock him halfway off the couch.

“What the hell!” Wade shouted, grabbing another pillow and reciprocating the hit.

“You started it,” Logan replied, ducking under Wade’s first throw but catching the second pillow square in the chest.

Y/N, watching the chaos unfold, tried to stifle her laughter. “You two are unbelievable,” she said, shaking her head. But the amusement in her voice only spurred them on.

“Oh, don’t act like you’re above this,” Wade said, turning to grab another pillow. He paused, his mischievous grin widening. “You’re part of this household, Y/N. Which means…”

Before she could react, Wade lobbed a pillow in her direction. It wasn’t hard, more playful than anything, but it still caught her by surprise.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s going to be?” she said, her competitive streak kicking in. Y/N grabbed the nearest pillow and swung it at Wade, who yelped dramatically as if she’d hit him with a boulder.

Logan couldn’t help but laugh at Wade’s over-the-top reaction, which made Wade glare at him. “Don’t think you’re safe just because she’s on your side,” Wade said, spinning around and throwing another pillow straight at Logan’s head.

Logan blocked it with ease and retaliated with force, sending Wade stumbling back into the couch. Y/N, caught in the crossfire, managed to dodge one of Logan’s throws, but it made her giggle uncontrollably.

“You’re laughing now, but you’re not innocent in this,” Logan said, a smirk spreading across his face. He grabbed a pillow and aimed it at her.

“Oh, no, no, no!” Y/N said, trying to back away. “I’m Switzerland!”

“Not anymore,” Logan replied, tossing the pillow gently but deliberately at her shoulder.

Y/N gasped dramatically, scooping up two pillows as if arming herself for battle. “All right, you asked for it!” she declared, charging at Logan.

The living room descended into pure chaos. Wade took the opportunity to ambush Logan while he was distracted by Y/N’s attack, and soon the trio was locked in a ridiculous, full-blown pillow war. Wade and Logan went all out on each other, their hits landing with audible thuds that echoed through the apartment. But when their attention turned to Y/N, their swings became softer, almost careful, which only made her more determined to fight back.

“You’re holding back!” Y/N accused, swinging wildly at both of them. “Take this seriously!”

“Oh, you want serious?” Wade said. “Fine, Switzerland. Prepare for battle!”

Wade launched himself over the couch with a battle cry, landing in front of Y/N and sending a flurry of pillows her way. How did they even have all these pillows in the first place?

She shrieked, laughing so hard her sides hurt, and swung back with all the force she could muster. Logan watched for a moment, his lips twitching in amusement, before he decided to even the odds.

The fight raged on for several chaotic minutes, the trio swinging pillows and dodging hits like their lives depended on it. Wade was relentless, shouting over-the-top battle cries, but Y/N and Logan’s focus turned toward each other in a subtle shift of dynamics.

“Is that all you’ve got, Teach?” Logan taunted, blocking one of Y/N’s swings effortlessly with his forearm.

“Oh, don’t tempt me,” Y/N shot back, her grin widening as she grabbed another pillow and feigned an attack from the left before switching to the right.

Logan chuckled let her land a soft hit to his chest. “You think you’re clever, huh?”

“I know I’m clever,” she replied, her voice dripping with playful defiance. She swung again, but Logan sidestepped and used the opportunity to trap her arm with one hand while snatching the pillow from her with the other.

“That’s cheating!” Y/N gasped, trying to tug free.

“Don’t start a fight you can’t win,” Logan said, a smirk tugging at his lips again.

“Let her go, you brute!” Wade yelled dramatically from the other side of the couch, lobbing a pillow at Logan’s back. The hit landed, and Logan groaned in annoyance before releasing Y/N and spinning around to retaliate against Wade for the millionth time in this war.

Taking her chance, Y/N grabbed another pillow and smacked Logan square on the shoulder. “That’s what you get!” she exclaimed triumphantly.

Logan turned to her, feigning a glare. “You’re lucky I’m being nice.”

“Nice?” she scoffed. “You’re losing, and you know it.”

“Oh, is that right?” Logan lunged toward her with a pillow, and Y/N yelped, diving behind the couch. She grabbed the first thing she could— a fluffy cushion —and chucked it over the couch at him.

“Is that supposed to hurt?” he teased, catching it midair.

“You’re impossible!”

“I’ve been told worse,” Logan replied, throwing the cushion back at her.

Wade, meanwhile, had taken full advantage of their back-and-forth to gather an arsenal of pillows. “This is it! The final battle!” he yelled, throwing pillows at both of them in rapid succession.

It didn’t take long before the three of them collapsed in a breathless heap, laughter echoing through the living room. Y/N leaned back against the couch, trying to catch her breath as she brushed her hair out of her face.

“That was exhausting,” she said between laughs.

“Exhaustingly fun,” Wade corrected, sprawled on the floor and grinning up at the ceiling.

Logan leaned against the armrest, arms crossed, watching the scene in front of him. Then his gaze fell on her. The usual sharpness in his expression had softened, replaced by something gentler— more vulnerable. His lips twitched into the faintest of smiles, but it wasn’t just that.

He was looking at her.

Not in the casual way he usually did when they were talking, but in a way that felt like he was studying her, taking her in. The glow in her cheeks, the way her laugh lingered like a melody. She wasn’t even aware of it, her focus already shifting to Wade’s nonsensical commentary.

Wade, somehow oblivious to the shift, waved a hand dramatically. “So, Y/N, admit it: Howard the Duck wasn’t that bad. He’s a cultural icon.”

“You’re delusional,” she said with a laugh, shaking her head.

Logan’s smile faded slightly as his gaze dropped to the floor. I’m so screwed.

That thought hit him harder than any pillow Wade could throw.

XXX

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