#she really hit her stride with this one i fear

[hrina]

the chokehold that bride by ali hazelwood has on me.............

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 4

Or: a secret Admirer AU

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3

TW: one instance of homophobic language (internally), fear of violence due to homophobia (which doesn't occur).

Chrissy would have never expected Steve Harrington to be full of such soft, gooey feelings, but with every letter she helps him right, he only gets sappier. The latest is so sticky with sap she’s afraid it’ll stick to her fingers.

Part of her, the smallest, niggling part, wishes Steve really was her boyfriend, and all those little niceties could be for her. But, that wouldn’t be fair to Steve, anyway. There’s nothing there; he’s just Steve—the platonic ideal of a best friend.

So, she wears his last name on her back, helps him write his little notes, and hopes ardently that she’ll find someone she cares that much about for herself.

“What are you doing?”

Chrissy’s fingers stumble at the unexpected voice, Steve’s latest letter fluttering to the dirty ground. Someone else beats her to picking it up. She watches, mouth in her throat, as one of Eddie’s friends unfolds the note. He squints down at it, eyebrows raising higher and higher until they’re almost meeting his hairline by the time he reaches the sign-off.

He folds it up carefully before handing it back to her. She clutches it to her chest, but the damage has already been done.

“Aren’t you dating Harrington?” Jeff asks.

Chrissy stumbles over her words, only getting out an, “it’s not like—” and a “I wouldn’t do—” before sputtering into silence.

They stand there, staring at each other for an endless moment, neither speaking, before Chrissy finally spins around, shoves the note into Eddie’s locker, and flees as fast as her tired legs can carry her.

He doesn’t follow.

Practice had run long, and she’d just wanted to leave the note and get home. Now, home is less of a relief and more somewhere that she can stew in the repercussions of what she’s done. Jeff’s Eddie’s friend, he’ll tell him without hesitation, and where will that leave her and Steve?

With that in mind, she goes looking for Jeff bright and early the next day, hoping boys’ propensity for not talking on the phone means that they’ve yet to speak.

“Did you tell him?” she asks when she finds Jeff spinning the dial on what must be his own locker.

Seeming entirely unbothered even as everyone around them stares, Jeff continues unlocking his locker at a leisurely pace. Only once he’s pulled the lock down and swung his locker open does he turn to meet her eyes.

“You mean, did I tell my best friend that Chrissy Cunningham has been writing him love notes?” Jeff asks. Chrissy shifts her eyes around, relieved that no one’s close enough to hear Jeff’s quiet voice.

Chrissy nods, something weighty sinking into her stomach the longer he goes without responding.

He turns back to his locker with a huff to dig around on the top shelf. “No,” he says, but before the relief can hit her, he continues, “I don’t want you to hurt him, and I think you will.”

“It’s not—I don’t—“ she stumbles in an embarrassing reenactment of last night. When he turns back to her with that same judgmental look, she shores herself up, clears her throat, and finally eeks out a full sentence. “I wouldn’t do that.”

Jeff’s expression doesn’t change as he asks, “so, what? You’re going to leave Harrington for him?”

Her silence must speak volumes because he slams his locker shut, and turns to walk away, calling, “that’s what I thought” over his shoulder.

She stands, transfixed, as he walks away.

His dismissal niggles at her, until she finds herself seeking him out again before the end of the day. He’s walking out of the bathroom, still shaking his hands dry as she rushes up to him, matching his stride down the hallway step for step.

“I’m not dating Steve,” she says.

It’s the first time she’s said it aloud, none of her friends close enough to confide in. But, here she is, telling the best friend of one half of the reason her and Steve are even doing this, entirely unprompted.

Jeff looks at her sidelong. “Did you tell the rest of the school that?”

Chrissy sweeps her ponytail over her shoulder as she rolls her eyes. She’d never told anyone her and Steve were dating. All it’d taken was her wearing his letterman, and that confrontation with Jason, and everyone had been convinced, no lying necessary.

“It doesn’t matter to me what they all think.”

It does, but she’s been spending too much time with Steve, and his aloof indifference to his image has been rubbing off. She’s glad.

“But you’re telling me, because what?” he asks, still skeptical. “You have a big crush on my best friend?”

He throws finger quotations around the word crush that would be insulting if he wasn’t right. She does like Eddie. He’s weird, but nice unless provoked. But the thought of kissing his dry lips makes her nose wrinkle.

“It’s not like that,” she says again.

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Whatever.”

He walks into his next class without another word. Chrissy continues down the hall, barely making it in time for her own.

It doesn’t get better.

Jeff’s dislike, visible in his eyes anytime they cross paths, cuts at her. She finds herself seeking him out, explaining again and again, or trying to without saying anything at all.

“It’s really not like that!” she says, finally frustrated enough to raise her voice. “Steve’s handwriting is atrocious so I was just—”

She cuts herself off, hands slamming over her mouth as she realizes what she’s said. It’s just, Jeff was making that face she hates again, that one with the raised brows and judgmental smirk, and she’d gotten mad.

“Steve’s handwriting…” Jeff murmurs quietly, eyebrows now lowered and furrowed in thought.

She might’ve been able to play it off. But the silence has lingered too long, and Chrissy’s never had much of a poker face. She knows the guilt and panic in her expression is damning; she still can’t seem to wipe it off her face.

“The notes…” Jeff starts, trailing off like he can’t bear to say it, “are from Steve?”

Chrissy clenches her hand tighter across her mouth like she can somehow retroactively shove her words back into her throat, stop Jeff from having the realization that might get Steve–who’s quickly becoming her best friend–killed. But, he keeps just looking at her. So, she nods, movements jerky and scared.

“Shit,” Jeff says, finally breaking eye contact to bend over and squeeze the bridge of his nose. “That explains so much.”

Unable to stop herself, Chrissy bursts into tears.

***

Eddie heads to his locker first thing in the morning. He’s been buzzing since he dropped off the last letter, hoping against hope that she’d check there again. And there, like an answer to his prayers, is an envelope resting atop his neglected Biology textbook.

Eddie’s ready to become a believer if all his hopes and dreams keep coming true. He’ll drop down on his knees and repent for all his sins if it means these letters keep coming. In fact, he’ll do it here and now, envelope clutched between sweaty palms as his knees smack into the unforgiving floor of the hallway. All the peons around him give him a wide berth as he smacks his palms together and sends up a prayer like he’s seen people do on TV.

“What the hell are you doing?” Jeff asks, squinting down at him like this is the weirdest thing he’s ever caught Eddie doing.

“Nothing!” Eddie replies, resisting the urge to shove the letter into his mouth. He hasn’t even got to read it yet, no way is he squandering this opportunity just because Jeff’s butting his nosy little nose into his business.

But when Eddie meets Jeff’s eyes, he looks so squinty and weird, and un-Jeff-like, that Eddie’s almost worried. He stands, bruised knees aching as he shoves the envelope—gently!—into the deep pocket of his jeans. Jeff watches the paper until it’s entirely out of sight.

“You okay?” Eddie asks, hand reaching out to cup Jeff’s shoulder.

Jeff shakes his head like a dog after a bath, finally looking away from the ass of Eddie’s jeans. “What?” he asks, before shaking his head again, and it must help shake a thought loose because the next thing he says is, “I’m fine.”

Eddie keeps his eyes fixed on Jeff, wondering if it’ll be enough to break him, but all Jeff does is clench his jaw and straighten his shoulders, a warrior ready for battle.

“All right,” Eddie says, reaching his finger out to boop Jeff’s nose in that way he hates. “Keep your secrets.”

Then, he turns and walks away. He smiles as Jeff sputters behind him, calling out, “I don’t have any secrets!” just as Eddie pushes into the bathroom.

There’s a few freshmen in there, but they scatter as Eddie enters. Even still, Eddie rushes into one of the stalls and locks it behind himself. This is about as far as a lit candle and mood lighting as one can get—Eddie smells the hints of the shit the last guy in here must have taken and the fluorescents are bright enough to drill a headache into his skull—but Eddie can’t wait any longer.

He tears into the envelope, as gently as he can with impatient, shaking fingers.

  Eddie —

  I know you don’t like them, but I like sports. There’s something about depending on your body to get you through a hard work-out, you know? But, I don’t know if it’s my thing, like Dungeons and Dragons and music are yours. Maybe I don’t have a thing. Is that weird?

  My favorite color is yellow, like the sun, and sunflowers, and all those happy, bright colors. I’d love to see you in such a bright color one day, even if I do love all the black and red. It suits you.

  I’ve never dreamt much, but when they’re good, they’re usually about you, so your hopes just might come true.

  I know your handwriting, and what you yell about for the world to hear, but I don’t know as much as I’d like. I want to know everything about you. What’s your favorite color? Do you have happy dreams?

  Yours, Always

  Your Secret Admirer

  P.S. Maybe put it in Romeo and Juliet this time, the edition with the tear in the cover.

Here, tucked away in this shitty bathroom in this shitty school, Eddie Munson smiles. He’s got another note to write, and another book in the library to find.

*** 

“I have some bad news.”

Steve’s barely stepped out of his car before Chrissy’s ambushing him. He takes a startled step back into the beemer, as he meets her gaze.

Chrissy’s wringing her hands together, anxiety wafting off her. Just behind her shoulder, a guy Steve only recognizes as one of Eddie’s friends is stoutly avoiding his eyes. Whatever this is, it’s got Steve’s gut sinking into his socks.

“What happened?” Steve asks hesitantly.

His mind’s ticking away, and coming up with all the worst case scenarios. Eddie’s in trouble, or hurt, or worse. What else could bring these two together?

“Jeff knows about the letters!” Chrissy cries, words all jumbled together in her rush to get them out.

Steve takes a step back, pressing his spine uncomfortably into the metal roof of his car, instinct against an unknown threat.  No one steps after him. It’s hard to take his eyes off Jeff and Chrissy, but he does. The parking lot’s crowded with warm bodies pushing between cars, desperate to make it to class on time.

Just moments ago, Steve was one of them.

“You told him?” Steve asks, eyes locked on Chrissy.

For her part, Chrissy’s eyes look big and shiny as she nods. She takes a step forward, and it takes everything in him not to step back. It’s just—he’d thought they were friends.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out, tears finally pouring out of her eyes.

Steve watches, stagnant, as the person he was starting to consider his best friend, cries. He wants to hug her, wants to scream at her, wants to run the hell out of here to lick his wounds in peace. But, Jeff takes a step forward, scowl on his face, and Steve takes two hasty steps back, tumbling painfully through his open driver’s side door and sprawling uncomfortably on his stick shift.

The few students nearby turn to look at him, saying snide comments to one another, barely polite enough to talk in whispers. He hardly notices, eyes locked on the main threat. Jeff’s face softens as he stops his forward momentum, foot still raised in the air for a step he doesn’t take. No one moves until everyone stops watching the spectacle and begins walking away.

Jeff’s the one who breaks the stand-off, voice quieter and gentler than he’d expected. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this here.”

Steve stares him down, still sprawled uncomfortably in his car. He’s right, but a small voice in the back of Steve’s head is wondering if they should do this at all. He wants to cut his losses and run. But, Chrissy’s still crying, and if his secret is going to be spread around the school, he’d rather have a head start out of town.

He crawls out of his seat, limbs feeling more ungainly and awkward than they have since he was prepubescent. It feels like every eye in town turns toward him as the sound of his closing car door echoes through the rapidly emptying parking lot.

“Follow me,” he says.

Turning his back on them feels like a show of trust he can’t afford, but he’s not following either of them off school grounds. The football field will be empty at this time on a Friday, especially with the rain coming down.

None of them are wearing coats, so he leads them beneath the bleachers. The rain still drips between the rafters, but there are a few dry spots big enough to stand in.

“Make-out spot, Harrington?” Jeff asks, mouth quirked up as he leans against one of the metal support beams despite it being wet and cold.

Steve’s intestines squirm around in his stomach at the way Jeff and Chrissy stay standing next to each other, a united front against Steve.

“It’s not like it’s Skull Rock,” Steve says, proud that his voice doesn’t shake. “Now, say what you want to say so I can go home.”

“There’s still school,” Chrissy hiccups out, as if he cares at all about that right now.

Jeff straightens, small smile dropping off his face as he eyes Steve. Chrissy’s face is wet. Steve’s just glad he can no longer tell what’s raindrops and what’s tears.

“I was being a dick to her,” Jeff says.

“No, you were—” Chrissy starts before Jeff talks right over her.

“All she said was that your handwriting was bad, and I put the rest together.”

A small part of Steve is soothed that Chrissy hadn’t told him on purpose. Accidents happen, he can understand that. But—

“Eddie told you about the letters?” Steve asks. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, Jeff and Eddie are always occupying the same spaces. They must be close.

Jeff shakes his head, but it’s Chrissy that speaks first, “he saw me putting one in Eddie’s locker.”

“Oh,” Steve says, slumping into himself.

They’re both staring at him now.

Steve’s never been good with silences. When his parents are gone, he leaves the TV on in the living room all hours of the day. At school, he surrounds himself with warm bodies, all making noise. In his car, there’s always a tape playing in his deck.

“So, should I start fleeing town?” Steve asks, trying for a joking tone, but his voice cracks tellingly on the last word.

“No!” Chrissy cries.

She rushes forward, wrapping the entirety of her small body around his like she can shelter him from any harms that might come for him. Steve stumbles back, barely stabilizing before they both go tumbling into the dirt.

He wraps his arms hesitantly around her, patting her back awkwardly as she undoubtedly cries into his shoulder. She’s short enough that he can put his chin on her head, so he does. She feels right in his arms—good and warm.

Why couldn’t he like her instead?

“It’s okay, Chris,” he says, but she’s too short to hide in, and he’s got a perfect view of Jeff, still in his original spot. “It’ll be okay.”

It feels like a lie when it comes out of his mouth. He meets Jeff’s eyes, surprised when he finds them warm.

“I won’t tell anyone,” Jeff says.

It’s only then that Steve realizes how haggard his breathing had become, like he’d been running suicide’s in the gym, not standing stationary fighting the fears of his own mind.

He sucks in an unencumbered breath, the stone constricting his lungs ground down to almost nothing. Steve nods, arms still wrapped around Chrissy like she might be ripped away from him. He couldn’t have expected anything better, not in Hawkins. Except, what’s the likelihood he gets this lucky again?

He’s two for two with good reactions, what’s the likelihood the third won’t play a nice game of smear the queer?

Except, this is one of Eddie’s best friends, and does “anyone” even include him?

“Even Eddie?” Steve asks, that same damning quiver back in his voice.

Jeff shakes his head, and before Steve can begin to panic, Jeff speaks, “I think you should tell him, but it’s your secret man.”

Steve tries to find any sign of a lie on Jeff’s face. The other boy just looks placidly back, waiting his scrutiny out.

“Thank you,” Chrissy and Steve say at the same time.

They collapse into each other, giggling like fools as the adrenaline leaves them both. Behind them, Jeff’s smiling like he finds this whole thing charming.

Three might be a crowd, but Steve’s never liked being alone. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

PART 5

[justwinginglife]

Hi!Can I have a request of Soshiro with operations manager fem reader?Where soshiro gets jealous and possessive because some recruits tries to hit on her during subjugation exercises or breaks but reader’s oblivious to it which frustrates hoshina more cause he’s the vc and needs to act more professional.

thank you in advance and also feel free to ignore this if you’re not up to it:)) have a good day

I'm always up for it! Thanks for the message, you have the best of days!

Whoever said jealousy was a bad thing never met Soshiro Hoshina- that man makes anything look sexy, especially jealousy.

Today, he was especially attractive the way his breath was heaving in his muscled chest and his knuckles were white from the sheer effort he was putting into clenching his fists. His eyes were darting back and forth from the part of your lips as they laughed to the blush on the officer's cheeks as he heard your laugh. Hoshina thought his bottom lip might bruise from the way he was piercing it, anxiously waiting for you to wave the officer away. You never did and he drew blood.

He sucked in a sharp breath as he watched you, the taste of iron flooding his mouth. But focusing on the bitter taste was keeping his possessiveness at bay, so he pressed his tongue against his dripping lip and continued to sulk in silence. He was the Vice Captain, his time was important and he couldn't afford to waste it fighting men off of you, much as he'd like to. If it was up to him, no man would even breathe near you let alone talk to you, make you laugh like that. He should be the one making you laugh like that, he bristled.

He could tell the officer was soaking in the sound of your voice and for a moment, he couldn't really blame them. He'd fallen in love with the sound of your voice over the comms. That was how he'd met you, after all. You had taken over for Okonogi one day while she was sick and his surprise at hearing a different voice in his ear was quickly overtaken by pleasure as he heard you barking out orders. You were so much more assertive than Okonogi. You'd tell an officer when they were making a dumb move- "Your combat power is no match for that honju, fall back and reinforce the rear, you're still injured after all," and you had extensive kaiju knowledge, always reciting where you thought the core would be and directing the best method of attack. You had no fear, you were always confident that the officers would perfectly carry out your plans so you didn't waver in your instructions.

Hoshina always thought you were meant for more than operations manager, you should be at Director Shinomiya's side strategizing battle. But he was thankful you stayed in the Third Division where he could keep an eye on you. And honestly, he was grateful that you were there to keep an eye on him as well.

When he was fighting Kaiju Number 10 and he got slammed against a wall, unable to speak from the force of taking such a hit, and everyone including Okonogi thought he might be out for good, you alone stayed seated in your chair, arms crossed. You watched as everyone leapt up, worry-stricken, as they yelled for him to answer. You just leaned back even further in your chair and said simply, "He's not done yet, just watch." You knew better. You would never underestimate the Vice Captain.

The Vice Captain had taken on many tough beasts and cruel challenges in his lifetime, but the worst thing he could ever endure was now happening right in front of his eyes. The officer was now asking for your number. Your eyes widen in surprise, "Don't tell me you didn't know what he was talking to you for," Hoshina hisses under his breath. Then he can't take it anymore.

He strides over to the both of you, trying to keep his movements even and his breaths smooth. He stands up straight as he looks down at the other man, sizing him up.

"Officer. Don't you have better things to do than bother her?" He demands, the edge in his voice cutting through the air like one of his swords.

The officer shrinks in his presence and you smirk.

"Ah but we were just getting to the good part." You tease, trying to see how far you can push him.

Hoshina's nostrils flare and his eyes burn down at the man before him. He can't bring himself to look at you, knowing he's being unreasonably territorial, so he takes it out on the poor officer.

"Is that so? And here I thought you were supposed to be training. Here, let me help you with your training, give me 50 push-ups." He spits out.

You roll your eyes and set a hand on Hoshina's arm, feeling his muscles flex at your touch. "Alright that's enough, he's learned his lesson." You look down at the boy, who has started shakily doing his push-up's. "You can go now. Just don't let the Vice Captain catch you asking for my number again, okay?" He nods quickly and runs off.

"Happy now, love?" You ask him.

He pulls you into his arms. "Immensely."

You laugh but sink into his arms anyway. "You know I'm all yours, dumbass."

"Yeah- how 'bout you tell everyone else that?" He growls against your neck.

You shake your head. "Nah, I think this is significantly more fun. You're sexy when you get jealous." You pull back a little so he can see you wink at him.

He groans, rolling his eyes at you before pulling you back into his embrace.

"You're going to be the death of me."

[razorblade180]

Together again

Carmine:Mom? Can I ask an odd question?

Ruby:If an odd question is asked by an odd girl to her odd daughter, isn’t it just normal? *flips pancakes* All ears.

Carmine:Hypothetically, if I met you at my age, who would win in a fight?

Ruby:Hmmm good question. You’re fifteen so, you kick my ass. Even if I’m thinking about me in Beacon.

Carmine:Really?

Ruby:I was scrappy but very kick-able unfortunately. Your birthday is close so if we’re entertaining this seriously then I think my journey to Haven still wouldn’t be enough.

Carmine:And Atlas?

Ruby:I fear I kick your ass. I was really hitting my stride at that point. Plus I was pretty temperamental then. We might punch the spit out of each other for a bit.

Carmine:That’s interesting. Guess I’m not as far behind as I imagined.

Ruby:I wouldn’t compare your progress to mine. Life is pretty different from when I was your age.

Carmine:I can’t compare myself to my peers since they all suck! You might’ve saved the world a little too hard. Not many cream in the crop anymore.

Ruby:Ha! You overestimate me. Sure, I killed Salem in a pretty fantastic way, but I don’t think i curved the skill level of the world. There are plenty huntsmen that were underwhelming growing up. Then some of them are late bloomers.

Carmine:Do late bloomers survive?

Jaune:*walks in* I did. For the most part.

Carmine:You were a late bloomer?

Jaune:Yeah I sucked.

Ruby:*scrambling eggs* Don’t listen to him. Your father did not suck. He was painfully average for quite a while.

Jaune:That doesn’t sound any better.

Ruby:You were starting from scratch; it’s only natural. I’m not a fan of trail by fire but your father made every experience that for himself. Paid off in in the end.

Carmine:How did you keep up before that?

Jaune:Your mother was in love with me so she stuck to my side.

Ruby:*red* That is not the reason!

Jaune:I mean it kinda is.

Ruby:Carmine, as a leader and someone who influenced others to go with her, I wouldn’t leave them behind. That’s bad leadership and a recipe for disaster.

Jaune:She was mostly worried about something happening to me and being too far ahead meant potentially losing me, the person she loved.

Ruby:….*flips pancakes* It was a valid fear.

Jaune:*kisses her head* It was.

Carmine:Hmm, that makes sense. You would be more effective together.

Ruby:Am I sensing a bit of longing to have a team?

Carmine:Nah. Not really. They’d definitely make things more of a hassle. Although, I will admit aimless chatter around a campfire and meals makes me a little envious. The past two years at Beacon were pretty dull solo.

Ruby:Friendship feeds the soul. There’s people here in Vacou I know that will be happy to see your face around. Even of the conversations are awkward, make sure to greet them. I know Aero probably misses you~

Carmine:Heh, is that so? Guess that should be more first stop. *stands up* I’m heading out.

Ruby:Huh!? But breakfast! It’s almost all done.

Carmine:Yeah, but….it’s not dad’s breakfast soooooo.

Ruby:What’s wrong with my pancakes! They’re awesome!

Carmine:I never said they were bad. It’s just that compared to dad’s, I fear they’re painfully average.

The girl smiled as she slowly grabbed one anyways and held it with her mouth as she waved goodbye before leaving out the front door with an apple.

Ruby:…..

Jaune:And just like her mother, she is my number one defender.

Ruby:I put so much love into these!

Carmine, in the distance: I CAN TASTE IT!

Ruby:*squints* I don’t think that makes me feel better.

Jaune:There’s always lunchtime.

[madhatterbri]

Business Deals | D.P.

Summary: Damian Priest x reader request, please?? 😀. Instead of Rhea being out with an injury, it was Damian, but his relationship with the reader isn't toxic like Rhea and Dom's. Reader is in a relationship with Damian and a member of the judgment day. However, when Damian gets injured, Y/N gets sick of Rhea's controlling ways and decides to do business with Braun Strowman behind their backs. On the night that reader finally turns on TJD and attacks Rhea, Damian returns and confronts her. You can pick a happy or sad ending, and btw, the reader didn't cheat on Damian.

Author's Note: No part 2!

Damian Priest Masterlist

Requested by: anon

Taglist: @plentyoffandoms @theworldofotps @mrsarcherofinfamy

Y/N could feel the tension in the room when she was alone with Rhea. There was no more hiding their true feelings. They absolutely couldn't stand one another. At least when Damian was around, he was the buffer. Now it was all discord in Judgment Day.

"Can I count on you tonight to help me with the Liv Morgan problem?" Rhea asked stiffly. Her arms crossed over her chest.

"We won't have to worry about her anymore," Y/N answered and looked in Rhea's eyes. Her words have a double meaning. One that Rhea will find out during the main event. Mami smiled and walked away. Y/N glared at the woman as she left.

Samantha Irvin introduced them to the arena. The crowd gave a huge pop for Rhea. They absolutely adored her. The woman could simply do no wrong in their eyes. How wrong the WWE Universe was.

Y/N followed her like an obedient follower. This would be the very last time of doing this, she told herself. Liv was in a corner cowering in fear. Her arm pressed closely to her chest. The coward started to plead for her life.

Rhea went up the stairs and into the ring to talk to Liv. Y/N reached under the ring to grab a chair. Within moments, Y/N stood right behind her. All her weeks of planning were about to come to light.

"Y/N, show Liv here what happens when you mess with Judgment Day," Rhea laughed into the microphone.

Y/N grabbed the chair and raised it. She smacked the chair to the back of Rhea. The air in the arena was sucked out. The beloved Rhea Ripley fell to her knees and on the ground. Boos from the arena sounded loudly, but Y/N didn't care. She was finally free.

"I'm done with your controlling ways, Rhea," Y/N yelled in the microphone. She continued her assault on Rhea. The chair came down a few more times. Before the last blow, Finn and JD jumped in the ring.

They were yelling at her to stop. A yelling match broke out in the ring. JD reached out for the chair, but she backed away. Both men were trying to talk some sense into her. The damage was done, though.

Braun Strowman's entrance music played. The two men looked at each other and then the ramp. Braun stormed down the ramp. Each long stride of his legs, carrying him closer to the ring.

"Meet my new friend," Y/N laughed. Braun walked up the stairs and went over the top rope. Finn and JD ran out of the ring. Braun ran after them.

Y/N went back to hit Rhea one more time. Boos sounded once more from the horrified audience. Referees and Adam Pierce ran around the ring to stop the assault. No one could stop her or so she thought.

Damian Priest pushed his way through to the ring. He grabbed the microphone and demanded to know what she was doing.

"I made my own business deal. Aren't you proud of me?" Y/N asked with a huge smile. Damian stared at her in shock. This wasn't the woman he was in a relationship with before his injury.

"Braun is one of our biggest threats. He has berm against us for weeks. Are you really working with him?" Damian asked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing and seeing.

"I told him not to hurt you. I would never hurt you. Just join me," Y/N smiled and reached her hand out to him.

Damian shook his head. "I can't. We are done,"

Damian walked away as Y/N stood in the ring, suddenly feeling more alone than ever.

[jeongguksu]

heartbreak

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: angst

warnings: just a lot angst, reader is deeply insecure!

You thought you were okay.

Maybe things have been slow, but isn’t that what heartbreak is all about? Picking up the pieces of your heart one by one until it is whole again. Tedious, but inevitable. And it hasn’t been that long, right?

Wrong. Maybe not for you, but it has been long enough for him.

Because, for the first time in seven months, you’re standing in the middle of the drinks aisle of the grocery store, contemplating about which to get between a bottle of Pepsi or Sprite, and you see him.

Jungkook.

And, just like that, all the pieces you have picked up until now have already shattered once more on the ground.

The moment you notice him is almost surreal, as he edges into your field of vision from the left. He looks well. Memories rush back in your head. All the shared times together you have tried so hard to suppress in the last couple of months. They come back so fast, and there’s a pang on the left side of your chest. It hurts like a dagger. Stabbing your already broken heart as you revisit your failed relationship. Revisiting a part of you that should not see the light of the day ever again.

Because he’s got a girl next to him.

You don’t know her, you haven’t seen her around, but she’s pretty. She’s got those bridal hair waves that you always wanted to have, a childlike smile that could charm any guy who sees it. The white off-shoulder dress flatters her body and waist, making her look like a princess out of a Disney movie.

Taller, prettier, skinnier than you. And Jungkook’s looking at her with that bunny smile on his face. One that he would only make when he was with you.

Was.

But you stare for far too long, and his eyes break away from her beautiful face, slowly creeping towards you.

No, no, no. He cannot see me like this.

Your back is already facing the couple, shrinking into your black hoodie. The drink has long been forgotten, and you step away.

“Y/N?”

Your name slips out of his lips like a melody—gosh, you have missed the sound of his voice—but it only makes you stride away faster. And faster.

Fast enough that, in a flash, you are already outside of the store, taking in the cold wind hitting you like a slap in the face. The growing ache in your chest is suffocating you that you don’t even notice the tears streaming down your face.

Because all you can really remember is the pain spread across his face when you ended things.

“But… why?” His voice breaks, and you can feel your composure unraveling.

“I– I don’t– it’s not…” the words come undone. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

And he almost cries. “That’s not a fucking—! If you’regoing to throw away two years of us, you should at least be able to tell me why!”

Because you’re too good for me. Because I can’t offer what you want. Because I’m not the person you deserve to be with. “Because… because…”

Your mouth opens to speak, but you’re paralyzed. Out of fear. Out of selfishness. Out of love.

“Nevermind,” Jungkook utters, the sound of defeat, “keep the words to yourself.”

author’s note i forgot i even wrote this but sorry idk what i was going through cuz this is angsty as hell lmao

[inexplicifics]

If you're still doing snippets, I don't think we've had the Eldritch Trio one yet?

Also the Weird Omegaverse Warprize Thing is intriguing from the bits so far.... honestly I'm generally stoked for the entirety of the list.

If you feel like showing off one that hasn't been mentioned yet, blank space here!

Eldritch Trio:

The trio are all staring at Voltehre in bafflement as Lambert sits down. Well, Gweld is staring a little bit over Voltehre’s head. He never looks anyone in the eye unless he means to overpower their will. But the bafflement is still definitely there. “Hello,” Eskel says at last, a little warily. “Did you lose a bet?” “No,” Voltehre says, giving Eskel a sunny smile. “I wanted to say hello, and Lam thinks you’re fascinating.” Lambert covers his face with a hand and prays the Grasses really did destroy his ability to blush. “Fascinating,” Geralt rumbles, and Lambert shudders at the sound. It’s not fear running down his spine, though maybe it should be. “Fascinating,” Gweld lilts, sounding amused. Lambert puts his hands on the table to push himself upright - he isn’t going to stay here and be mocked, fuck Voltehre for dragging him into this - One of Eskel’s tentacles curls around his wrist. “Stay,” Eskel says. “Fascinating’s better than most of the things we get called when they think we can’t hear.”

Weird omegaverse war prize thing:

As the barbarians finish eating, they get up and leave the hall, without any ceremony whatsoever; by the time Jaskier has cleared his plate, the hall is three-quarters empty. And it’s as he’s setting his mug down empty - he has to admit he rather likes the strong tisane they were served - that a beautiful young woman gets up from one of the other tables, leans down to kiss the barbarian she was sitting next to on the mouth, and comes striding over to the omegas. She’s tall and blonde, with blue-grey eyes and a generously curved figure that suggests both strength and probable fertility, and as she gets close enough to smell, Jaskier realizes she’s an omega. He wracks his brain hastily, but he doesn’t think the young barbarian she kissed was one of those who claimed any of Jaskier’s companions, so she’s probably not coming over to assert her own prior claim to her alpha - “Hullo,” she says, sliding onto the bench across from Jaskier. “I’m Julita.”

And for the author's choice - knight!Milena

The first thing Lambert thinks when he sees the armored figure riding at the manticore is, Well shit, that’s a waste of a good horse. It is a good horse: an enormous black stallion, maybe even larger than Scorpion, with absolutely beautiful conformation. It dwarfs its rider entirely; Lambert, watching the coming catastrophe with a grimace, assumes some squire has stolen his knight-master’s mount and is trying to prove himself worthy of his spurs, and is just going to get himself eaten for his trouble. Manticores are basically only vulnerable at eyes and mouth, and the chances of the rider hitting either of those with a lance-tip from a full gallop are… Lambert’s own mouth drops open, and he stands there gaping like a complete nitwit as the rider’s lance takes the manticore squarely in its open maw, the full force of the horse’s weight behind it, and the manticore goes back on its haunches and then over onto its side, taking the lance with it. The rider reins in the horse, curving neatly away from the fallen monster, and trots around to face his defeated enemy, sensibly drawing his sword as he goes. The manticore is busy going through its death throes, though; the rider halts his horse and waits, alert but unmoving, until the creature finally breathes its last.

[starlightsearches]

Heloooos! I've been sober from using tumblr for almost two years but your recent Hux post has me relapsing and its all your doing in the best ways possible. If it gives you any inspo, could you mayhaps write a modern!hux who has reader as their personal guard? My current job has me babysitting a higher up as punishment (the guy makes my life miserable but if was The Armitage Hux I would bark if he asked). Like an enemies to lovers and refusing to just be his friend due to too many feelings ?????

Sleepless Nights

Thanks for the request, my love! Sorry if it's not "enemies" enough for you, I have this insane fear of people being angry with me so I've never been good at the whole enemies to lovers thing. Anyways, let me know if you like what you see :0) Comments, likes, and reblogs are very cool!

Warnings: Kind of slutty, kind of rambly, hux is kind of toxic, language. I think that's it!

You're about three bites into your wilty Caesar salad when the alarm on your phone chimes.

You fiddle with the volume buttons for a second before silencing the noise completely, steeling yourself in preparation for the look you just know Veronica is sending your way.

It's worse than you'd anticipated. You actually flinch a little when you meet her eyes.

She stabs at her own food ferociously, but doesn't take a bite of the pad thai she ordered, bringing the fork level with her gaze. Being on the business end of those tines makes your heart beat a little faster.

"I thought you had twenty minutes for lunch."

You sneak the lid of your Tupperware in between your fingers, slipping it back over the top what's left of your food.

"No . . . I said the meeting would be twenty minutes. I have to be back at my desk before he's done."

Veronica chews at her bottom lip, and you just know that—if you were sitting anywhere that wasn't right outside her boss's office—she'd be cussing you out for, once again, letting Hux take advantage of your truly incredible work ethic.

Lucky for you, if there's one thing your friend likes more than violent outbursts, it's office gossip. The urge overtakes her, and Veronica leans in closer with a passing glance at Phasma's open door, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

"What's his deal lately, anyway?"

Interesting. You thought you were the only one who had noticed a change in Hux's temperament.

He had a reputation, of course—there was a reason he'd had five different executive assistants in the past year—and everybody checked over their shoulders before they bitched about him in the break room.

It hit you hardest—always in the blast radius, so to speak—with your desk just outside his door. You'd spent plenty of time rolling your eyes behind his back, or muttering curses under your breath when you heard his door latch.

But you'd put up with a lot more for a lot less, and you found you were able to take most of your boss's asshole-ish tendencies in stride.

So what if the hours are long? Sitting at your desk late into the night, filing memos and typing up emails between coffee runs was lonely, but your nights before the job were, too. At least now you were getting paid.

The past few weeks had been strange, though. Longer hours, later nights. His presence hovering over your shoulder or watching you through the crack in his door, that nervous energy always focused on you, waiting for you to misstep.

Then there were the calls during the few moments you were outside of the office, filled with reminders for routines you'd never once forgotten. Hux had been fidgety and restless during those morning debriefs and stumbling over his words half the time he passed your desk with some new directive.

"What's his deal ever?" you counter, and she snorts—then when that feels too mean, "he said he hasn't been sleeping."

Veronica purses her lips, smiling around the next word.

"Oh."

You really don't have the time to wait around for an explanation—the elevator up to the top floor already takes three minutes on its own—but, god, the way she says that word stops you like an ice pick to the heart.

"What?"

"Come on," she rolls her eyes, wondering how you could be so obtuse, "everybody knows that when a guy says he can't sleep it's because . . ."

She waits for you to fill in the rest.

"Uhhhhh . . ."

"It means," Veronica sighs, yanking you closer by the arm so nobody will overhear, "that he's been thinking about you. You know, like—" she mimics the beat of some cheesy porn intro, with the bwops and the chicka-waahs.

As if you didn't already get the message.

Your stomach rolls, and not with hunger—although you're wasting valuable time you could have to shovel the rest of your lunch into your mouth on the way back to your desk.

It takes a moment, but you manage a weak laugh, shaking yourself out of your stupor.

Hux didn't think about you like that. He didn't think about you at all unless he was reading his dictations over your shoulder while you were still writing them, just in case he needed to preemptively correct your mistakes.

"Uh, okay, you're insane."

Veronica's brows come together at the challenge—you know she won't stand for that. She scans the immediate area until she narrows in on a victim.

"Hey, Stephen."

The new intern's on his third trip past her desk since you got here, turning so quick to the side you're surprised his head stays attached to his neck.

He's been waiting for this moment all day.

Stephen's cute—dark, fluffy hair and big eyes—eager like a puppy with his clumsy, loping walk . . . and he's got no fucking chance. Veronica would chew him into pieces.

He runs over to her desk, totally clueless to that.

"What's up?"

Veronica smiles, leaning over her desk so the top of her button-down starts to split open. Stephen develops a twitch in his eye trying to keep his gaze level with hers.

"What does it mean when a guy tells a girl that he's having trouble sleeping?"

He relaxes visibly, like someone just asked him the color of the sky.

"Oh, yeah. It means he wants to fuck her."

Stephen gives the answer to you—well aware of his role—then looks to Veronica, waiting for a good boy and a dog treat and a pat on the head.

You feel like you've stepped into the twilight dimension. When the fuck did that become common knowledge?

"Okay, you're both insane, and now I'm running late."

Your steps are harried on the way back to the elevator, begging the engine to move faster or the second-hand on your watch to tick slower. Trying not to think about your boss, thinking about you every night, twisted up in his sheets.

Because, yeah, you had your daydreams. Everybody needs something to distract from the drudgery of all those fucking emails. It never mattered much to you who had you pinned against the shelves in the supply closet of your mind.

Just a little entertainment to wake you up during the afternoon slump—feverish hands and desperation and the crisp smell of copy paper.

But you've always had a thing for a well-cut suit. And Hux had plenty of those.

So what if you were kind of into him and his weird little hard-ass routine? You'd never dream of going any further than your daydreams.

But was he going further? And what did that look like?

Your palms are sweating when you get back to your desk, and you can't get the image out of your head—Hux with sweat beading down the taut skin of his neck, with his arms caging you against a wall, with his hips pinning yours against the hard edge of his desk.

You hardly have time to plant your ass in your chair before you hear the tell-tale footsteps around the corner.

Speak of the devil—or, you know, daydream about fucking him.

"Any calls?"

Hux barely glances in your direction—always on the move lately—no room in his schedule to actually stop at your desk and speak to you. You'd guess he's only got time for three directives before he's out of earshot.

Good news. Maybe you could make it out of here before midnight.

"I'm still working through them, sir, but I'll let you know if anything important has come through."

Total lie. You haven't even looked at the phone. And you can't look him in the eye either, feeling flushed and frantic.

Oh god. Do you look flushed and frantic?

Hux doesn't notice either way. Maybe Veronica was wrong and decided to ruin your entire life on a whim.

"Make sure you have a car prepared for the event on Friday. I won't stay longer than twenty minutes."

"Of course, sir. I'll call and let him know."

You had already made that call, but you'd have to update Mitaka, still. That's ten minutes less than the original time you gave him.

He's half-way into his office when he turns back for his last demand, "and I'll need you late, again, tonight."

Fuck. So close. You'd have to reschedule that date with your vibrator.

"Of course, sir. Whatever you need."

I'll need you late, again, tonight?

Could he make it any more fucking obvious?

Hux feels like slamming his head against the wall. He would, maybe, if he wasn't sure you'd hear the rattling window and come to see what his problem was. And that would only present more opportunities for him to make a fool of himself.

He certainly doesn't need any more of those.

It seemed like good advice when it was first given to him—"spending more time together" would be an easy first step, if it didn't also involve time-and-a-half for you. The paychecks he was signing were starting to look as ridiculous as the little infatuation he's been carrying.

Not that it mattered. If money was what you wanted, he'd give it. Anything to endear himself to you.

But the extra time—and the money—aren't helping. You're as distant as ever, maybe moreso, with the fog of sleeplessness and your inevitable irritability at his constant demands.

It's his own damn feelings that get in the way. He can't concentrate, not with the shape of your legs in those pencil skirts. He spends most meetings in wondering how to find out the name of the perfume you wear.

And where he can find a bottle of it for personal use.

Nights, still, are worse.

That's where this all started. Hux hardly ever had dreams, and the few dreams he did have in those short, unconscious hours were never memorable.

Then he woke with the feeling soft skin enveloping his cheeks, tasting you on his lips. And god, those noises you were making for him, your fingers through his hair, begging for him to come closer, to give you more.

It flipped the switch. You went from a passive—albeit attractive—body in a chair to a person. A someone.

A need.

He knew it was wrong. He knew, even with his sweat soaking the sheets and his heavy hand resting on his abdomen that this would ruin so much for him.

The mind can be reasoned with, if the body is hungry enough. And Armitage is so, so hungry for you.

On the nights he manages to resist, he imagines, wonders. Are you alone? Do you think of him? Or are you warming someone else's bed, rolling from their sheets with a heavy sigh every time Armitage's contact pops up on your phone screen?

That worry has him sick to his stomach.

So it's best to keep you close. Keep an eye on you.

Hux looks up from the stack of reports he's been reviewing, shifts in his chair just right until he can see you through the window outside his office without you noticing him.

It puts a god-awful crick in his neck if he sits like this too long. His chiropractor commented on it during his last appointment.

Normally there's not much to see—a Solitare window pulled up when you think he won't notice, the shape of your back curved gracefully. Sometimes your bra visible through the fabric of your thin, white shirts.

Not today, though. You're sitting ram-rod straight, one hand brushing some loose hair behind your ear. All your attention focused on the towering man in front of you, his arms propped against the top edge of your desk and a leering grin on his face.

Ren.

Armitage almost falls with the force of his shock, and then settles along with an empty rage in the pit of his stomach.

Of course Ren would have noticed Hux's preoccupation. And of course he would wield Hux's feelings against him.

There's an animal inside his chest, clawing to get out, giving him half a mind to stomp out there, chase Ren away with some biting remark and a hand on the back of your chair.

But there's a fear that runs deeper. Maybe you'd prefer someone like Ren.

A man who is in every way Hux's opposite. Volatile. Domineering. Powerfully built.

Could Armitage compete?

His inadequacy floods him with a distasteful anger. Armitage will put an end to it immediately. Call you into his office and berate you for socializing during working hours, shame you for inappropriate and obvious mooning over a superior.

He'll make you feel small, ashamed. The way he feels right now.

Too late for all his bravado. Ren steps away from your desk with one glance back, a knowing smirk on his face. Hux almost feels like it's a look meant for him, like Ren can find his gaze through the wall.

Armitage stands from the chair, unsure what his purpose is and knowing he'll defer to anger, as always. Knowing it will make you hate him more than you probably already do.

You don't start immediately when the door opens, and he can't tell from his view of the back of your head what you're thinking.

How many times had he wished he could delve into your mind, pull out gauzy strings of your memories, any thought or emotional tug you'd had in his vicinity? How many times had he hoped you might give him a hint or a sign that you felt anything for him at all?

Armitage coughs, and you jump, turning in your chair until you meet his eyes.

"My office," he tells you, and turns back without waiting to see if you'll follow.

Your steps are quiet in the already quiet office. Everyone else has gone home by now, leaving the two of you alone, and the lights buzz menacingly over the sound of your heels rustling against the carpet. You take your usual seat across from his desk. Armitage stays on his feet, hoping to channel his anxious energy somewhere, liking the way it feels to tower over you.

"Did you need something, sir?"

He knows you're nervous. You don't try to hide it, fidgeting with your fingers, chewing at your lip, avoiding his eyes. Armitage wishes that it was him that made you feel that way, not his position, not his reputation for anger.

"What did Ren want?" he asks.

Your lips part, and then come back together in hesitation, planning an appropriate answer, wondering how he'll react.

"His assistant put in her two weeks notice today," you tell him.

He hums, waiting for more. Your lips flush a lighter shade when you press them more tightly together, and he knows you'll acquiesce.

"He offered me the position, sir."

Armitage sees red, feels his hands curl into fists where they rest behind his back. That arrogant, underhanded, low-life bastard. Hux would . . .

He keeps a cool tone, arches a brow. "And?"

"I told him I appreciated the offer but I'd prefer keep my current position."

And that gives him pause. Has the strange, effervescent hope alight in his chest, but something else snuffs it out.

"Why?"

Hux can't hide the skepticism in his voice, the aching disbelief that you would choose him in any context, but especially this.

Everyone knew working under Armitage was . . . trying. He saw the looks of pity you received from other secretaries as they packed their bags for the night, knew they were taking some solace at your misery while sipping on their happy-hour cocktails. He's well aware that he is demanding, and stubborn, and always so exacting.

He's like that in his personal life, too. Which is why he is always alone.

Your brows come together in an obvious but uncharacteristic sign of anger.

"I'm not afraid of hard work, sir."

"I am aware of that, but—"

Why is he so desirous to argue against himself? You are the best assistant he's ever had. Unfortunately, pushing people away is a skill he's mastered over and over and over again.

"Do you want me to leave?" you interrupt him, arms crossing defensively over your chest.

Part of him wants to say yes. To rid himself of this weakness you've blossomed in him, to keep everything under his control and eliminate all other variables.

Your lips press tighter together—Hux would assume he's hurt you, if he thought he had that kind of power.

He's been silent too long. You stand from your chair, brush your hands over your skirt to smooth out the wrinkles.

"Alright, then." You speak without meeting his eyes, heading for the door.

Armitage isn't sure what makes you stop, not until you glance down at your wrist, and he mirrors the movement, sees his own hand circling it.

A perfect fit.

"Sir?"

Your voice is hazy, blurred out by the warmth of your skin and the smell of your perfume and the way your eyes go wide when Armitage makes his approach.

Without saying a word or offering a hint of an apology, Hux is kissing you.

[moonselune]

By the Silk that Binds Us (pt. 10)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Matron!Minthara x Forced!Betrothed!reader

CW: murder, gore, time skip!

An arranged marriage, enemies to lovers fic: part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven part eight part nine part eleven

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The hours crawl by as you wait, every passing minute gnawing at your resolve. You’ve been through countless battles, faced countless dangers, but nothing compares to the anxiety that grips you now. The ambush against the Seldarine should have been over hours ago, and yet there’s been no word, no sign of Minthara’s return. You clench your hands into fists, trying to banish the fear that threatens to consume you.

Then, at last, you hear the sound of footsteps, the buzz of returning warriors. Your heart leaps, and without a second thought, you sprint toward the coves where the war spiders are kept, your breath catching in your throat. As you weave through the crowd, your eyes dart from face to face, desperately searching until—there. You see her, Minthara, standing tall as always, the faint sheen of battle still clinging to her skin.

Relief floods through you, and you call out her name, your voice breaking just a little. She turns, and the sight that greets you makes your heart soar. Strapped snugly to her chest is your daughter, Lythaera, her tiny hands clutching at Minthara’s armor as she babbles happily, entirely unaware of the chaos she’s just left behind.

You reach them in a heartbeat, gathering Lythaera into your arms and holding her close, as if to reassure yourself that she’s truly there, truly safe. You shower her in kisses, murmuring endearments against her soft snow hair, and her delighted giggles fill the air.

"My little spiderling, my sweet Lythaera," you whisper, blinking back tears. Minthara watches, her arms crossing over her chest, one eyebrow arching with playful exasperation.

"Oh, I see how it is," she drawls. "Completely ignored, am I?"

You glare at her, though there’s no heat in it. "You took her to the front lines!" you scold, still holding Lythaera tightly. "She’s two years old, Minthara!"

"She loved it," Minthara replies, entirely unrepentant. "She helped her mother slaughter Seldarine scum, didn't you my little terror?"

Minthara coos and swiped some dirt from Lythaera's cheek. You open your mouth to scold her again, but a familiar voice interrupts.

"Has anyone seen my dearests?" Lesaonar asks, striding toward you with an anxious frown. Before Minthara can answer, Melinoe emerges from the crowd with a confident smirk, a little dirtied but unharmed.

"Calm yourself, Lesaonar," Melinoe chides, her voice teasing yet affectionate, though there’s a hint of exasperation beneath. "You fret more than an old priestess in a temple."

Before Lesaonar can respond, three small figures dart out from behind her, their excitement palpable. Lira, Sarae, and Viroen rush toward their father with all the unrestrained energy only children possess, their faces lit up with joy and pride. In an instant, they collide with him, nearly knocking him off his feet as they all wrap their little arms around him. Only six years in age, but as spirited as eager warriors.

“Papa! Papa!” they exclaim in unison, their voices rising in a chorus of excitement. Lesaonar laughs, the tension melting from his features as he wraps his arms around his triplets.

"Well, what’s all this? Did my brave little warriors come back victorious?" he asks, his tone warm and doting.

"We got to use weapons!" Lira announces proudly, her ruby eyes sparkling. She holds up a tiny dagger, less of a toy and more like an actual weapon, brandishing it with all the seriousness of a seasoned warrior. "Mama said I was really good with it!"

"I wasn’t scared at all!" Sarae adds, puffing out her chest, clearly trying to look as fearless as possible. "I even hit a Seldarine warrior!"

Viroen, usually the quietest, grins up at his father, holding out his own little weapon. "I did too, Papa! Just like you showed me!"

Lesaonar’s face softens with pride, and he ruffles each of their hair affectionately.

"You all did wonderfully," he praises. "But you must always remember to be careful, yes? Even the bravest warriors know when to be cautious."

Melinoe smirks, crossing her arms. "They were perfect, just like their mother," she declares, and Lesaonar rolls his eyes, but there’s an undeniable warmth in the way he looks at her. As the chaos of the family reunion continues, Minthara nudges you gently with her elbow.

"You know," she says, her voice low and teasing, "that will be Lythaera soon enough. Charging into battle with her weapon, ready to take on the world."

You clutch Lythaera a little closer to your chest, her tiny head nestled under your chin, as if shielding her from the very idea. Lythaera squirms slightly, reaching out to the chaos of her cousins.

"Absolutely not," you murmur, pressing a kiss to her soft hair. "She’ll be a sorceress like her mama. No weapons, no front lines."

Minthara rolls her eyes but there’s a tenderness in her gaze as she watches you.

"You’re going to coddle her," she says, though there’s no real reproach in her tone.

"She’s two," you retort, not willing to concede this point. With a playful sigh, Minthara leans in, her lips brushing just above your ear.

"You coddle her because you’re afraid she’ll be too much like me," she whispers, her breath warm against your skin. And for a moment, you’re tempted to give in, to let her steal that kiss. But you catch yourself, just in time, and press a finger to her lips.

"Only good wives get kisses," you say with a smirk, watching as her eyes narrow in playful indignation.

She lets out an exaggerated scoff, though the corners of her mouth twitch with amusement. "Is that so? And what makes a good wife, pray tell?"

You lean in, just close enough that she can feel the warmth of your breath against her skin, and whisper, "A good wife doesn’t sneak her daughter to the front lines of battle."

Minthara laughs, a genuine, rich sound that echoes off the cavern walls. She shakes her head, amused, and presses a gentle kiss to Lythaera’s forehead.

As you turn to leave, Lythaera still snug in your arms, Minthara takes a swift step closer, her hand sliding to the back of your neck. Before you can protest, she pulls you in, capturing your lips in a deep, lingering kiss. It’s as if she’s pouring all her relief and love into that single moment, and for a heartbeat, you forget everything else. When she finally pulls back, there’s a sly smile on her lips, her eyes glinting with that familiar spark.

“Stealing kisses now?” you murmur, breathless, a hand still lingering on her waist. Minthara shrugs, utterly unrepentant.

“It’s not stealing if it’s already mine,” she retorts, tracing a finger along your jawline. You can only shake your head, torn between amusement and exasperation.

“I have to tend to Lythaera,” you say, though your voice is softer, warmer now.

“I’ll be waiting,” Minthara replies, giving you one last lingering look before you finally pull away, turning your full attention to your daughter.

You make your way back to your quarters, Lythaera babbling happily in your arms. Her small hands reach out to pat your cheeks, her eyes bright with the excitement that only a two-year-old can muster. Oh how Lolth had blessed you.

Once there, you set her down carefully, insisting on washing and changing her yourself. Despite the servants’ offers to assist, you wave them away; this is your moment, your duty as a mother. As you wash her tiny hands and feet, you patiently guide her through the words she’s learning.

“Water,” you say, pointing to the bowl, and she repeats it clumsily, her little voice full of concentration.

“Cloth,” you say, and she parrots back, a proud grin spreading across her face.

But then, without fail, she lets out a delighted “Fight!”

Her eyes shine with a fierceness that’s far too familiar, and you can’t help but smile. She’s so much like Minthara, already so determined, so fearless. You sigh and press a gentle kiss to her forehead. “You are your mother’s daughter, little one.”

Once Lythaera is fresh, dressed, and properly tended to, you lift her up and make your way back to Minthara. The halls of the stronghold echo with the familiar sounds of Drow life—steel against steel, the whispered incantations of sorceresses, and the scurrying of servants. As you turn a corner, you nearly collide with Kyorlin, who seems momentarily startled, his eyes flicking from you to Lythaera.

“Brother,” you greet, your voice warm. “Out and about?”

Kyorlin shifts awkwardly, his gaze lingering on Lythaera before darting away, as if unsure of how to handle the tiny bundle in your arms. Since returning from the front lines and serving in the house guard, Kyorlin had somewhat settled, yet you always felt a level of detachment from him, that even extended to his nieces and nephews.

“She’s… grown,” he says haltingly, as if uncertain of how to proceed. His words are awkward, but you can see the effort he’s making, the genuine attempt to connect.

“She has,” you agree, gently bouncing Lythaera on your hip. “She’s just like her mother, strong, lively.”

Kyorlin gives a faint, wry smile at that. “I have no doubt.” There’s a pause, and then his expression shifts, growing more serious. “I wanted to let you know—I’ll be taking an excursion to the front lines. There’s word of movement from the Seldarine forces, and it requires my attention.”

Your heart sinks a little. “But you’ll miss the anniversary ball,” you say quietly, a pang of disappointment threading through your voice.

Kyorlin’s gaze softens, though his tone remains resolute. “I’m sorry. I wish I could be there, truly. But you know as well as I do that duty comes first.”

You nod, understanding but still saddened, your own emotions distracting you from the way his sincerity seems so forced. “Just… come back safely, alright?”

He inclines his head, and for a moment, you catch the flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes.

“I will. Take care of her,” he adds, glancing pointedly at Lythaera, who is now trying to grab at the strands of your hair.

“I always do,” you reply with a smile, and for a moment, he looks as if he wants to say more, but instead he simply gives a small nod and steps aside, allowing you to pass. You watch him go for a moment, then turn your attention back to your daughter.

“You’ll see Uncle Kyorlin soon, I promise,” you whisper, pressing another kiss to her cheek.

She simply giggles and repeats, “Fight!” one last time, and you can’t help but laugh as you continue on your way to find Minthara once more.

As you near Minthara’s study, you pause just outside the doorway, taking a moment to compose yourself. Despite the years you’ve spent together, there’s still something about seeing her that sets your heart aflame.

Pushing open the door, you find Minthara seated at her desk, looking at the array of documents and scrolls that had found their way to her in her absence, her armor still adorned with fresh battle marks. When she looks up and sees you standing there, her entire face softens, a warmth spreading through her eyes that she reserves for you and Lythaera alone.

“Well, if it isn’t my two favorite girls,” she says, setting down the parchment. “Did you miss me, my darling?” Her gaze drops to Lythaera, who immediately reaches out, making grabby hands toward her mother. Minthara’s expression turns even more adoring, and she rises to take the little one from your arms.

“You do look adorable, my little spider,” she coos, pressing a kiss to Lythaera’s forehead as she settles in her lap. “But I must say, you looked far cuter in your battle armor.”

You let out an exaggerated groan. "Minthara," you chide, though there’s no real bite to your words. “We’ve talked about this. She’s not supposed to have battle armor. She’s not even out of her toddler years.”

Minthara smirks, her eyes never leaving Lythaera’s. "She wore it well," she murmurs, tracing her thumb over Lythaera's cheek. “Our little warrior.”

You take a step closer, lowering your voice. “If you want to sleep in the same bed as me tonight, you won’t take my grace and patience for granted,” you whisper, your tone playful yet carrying just a hint of a warning.

Minthara chuckles, and her eyes glint mischievously as she pulls you in for a kiss, slow and deliberate, savoring every second of contact. She tastes of salt and steel, and you melt into her, letting her lead until she finally pulls back, lips curling into a smirk.

“Your grace and patience are what I live for, my love,” she murmurs, voice husky with affection. You can’t help the smile that spreads across your face, but you sober slightly, moving on to more pressing matters.

“Kyorlin won’t be attending the wedding anniversary ball in a few days,” you say, watching for her reaction. Minthara arches an eyebrow, feigning shock.

“Oh, no,” she drawls, placing a hand to her chest and looks to Lythaera who stares up at her with wide red eyes. “Whatever will we do without him, my spiderling? I’m positively heartbroken.”

Her attempt at looking devastated is so over the top that you can’t help but snort in amusement.

“He’s a war cleric of Lolth, Minthara,” you remind her, though you’re well aware that she knows this. “He serves House Baenre more faithfully than any other. He's going as support for the front lines.”

“Does he?” she retorts, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. “I find it strange that no one mentioned any need for extra soldiers on the front line. Perhaps a lucky miscommunication on his part?”

There’s a subtle edge to her tone, one you’ve heard countless times when she’s probing for weaknesses. You roll your eyes, not rising to the bait. At least not in front of your daughter.

“He is your brother-in-law,” you remind her. “You could show him a little more kindness.”

“I don’t trust him,” Minthara replies bluntly, and for once, the playful veneer drops. There’s genuine concern in her eyes, a protective glimmer that makes your heart ache. “There’s something about him that doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t care how many battles he’s fought for Baenre or how, in the great mother's web, he got Lolth's favour.”

"He shares the same blood as I do, Lolth's blood, Minthara," You sigh, reaching out to take her hand. “Kyorlin has had a past, I agree but since then, he has never given us a reason to doubt him. He’s been loyal.”

“Loyal to whom?” she counters, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “You, perhaps. But not to me. And I won’t take any chances where our family is concerned.”

Minthara, holds Lythaera closer to her and you squeeze her hand, the weight of her words settling between you. Minthara’s fingers absentmindedly trace patterns along your arm, her eyes narrowing slightly as she is physically unable to drop the matter.

“You know, I’ve never once seen Kyorlin at chapel,” she mutters, clearly unwilling to let the topic of your brother drop entirely.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “And I barely see you at chapel,” you retort with a smirk. Instead of defending herself, Minthara merely tilts her head, lips quirking up in triumph.

“You didn't disagree with me,” she says, as if that proves her point beyond doubt. She makes to continue her tirade, but you silence her with a sudden kiss, the kind that leaves her momentarily breathless, her words forgotten. Lythaera giggles happily and you pull back just enough to look into her eyes.

“Let’s not forget how this marriage of ours started,” you murmur, voice soft but edged with steel. “You slaughtered my entire family because you were essentially bored and wanted to flaunt your power. And while I didn’t care much for most of them, I did care for my brothers—Kyorlin and Lesaonar. Perhaps Kyorlin still hasn’t entirely forgiven that.”

Minthara rolls her eyes, letting out a dismissive huff. “That was years ago,” she replies, sounding entirely unrepentant. “And besides, you don’t care. Lesaonar doesn’t care. He’s thriving here in House Baenre, basking in his new position and status. He is favoured by all of the elders of the house, a feat that not even I have achieved."

You nod in agreement but hold her gaze, refusing to let her off the hook. “That might be true, but you need to at least take Kyorlin’s feelings into consideration. Not everyone is as willing to move on as we are.”

Minthara grumbles under her breath, something low and unintelligible. You arch an eyebrow, smirking. “What was that?”

She clears her throat and replies, “Yes, my love.”

You let out a bark of laughter, shaking your head. “Liar. That’s not what you said.”

Minthara only smirks back, tilting her chin up defiantly but not bothering to correct you. The lightheartedness between you is a familiar comfort, a balm to the chaos that often surrounds your lives. You lean across and pick up Lythaera from Minthara's lap, hesitating as you brush a stray lock of hair from her face and ask, “How long until you come to bed?”

She sighs as she relinquishes Lythaera to you, looking toward her desk, which is stacked with scrolls and ledgers.

“I have a few matron duties to catch up on,” she admits. “But I shouldn’t be too long.” She pauses, her gaze sharpening with playful sternness. “However, I better not find Lythaera in our bed when I return.”

You can’t help but pout. “She’s had a big day, Minthara,” you protest, knowing full well where this is going. “She needs comfort.”

“She needs to learn how to sleep in her own bed,” Minthara counters, crossing her arms and fixing you with a mock stern glare. “And you’re the worst at it, always giving in and letting her stay with us. How am I meant to instill that Baenrae savagery if she cannot even stay in her own bed?"

You try to hold out, completely ignoring Minthara's words, but her expression is unwavering, a mix of exasperation and affection. Finally, you let out a resigned sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat.

“Fine,” you grumble, already missing the idea of your daughter’s tiny warmth snuggled against you. “But if she cries—”

“Then you will have to be strong,” Minthara interjects, her lips twitching into a smile. “And besides, I’ll be back before you know it.”

She leans in to steal one last kiss, and for a moment, you feel that familiar spark between you, the one that’s never faded, no matter how much time has passed.

“Go,” you whisper against her lips, reluctantly pulling away. “Tend to your matron duties. I’ll be waiting.”

“Of course you will,” she teases, brushing her fingers against your cheek one last time before turning toward her desk. You watch her for a moment longer, feeling the warmth of her presence linger even as you make your way to the door, Lythaera still settled in your arms.

As you leave, you hear Minthara’s voice, quiet but full of affection. “Goodnight, my love.”

“Goodnight,” you reply, glancing back one last time before stepping out into the hall.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Minthara slips quietly into your quarters, her steps silent as a shadow. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of faerie fire casting long shadows across the walls. As she looks around, she’s puzzled to see the bed untouched, still neatly made. Her brow furrows, and a flicker of concern tugs at her. She scans the room, her eyes narrowing until she catches the faint light coming from the nursery.

She steps into the adjoining room, and her heart warms at the sight before her. You’re there, sitting by Lythaera’s cot, your gaze soft and tender as you watch over your sleeping daughter. There’s a serene smile on your lips, and when you look up to see her standing there, you offer her a knowing, mischievous grin.

“I didn’t break the deal,” you whisper, tilting your head toward the crib. “She’s not in our bed.”

Minthara lets out an exasperated sigh, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“You’re incorrigible,” she mutters, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around you, pulling you to your feet. “Overprotective to the point of being tedious.”

There’s a warmth in her voice, though, and you can see the affection shining in her eyes.

“You weren’t any better when I was pregnant with her,” you counter, letting her guide you back to the bedroom. “You practically treated me like I was made of spun glass.”

Minthara’s eyes soften at the memory, and she hums thoughtfully.

“You were carrying our first child,” she says, as if that explains everything. “I would have burned the Underdark to keep you safe.” Her fingers brush against your cheek, her touch lingering, and her eyes take on a familiar, mischievous glint. “Perhaps I should get you pregnant again,” she murmurs, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her lips. “You were quite radiant, carrying my child.”

You draw in a breath, steadying yourself as you prepare to speak the words you’ve been holding back.

“What if I already am?” you say softly, watching her face closely. “I’ve been late—by a month. I’m seeing the healers in the morning to confirm it.”

Minthara’s eyes widen, and for a moment, she looks utterly stunned, as if she’s trying to process the enormity of your words.

“You’re… you’re serious?” she breathes, her voice uncharacteristically shaky. You nod, biting your lip as you try to keep your own emotions in check.

“I didn’t want to say anything until I was sure,” you admit. “But… I think I might be.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then Minthara lets out a shaky, incredulous laugh, her arms tightening around you.

“You’re really…?” She doesn’t finish the sentence, as if she’s afraid that saying it out loud will somehow break the spell.

“I think so,” you whisper, and that’s all it takes for her to pull you into a fierce, almost desperate embrace. She presses her forehead against yours, her breath mingling with yours as she closes her eyes, trying to absorb the reality of it.

“You’re giving me another child,” she murmurs, almost as if she can’t quite believe it. “You’re giving us another child.”

You nod, tears pricking at your eyes as she cups your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing away the stray drops that have started to fall. She leans in, pressing a kiss to your lips that’s both tender and passionate, pouring all her love and gratitude into that single gesture.

“You’ll be careful,” she whispers against your lips, her tone shifting to that fierce protectiveness you’ve come to know so well. “No more taking risks, no more unnecessary fretting. I won’t have you endangering yourself or our child.”

You laugh softly, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze.

“I’ll be as careful as you let me be,” you promise, and she nods, though there’s still a hint of worry lingering in her eyes. "I'm not the one sneaking our two year old out onto the front lines."

“Point taken,” she murmurs, drawing you closer, her lips finding yours once more.

At that moment, with her arms wrapped around you and the promise of a new life growing within you, you feel a warmth settle over you, deeper and more enduring than any spell. Minthara pulls away and rests her forehead against yours.

"We’re going to the infirmary now," she declares, leaving no room for argument and she takes your hand, leading you out into the corridors. You laugh, trying to keep up with her hurried pace as she all but drags you through the winding corridors of the stronghold.

“Minthara, it’s practically the middle of the night,” you protest, though there’s no real conviction in your voice. Her eagerness is infectious, and despite the hour, you can’t help but feel your own excitement bubbling to the surface.

“I don’t care if it’s the middle of the Spider Queen’s web,” Minthara replies, glancing over her shoulder with a determined glint in her eyes. “I won’t wait a moment longer. I need to know if Lolth has blessed us again.”

You can’t help but smile at the fervor in her voice. It’s rare to see her this openly vulnerable, this eager, and you find yourself falling even more in love with her in that moment.

When you finally reach the infirmary, the dimly lit room is quiet, save for the soft hum of magic that always lingers in the air. A single healer, a middle-aged drow woman with silver hair and a no-nonsense expression, looks up in surprise as the two of you burst through the door.

“Mistress, Matron,” the healer greets, bowing her head respectfully. “What brings you here at such an hour?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Minthara snaps, her impatience overriding her usual courtesy. She points to you, her eyes flashing with urgency. “We need you to confirm if she’s with child. Now.”

The healer’s eyes widen, but she quickly regains her composure, nodding as she gestures for you to take a seat on one of the low, cushioned benches.

“Of course,” she says calmly, already moving to gather her tools. “This won’t take long.”

Minthara hovers anxiously at your side, her fingers tapping a rapid rhythm against her thigh. You reach out to take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, and she squeezes back so tightly you’re almost certain she’s forgotten her own strength.

“Patience,” you murmur, smiling up at her. “It’ll be fine.”

“I know,” Minthara replies, though her voice is tight, her eyes never leaving the healer as she begins her examination.

The healer works efficiently, murmuring incantations under her breath as her hands glow with a soft, warm light. She hovers her hands just above your abdomen, the magic tingling against your skin, and you hold your breath, your heart pounding in your chest.

Minthara’s grip on your hand tightens even more, and you feel her trembling slightly, though she’s trying her best to hide it. Finally, the healer’s magic fades, and she steps back with a smile.

“Congratulations, Matron,” she says, bowing her head once more. “The signs are clear. Lolth has indeed blessed you with another child.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, your eyes widening in wonder. Minthara’s reaction, however, is far more intense. A joyous, triumphant laugh bursts from her lips, echoing through the infirmary as she sweeps you up into her arms, twirling you around as if you weigh nothing at all.

“Did you hear that?” she exclaims, her voice full of awe and delight. “You’re carrying our child—our second child!” She presses fervent kisses against your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, any part of you she can reach. “I knew it! I knew Lolth would bless us again!”

You can’t help but laugh at her exuberance, your own heart soaring with happiness as you cling to her, your arms wrapped around her neck.

“Yes, yes, Minthara, I heard,” you say, tears of joy pricking at your eyes. “We’re going to have another child.”

The healer steps forward, her expression warm as she offers her congratulations.

“It’s a great honor,” she says, her tone reverent. “The Spider Queen has chosen to bless you both once more. May her web guide and protect this child as it grows.”

“Thank you,” you manage to say, still breathless from the whirlwind of emotions. Minthara barely acknowledges the healer’s words, too caught up in the moment to care about anything but you and the life growing inside you.

As the healer steps back, giving Minthara and you space to process the news, you feel the familiar shift in Minthara’s demeanor. That protective intensity, always just beneath the surface, rises in her like a tidal wave—her eyes narrowing as she turns her full attention to the healer.

“I want the best care for her,” Minthara declares, her voice like steel, sharp and unwavering. “Only the finest healers, the most potent enchantments. If any harm comes to her or the child, I will personally see to it that heads will roll.” Her hand tightens around yours possessively, as if to reaffirm her claim on you—her wife, her treasure.

The healer, sensing the shift, bows her head deeply, her voice measured and cautious. “Of course, Matron. The Mistress will receive nothing but the highest level of care. I will see to it personally.”

Minthara’s gaze sharpens even further, her tone laced with a deadly calm.

“You will ensure it,” she corrects, her lips pulling into a slight sneer. “If I find out otherwise, I will not hesitate to remind everyone in this House that the well-being of my family is paramount. Failure is not an option.”

You roll your eyes, suppressing a smirk at Minthara’s over-the-top threats. It’s not the first time you’ve seen her get like this. Her ferocious protectiveness over you and now your unborn child always had a way of turning every healer’s visit into a dramatic affair.

“Here we go again,” you mutter under your breath, amusement tugging at the corners of your mouth. Minthara catches your eye, and for a brief moment, the tension melts away as she narrows her gaze at you in mock indignation.

“What?” she asks, feigning offense. “I’m just ensuring your safety, my love. You should be grateful.”

“Grateful?” you tease, raising an eyebrow. “For you threatening to slaughter every healer who so much as looks at me wrong? Yes, I feel so very safe.” You give her a playful shove, and Minthara huffs, though the glint of amusement in her eyes betrays her.

“They should take you seriously,” she mutters, her gaze darting back to the healer, who looks like she’s trying her best not to tremble. “The mistress’ well-being is the utmost priority. I won’t tolerate anything less than perfection.”

“Oh, Minthara,” you sigh, shaking your head fondly. “You were just as bad when I was pregnant with Lythaera.”

“And rightly so,” Minthara replies, her arm slipping around your waist again, drawing you closer as if you were fragile. “Look how perfect she turned out, my little heiress, and now there's another one on the way.”

There’s pride in her voice now, and you can’t help but smile at the thought of your daughter, Lythaera, sleeping soundly back in her nursery. The thought of her having a sibling warms your heart.

“Just remember,” you murmur, leaning into her as you glance up at her face. “I’m not made of glass. I survived the Underdark, remember?”

Minthara snorts at that, her grip on you tightening as her lips press against the top of your head.

“Still,” she says softly, “you’re my wife. You’re carrying my child again, and I won’t take any chances. Not now, not ever.”

The healer, sensing the conversation is coming to a close, offers another deep bow. “I will prepare everything for the matron’s care immediately,” she assures you both, her voice filled with sincerity. “The best healers in the House will be available at all times.”

Minthara gives a curt nod, though her eyes linger on the healer for a moment longer, as if silently warning her one last time. When the healer finally leaves the room, Minthara turns her full attention back to you, her expression softening.

“I mean it,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe. You and our child.”

You smile up at her, your heart swelling with love. “I know,” you reply, brushing a hand against her cheek. “And I love you for it. But you need to trust that I can handle myself. We’ll be fine, Minthara. You don’t have to threaten to slaughter anyone this time.”

Minthara chuckles softly at that, her fingers tracing delicate patterns along your back.

“We’ll see,” she says, her tone teasing but still laced with that fierce protectiveness that defines her. “But I make no promises.”

You roll your eyes again, laughing softly as you pull her in for another kiss, knowing that beneath all the bluster and threats, Minthara’s love for you is as deep and unwavering as ever. And in this moment, surrounded by her fierce devotion and the warmth of her arms, you feel truly safe—protected by the arachnidian dragon guarding its most precious hoard.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The next morning, the grand dining hall of the House echoes with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of silverware. Minthara had summoned the inner circle of the family to breakfast—a rare occasion for such a gathering, and you could feel the anticipation in the air. Lythaera sat at your side, happily playing with a small toy spider, her giggles occasionally breaking the morning quiet.

Minthara, ever the commanding presence, stood at the head of the table, her gaze sweeping across the room as Melinoe, Lesaonar, their triplets, and finally Kyorlin took their places. You had also forced Minthara to invite her siblings and their broods, though she really could not care for them, you wanted to keep the family connections nurtured. The moment Minthara speaks, the room falls silent.

“I have called you all here this morning because Lolth has once again blessed us with her favor,” she announces, her voice rich with pride. Her hand finds yours beneath the table, squeezing it gently as she continues. “My beloved wife is with child. We will soon welcome another into our House.”

There’s a moment of stillness, a breath caught in time, before the room erupts in cheers and congratulations. Even Kyorlin, who rarely showed much in the way of emotion, manages a small, restrained smile—though Minthara notes that it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Lesaonar is on his feet in an instant, a wide grin splitting his face. He strides over and wraps you in a tight hug, careful not to squeeze too hard but still radiating warmth and excitement.

His voice is filled with genuine joy as he speaks. “Sister, this is wonderful news! Every morning, I shall offer my prayers to the Spider Queen that she blesses you with triplets, so you may know the unmatched joy of wrangling three children at once.”

You let out a mock groan, playfully swatting his arm as you scowl at him.

“Triplets? No thank you, Lesaonar. I've seen how much ‘joy’ your trio brings you.” Your eyes flick to his triplets, who at this very moment are arguing over a piece of bread, and you raise a brow. “I think one child at a time is enough chaos for me.”

Lesaonar laughs, unbothered by your teasing, his love for his children shining through even as he jokingly shakes his head. “You say that now, but trust me. You’ll come to love the madness.”

Minthara’s siblings offer their own congratulations, though more reserved - primarily out of fear of their elder sibling, their children do the same. There is a definite difference between the way Minthara's family behaves and those related to you. Minthara's family acts with a deadly reverence, instilled in them from years of training, and comfort drawn from the presence of family is unknown to them.

Melinoe, is perhaps the only exception, and that was due to her marriage to Lesaonar, he had clearly worn off on her. Their marriage had been driven by Melinoe's unexpected pregnancy - which was a surprise to all. Women in House Baenre were not required to marry, to bind themselves to their offspring's father. Child mortality rates in drow houses were particularly high so reproduction with multiple partners (usually concubines) was encouraged - marriage, a sacred rite, gets in the way of that.

When Lesaonar heard the news that Melinoe was expecting he was prepared to provide whatever Melinoe demanded of him. If Melinoe wanted to give the unborn child to him so she could focus on her work and live her life, unburdened by the child, he was prepared for it. If she wanted to get rid of the child altogether, he was prepared for it. If she wanted to run off with someone else and raise the child without him, he was, begrudgingly, prepared for it. This was the way of life for him

What he was not prepared for was for Melinoe to propose, to claim him as her own, to love and serve him and be loved and served in return. Lesaonar had lived quite a rakish lifestyle before becoming romantically entangled with Melinoe, but since then he had fallen terribly and awfully in love with her and Melinoe had done the same.

You had been thrilled by the news, congratulating both of them, whereas Minthara had Melinoe checked for head trauma. Suggesting that perhaps pregnancy had taken a toll on her sanity. Melinoe assured her cousin that it had not and that this is what they both wanted. They had a small yet lavish ceremony, and although Lesaonar changed his last name to Baenre (an act that caused Kyorlin to sulk for at least a month), it was Melinoe had been thrown into your family. You grew close to her and became someone she could rely on during her pregnancy, to drink as a placebo for her when she found out they were having triplets.

"Congratulations Mistress, how I can only share in my dear husband's sentiment and wish you the sheer blessing of triplets, or who knows with lolth's favor, you may even have quadruplets!" Melinoe smiled, the mischief gleaming in her eyes. How playfully slighted she had felt when you delivered one child, instead of the three she had been blessed with.

"What a wonderful thought, wife, I shall pray for quadruplets instead," Lesaonar smirked, and you shook your head in exasperation, a hand on your abdomen. You don't think you could handle Lythaera and then an additional four miniatures, you and Mintharas.

You continue to joke with Lesaonar and Melinoe, a few of Minthara's family members coming over to congratulate you personally. There’s a peaceful harmony to the moment, as family comes together to celebrate the new life growing inside you. Yet, there’s an undercurrent of tension—one that you feel when Kyorlin finally rises from his seat.

Kyorlin approaches, his movements deliberate and calm. His expression is softer than usual, but there’s a cool detachment in his eyes as he offers his hand to you.

“Congratulations,” he says quietly, his voice measured. “It is good to hear such joyous news. And with this, I’ll delay my trip to the front lines for a little while longer. I’d like to be here to see the child born.”

There’s something in his tone, something that doesn’t quite sit right with you. It’s as though he’s speaking of some distant obligation rather than his own flesh and blood. Still, you smile at him, pushing aside the strange feeling and putting it down to the seedling of doubt Minthara had planted in your mind.

“Thank you, Kyorlin,” you say sincerely, resting a hand on his arm. “It means a lot to me that you’d stay.”

Before you can say anything more, Minthara’s voice cuts in, sharp and edged with amusement. “Delaying your trip to the front lines, Kyorlin? Lolth has blessed us once more.”

You elbow Minthara, casting her a warning glance. She smirks but falls silent, though her eyes linger on Kyorlin with a knowing glint. It was no secret that Kyorlin had always been a bit of an outlier in the family—distant, detached, never fully committing to life in the House.

Kyorlin, however, doesn’t rise to Minthara’s bait. Instead, he nods politely at you both and returns to his seat, his movements calm, almost too calm, as if this entire moment were just another duty he must fulfill. As he sits, he folds his hands in his lap, staring at the table rather than engaging with the lively conversation around him.

You can’t help but wonder if his mind is elsewhere—far from the joy of family, but you soothe yourself thinking his thoughts are devoted to Lolth. It was no easy feat to become a male cleric of Lolth, but your brother had managed it, and for that, you were proud of him.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The garden is alive with the gentle rustling of leaves and the delicate scent of night-blooming flowers. You sit on a cushioned bench, Lythaera nestled beside you, her little fingers tracing the veins of a petal with childlike curiosity. The two of you are wrapped in a rare moment of peace, bathed in the soft glow of faerie lights that illuminate the garden paths. You smile, watching as Lythaera giggles, reaching for a luminous butterfly that flutters just out of her grasp.

It’s then that you sense them—the subtle shift in the air, the almost inaudible whisper of footsteps approaching. You look up, and there they are: the Mistress's Guard, a group of young women who once stood by your side when they were mere children themselves, now grown into a disciplined and formidable sect.

At their head stands Verona, her dark eyes sharp and alert, her movements as graceful as a panther. Clad in sleek armor that glistens under the bioluminescence of the underdark, she steps forward and bows, her gaze unwavering.

“Mistress,” Verona greets, her voice soft yet carrying the unmistakable strength of command. “The guard congratulates you on the news of your pregnancy. It is a great honor to know that another of your blood will soon walk among us.” Her eyes flicker to Lythaera, and a warm, genuine smile crosses her face before she straightens again, her demeanor professional once more.

You offer her a warm smile, touched by the sincerity in her words. “Thank you, Verona. Your congratulations mean a great deal to me.”

Verona’s expression doesn’t waver, but there’s a slight shift in her stance, a hesitation, as if there’s more she wants to say. You tilt your head, curious, and wait for her to continue. She exchanges a brief glance with the other members of the guard, who stand at attention, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Then, as if coming to a decision, Verona speaks again.

“The Matron has issued orders for the guard to increase our presence around you, Mistress,” she says carefully. “Especially now that you are with child. She wants to ensure your safety, the safety of the unborn, and of course, the heiress, Lady Lythaera”

You blink, momentarily taken aback, before letting out a small, exasperated sigh. “Of course, she has,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head. “Thank you, Verona. I appreciate the care.”

The guard, however, doesn’t move to leave, and you feel their watchful eyes on you, as if waiting for something more. Realization dawns, and you can’t help but chuckle, despite the slight irritation that begins to creep into your chest. You turn back to Verona, arching an eyebrow.

“Let me guess,” you say dryly, “when you say you’re increasing your presence, you mean that Minthara has decided I cannot even be in my own garden with my daughter without a small army at my back?”

Verona’s lips twitch in the faintest hint of a smile, but she does not look away. “The Matron is… thorough in her concern,” she replies diplomatically. “She insists that we remain vigilant, especially given recent events.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Recent events,” you repeat, incredulous. “I’m hardly in any danger standing amongst roses with my daughter, Verona. I doubt the Seldarine are posing as fungi.”

“There are threats, Mistress, that lurk even in the safest of places,” Verona responds, her tone respectful but unyielding. “The Matron merely wishes to ensure that you, the child and the heiress are protected from all possible harm.”

You sigh, feeling a mix of warmth and exasperation at Minthara’s overprotectiveness.

“Minthara has always been… diligent,” you murmur, almost to yourself. You take a moment to study Verona’s face, the determined set of her jaw, and the unwavering loyalty in her eyes.

There’s something almost touching about it, the way she stands so ready to defend you, a far cry from the young girl who once followed you with wide, curious eyes. The girl you had to protect from her own mother. Valindra was long gone now, perished in a skirmish, no love was lost and no one had attended her funeral out of anything but duty.

“You’re all grown up now,” you say softly, your voice tinged with nostalgia. “I remember when you were but a child, always trailing behind me, insisting you’d be my protector one day.”

Verona’s expression softens, and for a moment, you catch a glimpse of that young girl within her, her guard slipping ever so slightly.

“I made a promise, Mistress, we all did,” she replies, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I intend to keep it. No matter how much time passes.”

You smile, reaching out to gently touch her arm. “I know. And I’m grateful for it. But you must understand, Verona—I do not need to be shadowed at every turn. I have always found strength in my independence, and I refuse to let that be stripped away, even now.”

Verona hesitates, clearly torn between her loyalty to you and her duty to Minthara.

“I understand, Mistress,” she finally says, though there’s a note of reluctance in her voice. “But… please, allow us to do our duty. If not for yourself, then for the heiress and the unborn child.”

You glance down at Lythaera, who has taken no notice of the conversation, still engrossed in her game of chasing the luminous butterflies. A soft sigh escapes you, and you nod, albeit reluctantly. “Very well. But please, tell Minthara that if I find you hiding in the shadows when I’m trying to take a bath, I’ll be having words with her.”

Verona can’t help but chuckle at that, and she bows once more. “Understood, Mistress. We will endeavor to respect your privacy… within reason.”

“Within reason,” you echo, shaking your head with a smile. “Very well, Verona. You may carry on, then.”

The guard disperses, though you can still feel their presence lingering at the edges of the garden, ever watchful. As you turn back to Lythaera, who now holds a butterfly delicately in her tiny hands, you feel a familiar warmth and exasperation rise in your chest. Minthara’s love for you was fierce, possessive, and sometimes overbearing—but it was always, always, there. And despite yourself, you couldn’t help but feel touched by it.

Even if it meant having an entire sect of guards breathing down your neck whenever you so much as stepped outside.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Minthara sits on the edge of the bed with Lythaera perched in front of her, the little girl fidgeting impatiently as her mother attempts to braid her hair. Minthara’s fingers are nimble but slightly clumsy—more accustomed to handling blades than delicate strands of hair—and her face is set in an expression of concentration as she tries to tame Lythaera's unruly curls. She lets out an exasperated sigh as yet another strand slips free from her grasp.

“You know,” Minthara grumbles, flicking her gaze to you as you fasten the last few clasps of your gown in front of the mirror, “we could have had a servant do this. It’s what they’re here for.”

You give her a pointed look, arching an eyebrow. “Minthara, if I hear you suggest that one more time, the anniversary ball will quickly become a divorce ball.”

Minthara lets out a dramatic huff, rolling her eyes in a way that reminds you so much of Lythaera when she’s being particularly stubborn.

“I know, I know,” she mutters, though there’s a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “The Matron herself mustn’t raise a spoiled daughter.”

You walk over to them, your expression softening as you watch Minthara struggle with the braid.

“It’s not about spoiling her, my love,” you say gently, leaning down to kiss the top of Lythaera’s head. “It’s about teaching her that just because she’s of noble birth doesn’t mean she’s entitled to be waited on. She should understand the value of things, even the little things like having her hair done.”

Minthara sighs again, but there’s no real frustration in her voice, only a begrudging understanding.

“Yes, yes,” she murmurs, continuing to braid. She bends down to Lythaera’s level, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, little one, your mother is quite demanding. You’re lucky I love her as much as I do.”

Lythaera giggles, nodding vigorously. She is not entirely sure what at, but it makes her mother's smile widen.

“Oh, so it’s a conspiracy against me now, is it?” you tease, crossing your arms and tilting your head at Minthara. “Well, perhaps you should hurry up with that braid before I change my mind about that divorce.”

Minthara’s smile turns playful, her eyes shining with mischief.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she challenges, finishing off the braid with a flourish. She secures it with a delicate ribbon, the same shade of violet as Lythaera’s dress, and sits back with a satisfied smirk. “There. Finished.”

“Thank oo!" Lythaera chirps, turning around and beaming up at her.

“Anything for you, my little warrior,” Minthara replies, ruffling her daughter’s hair affectionately before helping her off the bed.

As Lythaera scurries off to fetch her toy sword (which she insisted on bringing, despite your best attempts to convince her otherwise), you turn back to the mirror for a final check of your gown. You smooth down the fabric, the rich, deep green silk catching the light in waves.

The gown is a masterpiece, fitted to perfection, with delicate embroidery of silver spider webs trailing down the sides, shimmering subtly as you move. The neckline plunges daringly, while the sleeves drape elegantly off your shoulders, and the fabric clings to your body in a way that leaves little to the imagination.

When you finally turn to face Minthara, you find her staring at you, utterly transfixed. Her eyes roam over every inch of you, from the soft curls that cascade down your back to the curve of your waist, and the way the gown hugs your form like a second skin. It’s as if she’s seeing you for the first time all over again.

“By Lolth,” she breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. “You look… exquisite.”

You can feel the heat of her gaze as it lingers on you, and your heart flutters in response.

“It’s just a dress,” you say lightly, though the way she’s looking at you makes it feel like so much more.

“It’s not the dress,” Minthara murmurs, closing the distance between you. “It’s you.” She reaches out, her fingers tracing the line of your collarbone, the touch sending a shiver down your spine. “You look like a goddess.”

"Don't let Lolth hear you say that," You smile, your cheeks warming under her intense gaze, and you can’t help but tease her just a little. “I thought you’d be used to this by now,” you say, tilting your head up to meet her eyes. “We’ve been married for years.”

Minthara shakes her head, a soft, reverent smile tugging at her lips.

“And every day, you still manage to take my breath away,” she whispers, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips, slow and lingering. Her hand finds the small of your back, pulling you closer, and for a moment, you forget about the ball, the responsibilities, and the eyes that will be on you tonight. All that matters is her—this woman who holds your heart, who looks at you as if you hung the stars in the sky.

You pull back with a soft chuckle, pressing your forehead against hers. “You know, if you keep looking at me like that, we’ll never make it to this ball.”

Minthara groans, but she’s grinning, her eyes sparkling with love. “I suppose we should make an appearance,” she concedes, though it’s clear she’d much rather stay right here with you. “It is, after all, our night.”

“Our night,” you agree, pressing one last kiss to her lips. “And we’ll make it one to remember.”

Minthara nods, reluctantly letting you go, but not before trailing her fingers down your arm, savoring the feel of your skin one last time.

“Come, my love,” she murmurs, offering you her arm. “Let us show them what true power looks like.”

The grand hall of House Baenre is resplendent with shimmering lights and elaborate decorations, its high vaulted ceilings draped with silk banners bearing the house’s sigil: a spider, woven from threads of silver and black, its eyes glistening as if they truly held the light of the stars. Nobles and high-ranking drow from all corners of the Underdark gather, their opulent attire sparkling in the light of the chandelier made entirely of glowing faerie fire. The air is thick with the hum of hushed whispers and the clinking of crystal goblets, but all noise falls to a hush as the herald steps forward to announce your arrival.

“Presenting, Matron Minthara Baenre, her Mistress, and their daughter, the young heiress of House Baenre, Lythaera,” the herald proclaims, his voice echoing through the hall.

You stand at the top of the staircase with Minthara at your side and Lythaera holding your hand. You feel her tiny fingers gripping yours tightly, her eyes widening as the crowd below turns to look up at you. The weight of so many eyes, so many expectations, is daunting, and you can see the flicker of nervousness cross her face as she tries to hide behind your gown, the silken fabric bunching around her as she presses against your leg. You kneel down to her level, keeping your voice soft and reassuring.

“Lythaera, you are a Baenre,” you whisper, brushing a stray curl from her face. “You are strong, and you are loved. And everyone here is waiting to see just how wonderful you are. Will you show them?”

Her large eyes meet yours, searching, and slowly she nods. You give her a warm smile and a gentle kiss on her forehead before standing back up. Taking a deep breath, Lythaera steps forward, no longer hiding, and you feel a swell of pride as she walks beside you, her little chin held high just as you taught her.

Minthara watches this exchange with a soft smile tugging at her lips, her eyes glimmering with pride and love. She gives your hand a small squeeze before you both begin your descent down the grand staircase, with Lythaera walking beside you. The crowd parts as you reach the bottom, and you feel their eyes on you, filled with awe, respect, and, in some cases, envy. There is a sense of power in that moment, knowing that you and Minthara have built something truly formidable, something worth revering.

The room bursts into applause as you reach the floor, nobles bowing their heads in deference. The sound is overwhelming, but Lythaera stands tall, no longer shrinking under the weight of it. You guide her through the crowd toward Lesaonar and Melinoe, who are standing near one of the grand pillars, their triplets bouncing excitedly as they spot their little cousin.

“Look who’s here!” Lesaonar says, scooping up Lythaera in his arms as she giggles. “The little lady of the hour!”

Lythaera laughs, her earlier shyness melting away in the presence of her cousins. She reaches out, tugging at the braid of one of the boys who sticks his tongue out at her, which only makes her laugh harder.

“Unka!” she squeals in delight, “too tight!”

“Am I?” Lesaonar chuckles, setting her back down. “I suppose I should be more careful with a future matron, hmm?”

“You’ll spoil her rotten,” Melinoe chides with a smile, though there’s warmth in her eyes as she looks at Lythaera. Her own daughter tugs at her skirts, eager to play with her cousin, and soon the four children are off to one side, chattering excitedly.

Lesaonar leans closer to you, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “I saw Kyorlin skulking about earlier. He’s here somewhere, though I doubt he’ll stay in one place long enough for anyone to get a word in.”

“He always did like to make himself scarce at these events,” you reply with a knowing smile.

Melinoe arches an eyebrow, smirking as she sips her wine. “I’m just impressed he made the effort to show up at all,” she comments dryly.

Lesaonar shoots her a light scowl. “He’s family,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. “And he’ll always be welcome here, no matter what.”

The exchange is tense, but it’s quickly smoothed over as Minthara leans down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“I’ll mingle,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing against your arm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. “Try not to get too caught up in Lesaonar's nonsense."

You smirk, leaning into her touch. “As if anyone else could ever compare,” you tease, earning a satisfied hum from Minthara before she straightens and steps into the crowd, already the center of attention.

However, the atmosphere at the ball shifts abruptly as heated words are exchanged between two drow noblemen. Their argument, initially nothing more than a raised voice or two, quickly escalates into shoving, and it’s not long before they’re on the verge of drawing weapons.

In the midst of the chaos, Sarae—who had been standing nearby, the five year old seemingly attracred to chaos—gets knocked over by one of them, landing hard on the ground. Her cry of pain rings out, and she scrambles to her feet, rushing to Lesaonar and Melinoe with tears in her eyes, clutching her head where she was struck. Lesaonar instantly scoops her up, his eyes darkening as he glances over at the commotion.

“Shh, my little one,” he murmurs, checking her for injuries. “You’re safe now.”

Melinoe soothes Sarae’s tears, holding her close as she glares at the noblemen who caused the injury.

“Fools,” she mutters under her breath. “Can’t even keep their tempers in check at a celebration. May they face the full wrath of our house."

It’s at this moment that Minthara steps forward, her expression icy and commanding as she forces her way between the two men. Her voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the noise with ease.

“Enough!” The hall falls silent, every guest turning to look as she stands between the two men, her gaze flickering with barely restrained fury. “Where are your wives?” she demands, her tone leaving no room for disobedience.

The two noblewomen step forward, both looking pale and uneasy. They bow their heads, muttering apologies for their husbands' behavior, but Minthara’s patience is already at an end.

“If you cannot control your obstinate charges,” she says coldly, “then you will duel to the death in their stead. Perhaps that will teach them to think twice before causing a scene.” She pauses, her eyes narrowing. “And as today is such a momentous occasion, the husband of the failure will be sacrificed to Lolth.”

The women’s faces drain of color, but a single, withering glance from Minthara silences any protest before it can leave their lips. They bow their heads in submission, accepting their fate with the resignation that only comes from understanding the consequences of disobedience in drow society.

The staff move quickly, clearing an area in the center of the hall and bringing forth two ornate seats for you and Minthara. As you take your place beside your wife, Lythaera climbs onto Minthara’s lap, settling comfortably as if this were all part of a regular evening. The crowd presses closer, eager to witness the spectacle, their whispers buzzing with anticipation.

The crowd goes silent as the two noblewomen step into the cleared space, the dim lighting of the hall casting long shadows across their faces. The air crackles with tension, each movement amplified by the stillness. You lean forward in your seat, your eyes never leaving the pair as they face each other, their expressions a mix of determination and fear. The stakes are clear: victory means survival; defeat means death—and the sacrifice of their husbands to Lolth.

Lesaonar shifts beside you, murmuring, “Twenty gold on the one to the left.” There’s a glint of excitement in his eyes, but you shake your head, suppressing a smile.

“You shouldn’t be encouraging gambling in front of the children,” you tease, but your tone holds no real reprimand. Instead, you reach out to shake his hand, sealing the bet. “I’ll take the one on the right.”

The noblewomen draw their weapons—thin, wickedly sharp blades that gleam under the flickering torchlight. They begin to circle one another, slow and deliberate, their steps echoing in the hushed hall. Every eye is on them, and you can feel the anticipation building, the way the crowd holds its breath as the duel begins.

The first strike comes quickly, the woman on the left lunging forward with a rapid thrust. Her opponent parries deftly, steel clashing against steel in a flurry of sparks. They disengage just as fast, circling each other again, their eyes locked in a predatory stare. It’s clear from the first exchange that they’re evenly matched, and you find yourself leaning forward, drawn into the dance of blades.

Minthara’s hand rests on Lythaera’s back, steadying her as their daughter watches in fascination.

“Mama,” Lythaera whispers, her voice barely audible over the sound of the duel. “Why do they move so slowly?”

Minthara smiles faintly, not taking her eyes off the fight. “They’re not moving slowly, my love. They’re being cautious, looking for any weakness.”

Lythaera nods thoughtfully, her brow furrowing as she continues to watch. “One die?” she asks.

“Yes,” Minthara replies softly. “But that is the nature of a duel.”

The tempo of the fight increases, and the noblewoman on the right—your choice—presses forward, her movements quick and precise. She launches a series of rapid strikes, forcing her opponent to step back, parrying desperately to keep up. You can see the strain in the woman’s eyes, the fear creeping in as she realizes she’s being pushed to her limit. Sweat beads on her forehead, and you can hear her labored breathing over the faint hum of whispered prayers from the audience.

“Come on,” you mutter under your breath, willing your champion to press the advantage. “You’ve got her.”

Lesaonar smirks, shaking his head. “It’s too early to call,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the duel. “Patience, my dear.”

Just as he says that, the woman on the left finds an opening. With a sudden twist, she shifts her weight and lands a shallow cut across her opponent’s forearm. It’s a minor wound, barely a scratch, but the blood that trickles down her arm is enough to draw gasps from the crowd. Your heart skips a beat, and you catch the triumphant gleam in Lesaonar’s eyes.

But your champion isn’t finished. She uses the momentum from the strike to pivot, delivering a vicious slash that catches her opponent off guard. The woman on the left stumbles back, clutching her side, and you see the momentary flicker of fear in her eyes. She’s been wounded—a deep gash that stains her robes with crimson—and she struggles to regain her footing, her breathing now ragged and uneven.

Lesaonar curses under his breath, and you grin, unable to hide your satisfaction.

“Still think she’s going to win?” you whisper, and he scowls playfully.

“Beginner’s luck,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of doubt creeping into his voice.

The woman on the right presses her advantage, her strikes becoming more aggressive, more relentless. The clang of steel echoes in the hall, each clash reverberating through the crowd like a drumbeat. Sweat drips down her face, her jaw clenched with determination as she drives her opponent back, step by step.

And then, with one final, decisive move, she finds her opening. Her blade slips past her opponent’s defenses, piercing her side with a sickening crunch. The woman on the left lets out a choked gasp, her eyes widening in shock as the weapon twists, cutting deep. She drops to her knees, the strength draining from her body, and the hall goes deathly quiet.

“It’s over,” Minthara murmurs, her voice carrying a note of finality. Lythaera watches with wide eyes, clutching at her mother’s robes as the defeated woman slumps forward, blood pooling around her.

You turn to Lesaonar with a triumphant smile.

“I believe that’s twenty gold,” you say sweetly. He groans, shaking his head as he reaches into his pocket and hands over the coins.

“I’ll get it back next time,” he grumbles, but there’s a lightness to his tone, a respect for the victor’s prowess that he can’t deny.

As the victor stands over her fallen foe, panting heavily, the hall erupts into applause, a mixture of awe and approval. The victor bows her head, her shoulders trembling with exhaustion and relief. You can’t help but feel a surge of pride, knowing that even amidst the chaos and danger of drow politics, you and Minthara have cultivated a place where power is respected, and strength is always rewarded.

“She did well,” Minthara murmurs, her eyes meeting yours. There’s a hint of pride in her gaze, not for the woman’s victory but for you—for the life you’ve built, the power you wield, and the unwavering strength you’ve shown tonight.

The air thickens with anticipation as the fallen noblewoman's husband is dragged into the center of the hall, his eyes wild with terror. He thrashes against the hands that hold him, but it’s futile—he’s already lost, and everyone here knows it. The crowd hushes, watching with bated breath, waiting for what comes next. Minthara rises from her seat, her expression cold and commanding, and gestures toward you with a graceful wave of her hand.

“My love,” she intones, her voice carrying across the hall, “the honors are yours.”

A thrill runs down your spine, the familiar surge of power bubbling up from within you. You step forward, and the crowd parts like water, their eyes widening as they make way. Lythaera squirms with excitement in Minthara’s lap, her little hands clapping together in delight.

“Mami’s magic!” she whispers, her voice tinged with awe. Minthara nods, a proud smile playing on her lips, her eyes never leaving you.

You come to a stop before the bound man, his breath coming in ragged, panicked gasps. There’s a flicker of defiance in his eyes, but it’s drowned out by the overwhelming fear that radiates from him. You tilt your head, considering him for a moment, before reaching out with a wave of your hand. Invisible threads of your magic wrap around him, binding him tightly. He tries to scream, but you silence him with a flick of your wrist, his mouth snapping shut as if sewn together by an unseen force.

The crowd watches in rapt attention as you begin the ritual, your voice low and melodic as you chant the ancient words of offering to Lolth. You weave your magic around him, threads of shimmering silk that pulse with divine energy. They wrap around his limbs, his torso, tightening with every word, every syllable you speak. He struggles, but it only serves to tighten the binds further, and you feel the intoxicating rush of power as your magic takes hold.

Lythaera leans forward, her eyes wide, completely entranced. “Mami,” she whispers, “she’s so strong.”

“Yes, she is,” Minthara replies, her voice soft and full of pride. “Watch closely, little spider. This is what it means to be powerful.”

You reach the pinnacle of your incantation, the words thrumming through you, and you lift your hands high, threads of your divine silk shimmering in the dim light. The man’s eyes widen, his muffled screams growing frantic, but there’s no escape now. With one swift motion, you plunge the threads into him, and his body convulses, the life draining from him in a brilliant flash of light. The silk threads glow, absorbing his essence, and you feel the surge of power as the offering is accepted by Lolth. The air hums with energy, the room pulsing with the divine acknowledgment of your sacrifice.

The crowd erupts into applause, cheers ringing out, voices raised in praise of your power and skill. You take a step back, breathing heavily, your heart pounding in your chest, and as the exhilaration of the moment washes over you, you feel a smile tug at your lips. You offer a humble bow, acknowledging the admiration of those gathered, and the applause grows louder, echoing off the stone walls.

As you straighten, your eyes catch Kyorlin’s across the room. He’s standing in the shadows, his expression tight with displeasure, his lips pressed into a thin line. For a moment, he doesn’t realize you’re looking at him, but when your eyes meet, he quickly shifts, schooling his features into a mask of indifference. It’s an attempt to hide whatever he’s feeling, but you saw it—the flicker of disapproval, the hint of something more. You hold his gaze for a moment longer, letting him know you saw, and then you offer him a small, knowing smile before turning away.

You return to your seat beside Minthara, who reaches out to take your hand, her grip warm and reassuring.

“You were magnificent,” she murmurs, leaning in close.

“And you were as commanding as ever,” you reply, your fingers intertwining with hers. Lythaera, still perched on Minthara’s lap, reaches out to you, her eyes shining with pride and admiration.

“Amazing, mami!” she says, her voice brimming with excitement.

You smile, cupping her cheek gently. “Thank you, little one. It’s all for you.”

The applause continues to echo around you, the hall filled with the sound of reverence and fear. And in that moment, surrounded by those who would either bow to your power or be crushed beneath it, you feel the full weight of your strength, your love, and your family—unbreakable, invincible, and forever bound by the silk threads of fate.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Bigggggg chapter for y'all, hope you guys enjoyed the time skip, I wanted to give a little bit of everything - I also get I have introduced so many OCs but I just can't help myself, if anyone has any questions on the series, please flood my inbox !

Please let me know what you think, I cherish every like, reblog and comment. Love you all ! - Seluney xox

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[fluffyneondinosaur]

a little oneshot that I wrote

It's basically Harry finding out that his father and co were bullies, and features snape crying. Maybe tw: implied rape, but it can really be read as any bullying that involves physical contact. I don't actually write, so apologies if it's not very good. Everyone can rewrite it, or write a companion fic, if you do, tag me!

Also, I need a title for this, if you have any ideas drop it in the comments!

“It’s not bloody fair!” Ron exclaimed, gesturing angrily as they walked out of McGonagall’s office. “She’s all like Oh, Professor Snape is responsible for his students, and he is free to discipline them however he sees fit! We’ll be scrubbing cauldrons every night for the rest of the month thanks to that greasy git!”

Hermione frowned over at him. “A month is a bit much, but don’t you think you could’ve focused any better? You and Harry really did make a rather spectacular explosion.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Even if I hadn’t done anything wrong, he’d still have given me detention. Ruining my potion just made it better for him.” Hermione opened her mouth with a disapproving look.

As she was about to speak, a door slamming ahead of them caught their attention. Dumbledore was hurrying down the hallway with an abnormally worried and upset expression casting shadows over his face.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Hermione asked cautiously. “Is something wrong?”

A sharp pang of fear shot through Harry.”Did Voldemort do something? Is someone hurt?”

Dumbledore slowed his pace, looking down at them, and sighed. “No Harry, he has not.” He glanced over at Hermione. “Professor Snape was hit by a ruined potion during class this morning, which exacerbated his injuries from his latest, ah, excursion.” Harry had to suppress a feeling of vindictive satisfaction that Snape hadn’t gotten away from his Death Eater mates unscathed. The feeling quickly mixed with one of mild shame when he registered the first half of the sentence. 

“He is in critical condition right now, I must go visit him.” Dumbledore said, striding quickly in the direction of the infirmary.

Hermione ran to catch up to him. “Could we come with you Professor?” Dumbledore hesitated for a moment, before nodding.

Harry’s and Ron’s eyes widened comically. “Hermione!” Harry hissed under his breath.

Hermione turned to glare at both of them. “What? Who’s potion was it that hurt him? And made the injuries that he got spying for us worse?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. Ron, on the other hand, scowled. “Maybe he spills all of our secrets to You-Know-Who, serves him right.” Harry elbowed him. 

Hermione angrily turned her nose up at him. “Professor Snape is on our side, whether you like it or not. And your potions disaster is the reason that he’s dying right now.” She turned and stormed off, following Dumbledore in the distance.

Harry’s stomach twisted painfully, and even Ron looked uneasy. “Wait! We’ll come with you.”

The three of them followed the headmaster to the infirmary, into one of the private rooms. Madam Pomfrey was standing by Snape’s bed, casting protective charms around him. She looked up as they came in. “Stay by the door, the potions that I gave him will cause him to hallucinate, and he might attack if you come too close. The hallucinations are from real moments of his life.”

Dumbledore nodded somberly, and the children exchanged a look. Madam Pomfrey finished casting the spells, and left the room, presumably to retrieve more healing potions. The room was silent for a long moment.

“Potter!” Snape’s voice rang out. Harry jumped, spinning to look at him in shock.

“Professor- ”

“Back with your little friends aren’t you?” 

Dumbledore frowned. “Severus- ”

“Don’t use my name like you’re some kind of friend Lupin! You’re just as bad as the rest of them!” He sneered.

Snape was talking about his father, Sirius, Remus, and Pettigrew, Harry realized in shock, before it turned to anger. He opened his mouth to retort, when Snape continued.

“Four on one appeals to your Gryffindor honor doesn’t it? The house of the reckless and stupid. You four are prime examples of it. Trapping me in a loo, don’t you think it’s below you Black?”

Ron snorted. “What’re they going to do, give him a swirly?”

Harry frowned, discomfited. Dudley and his friends used to do the same to him, and it was disturbing to think that his father may have done the same. He watched Snape closely, as his sneer vanished suddenly, his face darkening in horror with a flicker of fear crossing his eyes.

Dumbledore stepped forward with an uncharacteristically afraid expression. “Severus? My boy, what happened?”

Snape didn’t seem to hear, staring in front of him in shock. He suddenly shrieked, yanking himself backwards, thrashing on the bed. “No! Don’t touch me!”

Dumbledore’s face paled, and Harry felt like vomiting.

Snape stared ahead for a moment, before his face collapsed, and he let out a choked sob. “Please stop, I can't do this anymore. Lupin, you’re a prefect, stop your friends please… please.” 

Harry felt like a knife had been plunged into his heart. No wonder he hates me so much, if whatever my father did destroyed him enough to make him cry.

Dumbledore’s face was ashen, and Hermione had her hand over her mouth, her eyes glassy. Ron was staring at the floor.

Snape let out a shuddering breath, tears freely falling down his face now. He looked up at his imaginary attackers. “Why can’t you ever just leave me alone?”

[c-e-d-dreamer]

When We Howl, the Moon Will Cower: Chapter 4

A/N: I'd say I'm sorry this chapter is so long, but I feel like no one actually wants to hear that. We've got a little bit of everything! Cassian getting his ass handed to him. Nessian banter. Mama A being the worst. And SMUT! Anyways, hope everyone enjoys

Additional note: I'm really sorry to everyone on my tag list. Tumblr won't let me tag any accounts for some reason. It won't let me select when I paste it in and it keeps saying "no blogs found" when I try typing manually which I know is a damn lie 😭

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Previous Part // Next Part

Cassian

Cassian watches as Nesta works through the combination, fists hitting against Cresseida’s raised palms. Her hair is tied back in a braid that runs down her back, the strands swishing across her shoulder blades with each movement and glinting beneath the rays of the afternoon sun. She’s been at it for a while, pink coloring the apples of her cheeks and stretching down her throat to her collarbones, and even from where he’s standing, Cassian can see the beads of sweat speckled across her skin.

Before he can stop them, his thoughts start to spiral down and down. He still remembers the last time he saw that sheen along her skin. Still remembers exactly how far down that flush can go. His body still too keyed-up after sleeping beside her the night before. He has to tilt his head up toward the sky with a sigh, determined to cool the heat sparking and simmering in his veins.

When Cassian focuses his attention back down, Nesta and Cresseida have moved on to sword practice. Wooden sword in hand, Nesta moves first slowly then with more speed through the steps Cresseida directs. Cassian keeps waiting for Cresseida to correct Nesta’s stance, but after the fourth repetition, he can’t take it any longer, striding across the training rings.

“Watch your foot.”

Nesta sighs at the sound of his voice, dropping her wooden sword to her side and turning to him with an unimpressed expression. “What?”

“Your foot. You’re turning it inward each time you lunge,” Cassian explains, gesturing down toward the foot in question. “You’ll lose strength and control doing that.”

Nesta glances down to her own feet, and Cassian wonders briefly if she intends to ignore the advice out of pure stubbornness, out of pure, witchy spite. Another way for her to pull one over on him while they’re trapped in this blazing wildfire burning around them, between them. But instead, surprisingly, Nesta readjusts her stance, shifting her foot so it faces forward.

“Thanks,” Nesta mutters, raising her sword again to work through the same sequence. “Did you need something else then?”

“Just trying to help, sweetheart.”

“And yet, I don’t recall ever asking for it.”

“Cassian!”

Cassian turns at the call of his name, finding Baz just outside the training rings. For once, there’s no smile on his third’s face, his brown eyes missing their usual, playful spark. It has cold dread flooding through Cassian’s limbs, crystalizing between his ribs until the weight twists and presses in. He breathes through the churning in his gut, but his muscles feel tense, his lips pressed into a grim line by the time Baz reaches him.

“What’s happened?” Cassian demands, skipping right past pleasantries.

“Alistair and Cormac have returned,” Baz explains.

Cassian sighs softly, squinting back toward the village and the rows of cabins, his mind reeling over this news. There’s no denying the relief that floods through him, the way it soothes the fear that always sparks within him every time they send out scouts. But what did they see? What information are they bringing back? It’s a stark reminder of the storm clouds looming just over the horizon, of the thunder shaking the ground beneath Cassian’s feet, beneath the pack’s security.

Nodding to himself, Cassian turns his attention back to Baz. “Gather the elders. We’ll meet immediately.”

“Already on it.”

Baz turns on his heels, jogging away, and Cassian watches him go before making his way toward the meeting hall with another sigh. Anxiety prickles across his skin at what they’ll learn, what will be discussed. He makes it a few steps outside of the training rings when the sound of a second set of footsteps reaches his ears, Cassian stopping short. He turns to find Nesta walking beside him, her brows furrowing at their sudden halt.

“What are you doing?” Cassian asks, gesturing back toward the training rings. “Go back to training with Cresseida.”

“It sounds like there’s important news, clearly an important meeting,” Nesta offers, peering up at him as if it’s obvious.

“And?”

“And? And I’m joining you.”

Cassian scoffs, crossing his arms. “You’re not attending this meeting.”

“What,” Nesta snaps dryly, her tone low and incredulous. “Why not?”

“I’m not having a witch in the room when we discuss pack business.”

Cassian is certain that the glare Nesta settles him with would cut down a lesser man where he stands. The blue of her eyes is pure ice, a fire burning in them and promising to swallow him whole in a blazing storm. She steps closer to him, her chest brushing against his own with every annoyed, heaving breath, lip pulled back in a sneer.

“I am your wife,” Nesta reminds him, words cold and clipped.

Cassian leans down until they’re eye to eye, offering a glare of his own. “I didn’t choose you.”

This close together, Cassian catches it, the way her mask slips for just a moment. He almost thinks he imagined it, that flash of emotion in her eyes, before the fury returns. He doesn't dare look down, look away from her gaze, but he can feel the sparks of silver flames prickling across his skin where their hands hang a hairsbreadth apart. He resets his stance, shifting his feet and preparing for the impact of her magic.

“You’re a godsdamned bastard,” Nesta seethes.

She doesn’t say anything else, surprisingly keeping a leash on her magic and her rage. Instead, she turns on her heel, stalking back toward Cresseida on the other side of the training rings. Cresseida meets Cassian’s gaze briefly, shaking her head, before holding out the wooden sword for Nesta to take again. But Cassian doesn’t have time for disappointment or other’s opinions on what he should or shouldn’t do.

On how he should or shouldn’t run his pack.

He winds his way through the village until he reaches the meeting hall. Baz and Emerie are already standing outside, and he offers them both a nod in greeting.

“Are all the elders gathered?”

“Everyone’s gathered and ready, yeah,” Baz explains, glancing behind him to the open doorway.

“Where's Nesta?” Emerie asks, looking pointedly over Cassian’s shoulder as though she expects the witch to appear.

“Hell if I know,” Cassian shrugs, moving to step forward into the meeting hall but Emerie is quick to step directly into his path, blocking him. He rolls his eyes. “Last I left her, she was at the training rings with Cresseida.”

“Should we wait for her before we start, then? One of us can go grab her,” Baz offers.

Cassian lets out a derisive snort. “Why would we wait for her? She’s not attending a pack meeting.”

The cold look Emerie settles him with rivals Nesta’s. “She’s your wife.”

“Why does everyone keep saying that? Did everyone forget that I didn’t choose her?”

“Did you forget that she didn’t choose this either?” Emerie demands, smacking him hard in the chest. “You were there. Her mother practically sold her and her sisters like cattle. I thought I already told your dumbass you need to respect her.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Cassian growls, side stepping around Emerie and into the meeting hall. “Let’s go.”

“Fucking idiot…”

~ * * * ~

The sigh that tumbles past Cassian’s lips is heavy, icy claws sinking into his lungs and drawing blood with the exhale. He digs his fingers through his hair, the strands already starting to knot with how many times he’s repeated the gesture. The map continues to lay splayed out across the wood of the table in front of him, and all he can do is stare at it, blink at it.

“We’ll have to inform the vamps and the Vanserras,” Baz’s voice draws Cassian from his quickly spiraling thoughts. “We can’t keep this information to ourselves.”

“A temple,” Emerie whispers, almost to herself. “What kind of evil do you have to be to attack and destroy a temple?”

“If Cormac is right, they got whatever they were looking for,” Cassian comments, leaning forward over the map and sliding his finger along the parchment, along the ink of the lines, the trees and the mountains. “Hybern’s even more dangerous now, and we need to be ready. We need to up our defenses along the western lines, make sure our warning system gives us as much time as possible.”

“You really think Hybern would try something? Attack the pack directly?” Baz asks, a hollowness taking over his usual sunny expression.

“Mother knows what Hybern is thinking or planning,” Cassian says, pushing back up to his feet. “But I’m not willing to risk it. Not willing to risk our pack.”

Emerie nods in agreement, the weight of what Cormac and Alistair described finding at the temple clearly still pressing on her even as she defiantly holds her chin up high. “I’ll make sure the new orders are delivered and implemented.”

“Tomorrow,” Cassian offers, giving Emerie’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “We’ll worry about implementing everything tomorrow. I think we all could use a night off after that.”

“And maybe a drink,” Baz mutters, the barest hint of a smile starting to return.

Cassian chuckles softly, unable to deny the idea sounds appealing. He has a bottle of whiskey back at his cabin that’s smooth and aged, and it might just be calling his name. “And maybe that too.”

Cassian rolls up the map and returns it the rightful place, following his second and third out the door the elders vacated what feels like hours ago. True to his teasing words, Baz heads for the pack’s favorite watering hole, Emerie vanishing toward her cabin to find her wife. It leaves Cassian to make the trek back to his own cabin alone.

The meeting lasted for hours, darkness having now blanketed across the village. The clouds shimmer and shift across the face of the moon, the silver light rippling like waves across the grass where it bleeds through, casting shadows over the trees and cabins. He just hopes it means that Nesta may have already retired for the night. The last thing he wants after that meeting is to rehash an argument with her.

He’s already dreaming of a tall glass of whiskey, of settling before the fire and relaxing at least for one night, as he makes his way up the steps to his cabin. He reaches forward for the handle of the front door, but a shock jolts through his fingertips, skittering up his arm and through his entire body. His eyebrows pinch, and he shakes out the pins and needles before trying again, only to earn the same reaction, his every muscle tensing in response.

“What the fuck…”

Cassian raises his hand, carefully, slowly, pressing his palm forward. The magic glimmers around his touch, spreading outward in silver swirls that Cassian suspects must be some sort of runes. They stretch all the way up and around the cabin like a shield.

A ward.

She’s put a ward around the cabin, locking him out.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Nesta?” Cassian shouts, loud enough she can hear him from wherever she is inside. “Let me in!”

Only silence answers Cassian, mocks him.

“Nesta, I know you can hear me! This isn’t fucking funny.”

Cassian growls in frustration when there’s still no response. He slams a fist against the ward, but the magic seems to give back whatever impact thrown at it, silver flaring around him and the force sending him stumbling back a few steps. He scrubs a hand through his hair and down his face, sending a silent prayer up to the Mother. He doesn’t know how long his stubborn witch of a wife intends to let him stew, but it’s clear that it’s going to be a long night.

~ * * * ~

Nesta

Nesta tugs on the strands of her hair, shifting them until they sit how she wants. She holds them steady in place, plucking the pin from between her teeth and sliding it between the strands. Examining her work in the mirror, she hums quietly in approval, finally stepping back and toward the door. She winds her way through the cabin and to the front door, but her steps stop short when she pulls it open.

Cassian is curled up on his side, his back to the door. One arm is tucked up beneath his head, cheek pillowed on his bicep, and his hair is a tangled mess all around his face. For a moment, Nesta can do nothing but gape, nothing but blink in surprise at the sight of him here in front of the door. When she’d warded the cabin last night, she assumed that he’d find somewhere else to sleep, perhaps crash with Baz wherever the third’s cabin is.

Guilt begins to spool in Nesta’s gut, but then she remembers everything that happened yesterday. She remembers how Cassian seems set on locking her out of everything involving this pack. As if being isolated from her family through this farce of a marriage wasn’t bad enough, she’s stuck being just as isolated here thanks to her dear husband. As if Hybern and its king aren’t as much of a threat to her as they are to Cassian and the pack.

All of the anger and rage from yesterday blazes back through Nesta’s veins like a wildfire, and she raises her chin, stepping right over Cassian’s still sleeping form. Hopefully, now, the alpha has learned his lesson. He wants to play games and shut her out of everything, then he can enjoy sleeping outside in the cold and being shut out of his own cabin.

“Nesta.”

Nesta sighs, pausing just two steps down from the cabin. She turns around just in time to watch Cassian scramble up to his feet. Despite not being in his wolf form, his eyes still glow golden, furious in the way they spark and blaze. His lips are pulled back in a snarl, brows pinched down low as he glares at her.

Nesta raises a sardonic brow, not giving him an inch with her cool expression. “Sleep well? Who knew you took your inner wolf so seriously that you take to sleeping outside now.”

“Do you think this is a fucking joke?” Cassian growls, fists clenching at his sides.

“I don’t know. Did you think yesterday was a fucking joke?”

Cassian scoffs, but Nesta has heard enough. She spins on her heel and continues down the steps that lead away from the cabin and back toward the village.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Emerie is waiting for me with a carriage,” Nesta explains, not stopping or turning around. “I don’t want to be late for tea with my sisters.”

She can feel Cassian’s ire following her the whole way, burning a brand into her spine. The low sound of his growl practically echoes in her ears. It has a self-satisfied smirk tugging up Nesta’s lips the whole rest of the way, and if Emerie notices her expression, she thankfully doesn’t comment on it as Nesta climbs inside the carriage, as it carries them away from the village.

It feels almost strange to be back at the Archeron manor, to peer up at the dark red brick, the spires, and the climbing ivy through the carriage window. Almost subconsciously, her thumb slides across the slightly raised skin on the back of her left hand, tracing the scar back and forth. A deep breath in and out, and Nesta opens the carriage door, stepping out and into the misty morning light.

She walks up the front steps, the front door swinging open right before she reaches it. At least, the magic imbued within the wood and brick of the house still recognizes her. Nesta steps inside, instantly greeted by the familiar smells of fresh lavender, ginger, and basil, and follows the halls all the way to the sunroom at the back of the manor.

The round table in the room is already covered in a white, lace tablecloth, a steaming teapot placed at the center. Elinor sits primly in the seat directly across from the doorway back into the main house, hair neatly and harshly tugged back away from her face and chin raised high. As soon as Nesta steps inside, her mother’s cool eyes are pinning her in place.

“Mama,” Nesta greets quietly.

Feyre is already settled in the seat directly to Elinor’s right, so Nesta takes the seat across from their mother. She chances a glance toward her youngest sister, but Feyre has her eyes cast downward, staring intently at her plate. Nesta doesn’t miss the way Feyre chews on her bottom lip, the way she aimlessly pushes around her eggs, even as her grip on her fork is white knuckled.

Giving her hands something to do, Nesta reaches forward for the teapot, pouring herself a cup. Thankfully, just as she’s taking a sip, Elain steps inside the sunroom, brown eyes wide and almost nervous as they flit around the table. She’s quick to settle into the final seat beside Nesta, fingers twisting and fisting into the skirts of her dress.

“My girls,” Elinor begins, taking the time to look at all three of them. “Back together again. Have you all been well?”

Feyre’s eyes flash up at the question, but Nesta is quick to jump in. “I’m sure we’re all still adjusting, Mama.”

Elinor hums, Nesta’s fingers twitching and tensing in response to the disapproving sound. She has to shake the urge to trace that scar on the back of her hand again, that sound and what typically followed it still haunting and prickling in the back of Nesta’s mind.

“And what have we learned, hm?” Elinor continues, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “The rumors say that Rhysand’s numbers are beyond what we’ve been led to believe. Is it true? Are there more vampires than we know?”

“How would I know that, Mama?” Feyre sighs softly.

“You’re his wife now, are you not? And what about the wolves?” Elinor asks, her attention snapping to Nesta. “There’s long been stories of their training, of their strength.”

“I haven’t seen anything out of the ordinary with the pack,” Nesta explains, trying to hold her mother’s gaze but dropping her eyes to the dark swirls of her tea.

“And how about the Vanserras? And their coven’s spellbook?”

“I… I haven’t seen any spellbook, Mama,” Elain murmurs, her voice quiet.

Elinor sighs, and Nesta tries to brace for whatever is coming. “I give you girls everything that you need, set you and this family up, and this is what you offer me?”

“Mama…” Nesta starts, prepared to place herself in front of her sisters and in the line of fire with their mother if need be.

“You all have to be better. You’re Archeron women for the Mother’s sake.”

“Are we? Since you married us off,” Feyre mutters under her breath, but not quiet enough that their mother doesn’t hear.

“You insolent child,” Elinor seethes, turning her ire on her youngest daughter. “I am making you all stronger, ensuring you can take your birthright. And you’re ungrateful?” She takes a calming breath, smoothing out the lines of her skirts. “I expect you all to be better than this moving forward. At least I see you haven’t allowed the vampire bite, nor the wolf mating bite. That’s good. Elain?”

Elain’s grip on her skirts is near white-knuckled beneath the table, pink beginning to spill through her cheeks. With each second of silence that stretches around them, Nesta frowns in confusion, trying to surreptitiously reach toward her sister in comfort without their mother noticing.

“Elain,” Elinor repeats, her voice clipped.

Another tense moment passes, but then Elain slowly lifts her hands, placing them palm up on the table. The pink line across her left palm is unmistakable, still slightly puckered and not fully healed. A bonding spell, a witch’s equivalent of tying two souls together through blood and magic.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Elain whispers, wincing when Elinor’s fingers curl around her wrist in a tight grip. “It was Eris. He insisted that Lucien and I do it.”

The response has Nesta even more confused. Elain has never been a particularly good liar, neither when they were girls and she was stealing cookies and sweets from the kitchen nor when they were teens and she was sneaking out to meet Graysen Nolan in town. And Nesta knows that Elain is lying now; although, she has no idea why.

“What were you thinking, Elain? This type of stupidity is beneath you.”

“Please, Mama. You’re hurting me.”

“Do you have any idea what this means? What you’ve done? You’re an Archeron, dammit, not some Vanserra’s tramp. Marriage or not, I will not have you tarnishing this family’s name.”

Elinor releases Elain’s wrist, crescent shaped indentations embedded in the skin from her nails. Elain clutches her hand back to her chest, cradling her wrist. Anger sparks and flares in Nesta’s chest in her sister’s defense. She glares across the table at their mother, but Elinor’s focus stays glued on Elain. The biting words sit heavy on the tip of Nesta’s tongue, poised and ready to fire without a second thought for the consequences, for what she knows it would mean to bring Elinor’s ire back her way.

As long as it’s off Elain and Feyre.

But before Nesta can say anything, Elinor pushes up to her feet. She looks down her nose at all three of her daughters, a cruel queen and her subjects. “Remember your place, remember what is expected of you as an Archeron, and do not fail me again.”

~ * * * ~

Nesta is quiet the entire carriage ride back to the pack’s village. She can feel Emerie’s curious gaze watching her from the seat across from her, but Nesta keeps her eyes firmly out the window. She watches the leaves and the trees shift and morph as they move past, her mother’s words, the whole morning, still playing over and over in her mind.

She’s an Archeron woman. A witch who comes from a long line of proud, powerful women. One of three sisters said to be blessed by the Mother herself. No matter that she’s a married woman now. No matter that she and Cassian may one day be amicable. No matter what the pack might one day mean to her. An Archeron is what her mother expects her to be, and Nesta will not fail her.

She will not be a failure again.

“Are you alright?” Emerie finally dares to break the quiet to ask. “You seem… tense.”

“I’m fine,” Nesta dismisses curtly. “Besides, you don’t need to worry about me.”

“You’re the alpha’s wife. You might be surprised, but that actually means something to me.”

The words take Nesta by surprise, and she turns her attention to the second, blinking a few times before remembering herself. “Thanks.”

Emerie shrugs like it’s easy, like it doesn’t mean anything, but it does to Nesta. It makes her feel like she may be less alone in the pack after all. She’s about to ask Emerie if she likes to read, to see if they may share any interests, but the carriage pulls to a stop. Emerie is quick to hop out, holding the door open for Nesta to step down as well.

“I promised Cresseida I’d relieve her from shop duty as soon as I got back,” Emerie explains, waving off the carriage. “You’ll be alright?”

“I’m fine.”

Emerie’s gaze sweeps over Nesta, like she doesn’t quite believe the words, but she doesn’t comment or say anything else. With a nod of her head, she heads toward the market square. Left alone, Nesta takes a moment for herself. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath in, allowing the scent of the trees and the moss around her to fill her senses. The peace this deep into the forest licks at her wounds in a soothing way she doesn’t expect, has that magic within her settling like a beast returning home.

Home.

Is that what this place is now? Between her grandmother and her mother, the Archeron manor certainly never truly felt like a home. Nesta has never really felt like she had a home, not a true one,at least. When she was younger, she used to read stories of sweeping romances and believed that she could find one just like the women between those pages. Her mother always said they were nothing more than fairytale dreams, always chastised her when she had her nose in those books.

Maybe that was one thing Elinor was right about.

Sighing softly to herself, Nesta rolls her shoulders and starts along the winding path through the village, back toward the alpha cabin on the top of the hill. When she pushes through the front door, she’s surprised to find Cassian standing in the kitchen. He looks just as surprised to see her, but then his expression changes, morphs into rage with the way his lips pull back in a snarl, the way his hazel eyes flare and narrow.

Nesta had almost forgotten about Cassian, certainly forgotten about their previous argument and the ward she’d placed around the cabin last night. She’d been too caught up in her mother and her sisters, between the disaster that was tea this morning. But it’s clear that Cassian hasn’t, and it all comes crashing back to Nesta as she takes in the way he’s glaring at her.

It’s the perfect distraction.

“I see you got yourself back inside after all,” Nesta comments idly, turning her back on him and removing her shoes and her cloak.

“We need to talk about last night.”

“What’s there to talk about? I thought it was rather fitting. Perhaps, we should build you a dog house.”

Nesta turns back around, offering her best saccharine smile, knowing it’s exactly the thing to get under his skin and fuel the fire. To draw out the pull to her push until they’re burning together and everything else fades away with those flames. But Cassian merely tilts his head, watching her in that unnerving way of his as though he can see right through her. It has Nesta’s hackles raising.

“Do you want to play, Nes?” Cassian drawls, taking slow, measured steps closer to her.

“Play? There’s no playing. You’re insufferable.”

“Insufferable? That’s weak, even for you.”

Nesta scowls up at him, daring to close that final step between them until they’re toe to toe. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, come on. Is that the worst you’ve got? I’ve been called much worse than that, sweetheart.”

“Like what?” Nesta asks, any other cutting words dying on her tongue.

“Offended on my behalf?” Cassian fires back, reaching a hand up between them to cradle her jaw, dragging his thumb across her bottom lip.

The teasing tone has the scowl returning in an instant, Nesta smacking his hand away. “Perhaps, I want to shake the person’s hand. Exchange ideas.”

“Ideas?” Cassian continues to tease, walking Nesta back until her back hits the wall.

“Yes. Ideas I could have shared in the pack meeting yesterday.”

Any teasing drops away completely from Cassian’s expression as he rolls his eyes. “Back to that, are we? It’s my pack, remember? Did you forget who the alpha is?”

“Did you forget I’m your wife? I should have been in that meeting.”

“Oh, you want to be my wife, now? How about you be a good little wife and get on your knees and suck my cock?”

The words are crude, all but snarled in her face, but that doesn’t seem to stop the way Nesta’s body responds. She still remembers that cock all too well. Remembers the way it had felt fucking into her. Remembers the way his knot had stretched her. Remembers the delicious ache between her thighs that remained for the entire next day.

But she’ll be damned if she lets Cassian know all that.

“Fuck you,” she snarls instead, shoving at his chest, but of course his large frame in unmoving.

“You’ve certainly forgotten how good a wolf’s sense of smell is,” Cassian tells her, leaning down over her with a cocksure smirk. “You think I can’t notice the sweet scent of your arousal? Do you want to suck my cock, sweetheart?”

“It’s clear you certainly want me to.”

Nesta shifts her hand, reaching down to grip Cassian’s cock through his pants. He hisses at the contact, but she can feel how he’s already half hard, can feel the way he twitches against her palm. It’s clear he’s getting off on their back and forth just as much as she is. She rubs her hand up and down, squeezing when she reaches the head of his cock.

Cassian continues to swell beneath her ministrations, and Nesta can’t help but lick her lips. How would the weight of him on her tongue feel? How would he taste? Just the thought has her clenching her thighs, desperate for friction, for relief, beneath the skirts of her dress. There’s a hunger yawning in the space between her ribs, clawing and gnawing at her chest, and she sees that same hunger echoes in Cassian’s own burning gaze, in his darkening hazel eyes.

“The no kissing rule still applies,” Nesta tells him, pulling her hand away so she can focus on the laces of her dress. “This is just sex.”

“Just sex,” Cassian agrees, reaching a hand back to fist in his shirt, tugging it up and off.

Nesta’s dress has barely hit the floor in a crumple of fabric before Cassian is pressing fully into her space. His hands find her thighs, fingers spread wide and digging into her skin, and he hauls her up off the ground with ease. He turns on his heel, only taking a few long strides before he deposits Nesta on the kitchen table, the wood pressing against her back.

Cassian takes his time roving his eyes over her, tracing down her throat and collarbones, lingering on her heaving chest and her peaked nipples, following down her stomach and between her spread legs. He dares to reach his hand forward, shadowing that same path with two fingers. It’s a spark catching, goosebumps erupting across Nesta’s skin as she arches up against that touch.

“So pretty flushed like this,” Cassian comments idly, using those same two fingers to toy with the waistband of her undergarments. “Good enough to eat.”

Cassian gathers up his hair in his hands, tugging it away from his face and securing it with a leather band, before he slowly drops down to his knees. His fingers curl around Nesta’s ankles, calluses along his palms sliding up her calves, over her knees, up her thighs. He pries her legs further apart, leaning in until even through the fabric separating them still, Nesta can feel the ghost of his hot breath against her cunt, until he can lick a thick line over the dampness that’s already gathered there.

Cassian groans softly, giving her cunt another lick. “And oh so sweet too. Who knew just the thought of sucking my cock would have you dripping already?”

His hands slide up over her hips, and Nesta can feel the heat of them scorching her skin. She can feel the hint of claws too, teasing and drawing a shudder up her spine. Would he fuck her with those claws? What would that feel like?

The sound of tearing fabric is almost too loud, even over Nesta’s panting breaths. She snaps her attention down just in time to watch what remains of her undergarments fall away. That cocksure grin of his is out in full force, hazel eyes glinting from between her thighs. Normally, Nesta would want to wipe that smirk clean off his face, but right now, all she can think about is the sight of him on his knees before her, about the blissful release that sight promises.

“Cassian,” Nesta whines instead, trying to buck her hips up against his hold. “Please.”

“What a good girl,” Cassian praises, mouthing along Nesta’s inner thigh and drawing a soft whimper from her lips. “Now, keep those eyes on me and keep moaning my name.”

The first slide of Cassian’s tongue against her cunt has Nesta gasping, thighs squeezing instinctively around the alpha’s head. Cassian groans against her, his mouth moving to her clit and tracing slow, tortuous circles over it. Nesta tries to keep her gaze firmly on him, but it feels almost unfair. His wide shoulders bracketed between her thighs, the shorter strands of hair falling out of his updo and along his temples, and his eyes…

His eyes glow golden as though the wolf within him has decided to join as well. As though Nesta truly is the prey caught in the predator’s trap. But she’s not sure she’d rather be anywhere else.

Cassian groans again, and then he really starts to devour her. He fucks his tongue up into her, curling and flicking it along her walls. Nesta feels like she’s burning, every nerve ending blazing and focused on where Cassian’s mouth works her higher and higher. Her feet scrabble desperately for some sort of purchase, against Cassian’s shoulders, against the edge of the table.

“Cass… Cassian… fuck.”

Nesta knows that she’s babbling, knows he’s turned her into a puddle of moans and canting hips, but she can’t find it within herself to care, not with the way he plays her body so well. She slides a hand down to Cassian’s head, holding him right where he is, the other finding her own breast to pinch and tweak her nipple in time with the movements of Cassian’s tongue.

Cassian focuses his attention back on her clit, and that fire blazes hotter until it swallows Nesta whole. Her back arches up fully off the kitchen table, fingers curling tight enough in Cassian’s hair that her nails bite into his scalp. She moans loudly as her release carries her right over the edge, trailing off into a whimper when Cassian continues to lap at her still fluttering cunt until he’s had his fill.

When Cassian finally pulls back, Nesta is forced to release her grip on his hair, her hand falling back to the table with a soft knock. His lips and chin glisten, and he makes a big show of sliding his tongue around his mouth and gathering up the excess. Nesta watches from beneath hooded eyes, that heat in her blood still simmering.

She pulls herself up into a seated position, reaching for the laces of Cassian’s pants. She makes quick work of the knot, pushing the fabric down until it slips from his hips and falls to his feet. Just the sight of his cock bobbing free has her thighs clenching again, has her swallowing hard and licking her lips. She eyes the vein that runs along the underside, the already weeping head, remembering exactly it’ll feel when she sinks back onto it.

Her legs are shaky as she slips off the kitchen table, but she’s able to guide Cassian back until he’s falling into one of the kitchen chairs. She sinks down onto her knees between his spread legs, sliding her hands up over his knees and along his thighs. She drags her nails along the skin, through the coarse hair lining his strong thighs, before finally curling her fingers around his cock, squeezing the base.

“Now this is a sight I could get used to,” Cassian comments, his hips bucking up against her grip. “A good girl on her knees before her husband, ready to take his cock so well.”

Nesta wants to roll her eyes at the words, but there’s no stopping the way her body responds to the praise. She decides to focus on the task at hand, leaning in and licking at the arousal dribbling from Cassian’s cockhead. She moans softly at the salty taste blooming across her tongue, opening her mouth wider to swallow him down. She slides her tongue along the underside, relaxing her throat to take as much as she can and working what she can’t with her hand. The weight of him in her mouth is exactly as unparalleled as Nesta imagined, and she moans around his cock as she starts to bob her head.

Tears start to prickle Nesta’s eyes, but she doesn’t let it deter her, blinking and peering up at Cassian through her eyelashes. His gaze is already pinned on her, lips parted and expression nothing short of enraptured. His dirty mouth is silent now. Nesta almost wishes she could smirk around the way her mouth is stuffed full. She may be the one on her knees, but it’s the pack alpha rendered powerless.

It goes right to her head and right to her cunt.

She widens her stance and dips her free hand between her own thighs. Her fingers slip through the wetness, and she teases her clit briefly before sinking two fingers into her cunt. She tries to match the pace of her fingers with the movements of her mouth, curling her fingers every time she swirls her tongue over the head of Cassian’s cock.

“Gods, look at you,” Cassian’s voice draws her attention back to him. “Go on, sweetheart. Add a third finger. Get yourself nice and ready to take my knot.”

Nesta whines around Cassian’s cock, but she does as she’s told. She presses in a third finger, fucking her cunt hard and desperately. Heat coils low in her gut, her thighs beginning to tremble, and when she dares to press her thumb against her clit, Nesta has to finally pull back from Cassian’s cock. She drops her forehead to his thigh, letting out a high pitched cry as her walls clench around her own fingers, her release making a mess of her own hand.

But still she wants more.

She’s not sure how she manages it, but she pushes back up to her feet. She moves to straddle Cassian’s lap, to finally take what she wants, but she barely gets a single knee up onto the kitchen chair. Cassian’s hand snaps to her throat, fingers pressed hard against her thundering pulse. Her cunt echoes the squeeze of his fingers, clenching around nothing desperately.

“Nice try, Nes,” Cassian leers up at her, keeping his hold of her as he stands up. “But I’m still the one in control here.”

He tightens his grip around her throat briefly, Nesta’s breath catching with the squeeze, before releasing it entirely. He spins her around, her back pressed firmly to his front and her hips digging into the edge of the kitchen table. She can feel his cock still hard and waiting, and Cassian shifts his own hips so that it slips between her thighs, dragging teasingly through the mess of wetness there, along her clit.

Cassian presses his lips to her ear, hot breath skittering across her skin. “Beg for it.”

“Please. Fuck me, please.”

Cassian groans at her words, but still, he doesn’t give her what she wants. His hand slides down her stomach, down between her thighs. He sinks two fingers into her dripping cunt, spreading them and stretching her wide, but it’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough. It’s nothing compared to the real stretch she knows he can give her.

“Do you want my cock, Nes?”

“Yes,” Nesta moans, tilting her hips back to grind more firmly against his cock. “And your knot. Please.”

Cassian’s teeth snag on her earlobe. “Good girl.”

Cassian pulls his fingers free, but Nesta barely has time to whine at the loss before he’s replacing them with his cock. Already, just the stretch of him has stars popping in Nesta’s vision, her cunt fluttering and clenching down around him as though desperate to draw him deeper still, to keep him right there. She feels so incredibly full, her toes curling against the hardwood of the cabin floor.

“Two orgasms already and you’re still so tight around me,” Cassian sighs, pressing between Nesta’s shoulder blades until she’s bent in half over the table. His hands find her ass, fingers digging in against the flesh. “But Mother save me, look at the way you take me so well.”

Nesta whimpers as Cassian pulls his hips back, the slow drag of his cock, but then Cassian is snapping his hips back forward. Again and again he drives into her, setting a hard and fast pace. It’s everything that Nesta needs. Every thrust that has him pressing deeper still, every slap of his hips against her ass, has Nesta keening. She claws at the kitchen table, desperate just for something to hold onto.

As that heat starts to lick up her spine again, her body coiling tighter and tighter like a bow string, Nesta reaches a hand between her hips and the table edge, fingertips trying to catch on her clit despite the jostling. A growl sounds from behind her, fingers curling around her wrist. Cassian yanks her hand away, pressing it to the table and holding it firmly there.

“You’ll come on my knot or not at all.”

It’s a threat and a promise.

Her entire body feels wrung out, but she doesn’t want him to stop. She hopes that he doesn’t stop. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knows she should feel embarrassed at this hunger that cloys in her gut, that flares through her chest, but she can’t find it within herself to care. She wants this. Wants him. Wants his knot.

Her throat feels hoarse with how much the male behind her has made her scream, but there’s no stopping the litany of moans that tumble past her lips. Especially when she starts to feel the swell of Cassian’s knot, feels it catching against the lips of her cunt with every forward thrust.

But he only seems to keep teasing her with it.

The next time that Cassian snaps his hips, Nesta presses her own back to meet him, forcing his knot to sink into her, to properly notch and lock them together.

“Fucking shit,” Cassian groans, dropping his head to her shoulder.

His hands grip Nesta’s hips hard enough to bruise, his cock twitching and flooding her core with warmth. The stretch of his knot, the feeling of being so completely and utterly full, is indescribable, and Nesta clenches down, milking his knot and his cock with a soft moan.

“Still want to be a good little wife, Nes?” Cassian asks, grasping her jaw and pulling her head back against his chest. “Then come all over your husband’s knot.”

His free hand slips down between her thighs, pressing hard against her clit. It’s all it takes for Nesta’s third release of the afternoon to tear through her. She all but screams Cassian’s name, her body trembling through the way his knot still presses against the walls of her cunt, the way she can still feel his cock twitching and filling her deep, the way he doesn’t relent with the rough circles he traces against her clit.

When Cassian releases his hold on her, Nesta is like a marionette with her strings cut, slumping down against the kitchen table with a soft whimper. Her chest heaves as she tries to catch her breath, tries to calm her thundering heart and come down from her high. With her cheek pressed to the table, breath puffing against the wood, Nesta allows her eyes to fall shut.

She and Cassian may never be the sort of husband and wife Nesta often dreamt of as a girl, will certainly never have the sort of love she read about in books, but at least they can have this.

—

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[blackjackkent]

Prompt fill for @astreamofstars from this ask for this prompt meme. Karlach - "It is my fault, I think, that you have forgotten to fear me."

-----

“Oy, who’s the glowy bitch by the door, then?”

Karlach knows better than to bother looking up when the fresh-meat greataxe grunt starts talking, down the barracks a ways. This shit isn’t new. They always like to talk, the new arrivals to Zariel's army. And as soon as they see Karlach, no other topic will do.

Fair play enough, after all; she does kinda stick out. There's nobody else like her in the platoon, or in the whole army. In the eight years she’s been here, nobody else has ever gotten the tin can stuck into them and survived. She’s special, as Zariel likes to assure her, though special has never bought her anything but more blood and death - and the attention of every ignot who want to pick a fight.

Today’s mouthy prick is a draegloth, which explains why he’s talking a big game. A dogskull’s almost as unique as Karlach is around here; makes sense he’d pick out a target fast before anyone can pick him out for an asskicking.

“Oh, that? That's Cliffgate,” says another voice. This one Karlach recognizes - Namtar, a cambion, one of the platoon sergeants. He and Karlach have butted heads before, because Namtar is a rotten pissant. “Zariel's little kiss-ass. No heart, just an infernal engine in her chest.”

"No way," the draegloth says. "That's the Demonsbane? A ruttin' tief? Not even hellsborn?" He laughs sharply. "Lettin' in all sorts these days, uh?"

Karlach ignores the mocking words, focusing on choking down the tasteless morsels that pass for rations around here. The bunk across from her creaks unhappily as weight hits it.

“They're talkin’ about you, Dart,” Flo says with a nasty grin, settling onto the bed and lounging back against the wall. “Gonna sit here and take it?”

Karlach sighs. She picked up the nickname around her second week in the Hells, and it's never once been meant with kindness. Even Flo says it with a nasty edge, and Flo is the closest thing she has to a friend.

Good reminder, I guess, that no one here really gives a fuck about me, no matter how much I might like to pretend. Even after eight years, she can sometimes, if she squints, convince herself that there's camaraderie here, like there was in Gortash's old crew before he sold her out. But it's vain hope, a desperate attempt to pretend this place isn't rotting her fro the inside out; the illusion never lasts long and always just leaves her feeling lonelier.

"If it's not them, it'll be somebody else," she says noncommittally. "Lemme eat my dinner in peace."

"Nawww..." Flo says, comfortably dismissive. "C'mon, Dart, give us a show. Been too long since we had a proper scrap in here besides the piece in your chest."

Karlach laughs softly in spite of herself. It's a pretty weak pun, but the jokes in Avernus are as bad as the food. "I'm wore out, Flo," she says, shaking her head. "Leave off."

She looks up to find Flo's smile has turned a shade more brittle. "C'mon, now, Dart," she says, and there's a warning note in it now. "Y'know I can't be seen bein' friends with a softy. Give us a show, I said."

The message is loud and clear, as it always is. My friendship is conditional. And you'll do as I say, 'cos you *don't* want to be my enemy. Now dance.

Karlach huffs out a weary, flame-hot breath and tosses aside the last bit of her ration pack uneaten. With a groan, she pushes herself to her feet and strides down the barracks corridor towards Namtar and the draegloth.

"Hey, there she is." Namtar looks up with a lazy grin as she approaches. He's flopped on his bunk with his boots off, his wings furled neatly under him and feet up on a stack of equipment piled at the foot of the bed. "How's tricks, Dart?" Before Karlach can respond, he shoots a conspiratorial glance at the young dogskull. "Y'know why we call her Dart, Markos?"

The draegloth -- Markos -- looks puzzled. "Why?" he asks.

"Dumb-Ass Rusty Toaster." Namtar brays with laughter so hard it shakes the bed a little. "Fits, too, cos all she's good for is throwing at things t' poke holes in them."

Markos snickers loudly. Several more of the platoon have picked up on the conversation; smelling blood in the water, they've started to circle up, leaned casually against the walls or peering over the edge of their bunks. Some of them are grinning, enjoying watching the Demonsbane get a dunking. Others - the smart ones - are eyeing Karlach warily. She hasn't said anything yet, but her eyes are smoldering. In spite of herself, the rage is building. 

She doesn't want to fight them. She never has. She's always been loyal, and even in this bitch of a place, even under Zariel's thumb, she'd have fought hard for anyone here who wanted to fight for her in return. But that's never made the slightest bit of difference, because everyone here is a fucking tosser.

Hells. Maybe, when you come right down to it, so am I.

And that, really, is what enrages her, far more than these empty little insults.

"Y'know," she says slowly, looking the draegloth up and down. "I expect this sort of crap from the fresh meat. A mouth spewing shit 'cos you haven't learned to shut the fuck up yet. But you--" She turns her gaze slowly and deliberately to the sergeant. "Eight years it's been, Namtar, and neither of us dead yet, so you'd think you'd have figured out not to mess with me." She lets a slow, feral grin curl across her lips, and there's a ripple of anticipatory mumbling from the gathering crowd around them. "My fault, I guess, that you've forgotten to be scared of me. But I can fix that."

She moves suddenly, with no windup, her fists and feet all shifting at once. Her left fist crashes into Markos's jaw, knocking him back into the steel frame of the bed behind him; his skull ricochets off it with a metallic whingggg as his skull ricochets off the metal. With her left foot, she kicks behind his knee while he's unbalanced and fully flips him sideways. As he bounces back from the bedframe, he goes careening onto his front, his nose crunching into the stone floor.

Meanwhile, her other hand grabs Namtar by the collar and drags him out of his bunk. He has almost two inches on her, but she lifts him with ease one-armed, the engine roaring in her chest and sending energy coursing through her bicep. Spinning out of the kick at Markos, she slams Namtar into the wall, then releases her grip for a split second, only to refix it tightly around his throat before he can fall.

All of the cambion's bravado has vanished. His eyes are wide and brilliant white in the dark red of his face and he squirms ineffectually against Karlach's implacable grip. His wings, crunched between his back and the wall, struggle feebly. "Oy! Let me go!" he bleats, gripping her hand with both of his and trying to pull it away.

She glares at him. "Maybe. If you want to grovel a bit. Otherwise I'll finally just kill you. Maybe everyone else would finally get it through their thick skulls that you don't mess with me."

He sneers in an attempt at disdain, though it's considerably weakened by the fact that he's now struggling to breathe. "You wouldn't dare."

She laughs humorlessly and leans forward until her nose is nearly touching his, so he can feel the heat radiating off her body and see nothing but the exhausted fury in her eyes. "That really a chance you wanna take, sergeant?"

He hesitates, balanced between his anger and his fear. But something he sees in her eyes must convince him, because the fear wins. "Sorry," he mutters.

"What was that?" she asks coolly. "Didn't hear you."

"I'm sorry," he snaps. "Now let me go."

She could drag it out further, but the whole situation feels sticky as hot tar on her skin, burning down into her bones. Gods, I hate this. I hate all of it. I don’t want to be this thing they’ve made me, but I don’t know how to stop.

She releases his throat with a jerk, letting him slide down the wall to the floor, where he sits clutching at his neck and wheezing. Markos, nearby, is out cold where he hit the floor.

"Good," she mutters. "Just... stay there and shut the fuck up." She doesn't wait to hear what the other gathered soldiers might have to say, but turns and stalks away back down the row of beds towards the other end of the barracks. 

Flo gives her a slow clap as she returns to her bunk, grinning unpleasantly from ear to ear. "Nice one. Damn good show, Dart, just as I asked."

"Shut up," Karlach answers, tossing herself facedown onto her mattress. The engine is still running hot, surging pain through her chest and her head and her arms with the slow letdown of adrenaline; she can smell it searing a scorched mark into the bedsheets. "You too - just... just shut up and leave me alone.”

[alpacaparkaseok]

How to Steal Moonlight |2|

Chapter 2. The Brawl

→ Pairing: mafia!BTS x reader (not poly)

→ word count: 3.1k (yes she's itty bitty)

→ warnings/tags: SFW, we're angry and fighting but we're also really thirsty?

→ a/n: hellloooo, it's me. updating with just a little chapter that's been sitting in my drafts for almost a year. pls accept this humble offering. for those of you still reading this, ily.

“Where is she?”  

Tearing across the room, you rip the card from the lilies, taking a handful of the flowers along with you. Jungkook stares at you, a hint of fear in his eyes.  

You’ve cracked. Shattered, and the pieces of you that were still intact are scattering across the ground until the only thing that’s left are the mangled lilies hanging from your hand.  

“Who? What’s…tell me what’s going on!” He calls after you, wincing from the effort it took to yell. “Hey!” 

You’re gone, out the door and striding down the corridor with death in your eyes. Namjoon and Hoseok appear, guns drawn. “What’s wrong?” Namjoon asks. 

Fire licks up your veins just looking at him. All you can see is her, reflected in his eyes.  

“Where’s Victoria?”  

He stiffens, jaw set at the mere mention of her name. “What did she do?” 

“Where is she?”  

Hoseok answers after seeing the stricken look on Namjoon’s face. “Kitchen.” 

It’s all the answer you need, already breaking out into a run. Hoseok hangs back, ducking his head into Jungkook’s room. Namjoon is hot on your heels, looking for all the world as though he’s trying to come up with an explanation but doesn’t dare hope for one.  

“Victoria!” Shout echoing down the staircase, you take the stairs two at a time. The kitchen light is on, the voices inside quieting. All you see is red as you jump down to the landing. Free hand fumbling for something – anything. A knife, a gun, an old newspaper.  

A pack of gum is all you can find in your pockets, but you hold it as if it’s your preferred weapon as you burst into the kitchen. Both Yoongi and Jimin sit at the island, the latter holding a spoon of cereal to his mouth.  

Victoria sits at the table, feet up, face hiding behind a book. Her eyes are icy as they flick up to your form, sliding to the hulking figure of Namjoon behind you.  

Taking advantage of the distraction, you huck the pack of gum with every ounce of power you have.  

It flies through the air, spiraling as it shoots like a torpedo before connecting square with Victoria’s exposed forehead.  

“You little-” she drops the book, massaging the already red welt. “Did you just hit me with a pack of gum?”  

Legs carrying you over to the table, you sidestep a bemused Yoongi and yank Victoria’s chair out. “Recognize this?” The card hits the table along with the lilies, crest facing the ceiling. Victoria has the good sense to flinch away from it as if it were a live snake baring its fangs.  

“What are you on about this time?” Her eyes meet yours, that insufferable smirk eating up her face. You have half a mind to slap it off, raising your hand to do so, but something holds you back. 

No, not something. Someone.  

“Let me go,” you hiss, yanking your hand from Namjoon’s grasp. He stares down at you with a stony expression, jaw twitching. “And you,” stepping closer, you block off any escape route. “You have ten seconds to tell me how this got here before I pick a bone to break.” 

Namjoon shuffles closer, eyes lit from the inside with an unholy flame. “Skipping straight to violence, capa? Since when were you the one to get their hands dirty?” 

“Don’t think I’m about to start paying you for your opinion.” 

Yoongi appears at Namjoon’s shoulder. “Step back, Namjoon.” 

“Are you kidding me right now? She’s gonna kill her!” 

“That’s sweet, Joon,” Victoria croons, sparing him a withering look. “Glad to see you still care when it’s convenient.” 

Yoongi pulls Namjoon back a few steps, the job considerably easier now that he’s been impaled on Victoria’s barbed words. Jimin remains at the island, pouring more cereal into his bowl while he watches the show. 

“Ten seconds,” you remind Victoria. She rolls her eyes, grabbing the crest and holding it up to the light. “Did Yadiel teach you the easiest way to break a clavicle, too?” 

She snarls, throwing the card back onto the table. “He taught me lots of things, kid, though I doubt he dared touch you. His precious little student could never stoop to such lows, could she?”  

Seokjin has wandered in now, taking in the view with an air of boredom. He approaches the island, tapping Jimin’s shoulder. “This seat taken?” 

“All yours.”  

“Your nose might be the better choice,” you muse, cold fury sludging through your bloodstream. “It might be an improvement.” 

Victoria laughs, the sound high and shrill. It grates against your ears. “You really think you’re something, don’t you? I’m absolutely terrified. Look, I’m shaking.” She extends her arm out in a mock show-and-tell, and you seize it, holding her elbow straight.  

Voice dropping into a lover’s murmur, you approach a different tactic. “Shaking like you do when you let yourself fall asleep?” Victoria’s face flickers between resentment and shock as you speak. “I’ve heard you calling out, Victoria. What are you dreaming about?” She shuts down, expression turning impassive in a last-ditch effort to avoid showing her hand. “Do you lie to yourself and say that you would’ve killed him if you had the chance? Is the fact that I’m the one that did it what keeps you up at night?” 

One moment, you’re standing before her, and the next she’s pinning you to the ground. Stars dance in your vision as your skull hits the tile, the world a mess of gnashing teeth and hair. You struggle to get a hand free, distracting her as you suddenly flip your weight, sending her toppling to the floor beneath you. Somehow you clamber to your feet, momentum churning. 

“You ran away!” She accuses, kicking out as you lunge for her. Blinded by rage, you receive the kick square in the stomach. “You shot him, and all this time, you’ve probably thought that he was afraid of you. That he never sought you out for fear that you’d finish what you started.” 

“I did,” you wheeze. Around the kitchen, everyone stands frozen. Seokjin keeps twitching in his seat, jaw set. “I killed him, in the end.” 

“Only because Taehyung let you.”  

Your head snaps up to see the expression on her face. Braid undone; Victoria’s greasy hair frames the exhausted expression on her face. “He didn’t…” but you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. Victoria nods before lashing out once more, going for your legs. This time you expect it, spinning out and tripping her. Instead of dropping to the ground she grunts, pulling you down with her. Your teeth sing with the impact.  

“Yadiel waited for Taehyung’s order to return like a good dog. Why do you think that was? He wanted you back, Bianchi. Talked about it all the time.” She laughs as you elbow her, causing her to lose her grip. “I almost killed him myself a couple times purely because he wouldn’t shut up about his little Bianchi princess!” 

The thought makes your stomach flip, recalling the feeling of his breath curling over your ear – the prolonged touches along your hips as he adjusted your stance.  

You try to roll away, but Victoria is faster. She pulls you back, sitting on your spine as your face digs into the floor. “You wonder why he dressed me up in red? Have you ever thought about that? Red dresses, red nails, red lips. Everything red – I think it helped him forget that I was just a consolation prize. Something Taehyung gifted him to keep him quiet.” 

The humiliation of being pummeled in front of your crew makes your cheeks burn a sharper scarlet, but try as you might to break free, Victoria holds on all the tighter. She isn’t done. 

“You have no idea what he had planned for you, do you? The life he wanted. All the things he was going to…” Victoria stumbles over her own words, her breath catching. 

The truth is staring you in the face, and you think you’re going to be sick on the kitchen floor. Swallowing hard, you close your eyes against the thought.  

“I’m you.” She rises with one last push off your body, sneering. Even with your blurred vision you can see the tear tracks on her cheeks. “I’m the version that couldn’t get away. Better looking, smarter. Not quite as noble as his little Bianchi. But you all the same.” 

Victoria walks back to the table, ignoring you as you flip onto your back. Grabbing the lilies and the card, she stands above you. You stare back up at her, having the distinct feeling that you’re six feet under, staring up from your grave as she throws flowers down.  

“If you think for even one second that I’d do anything for Kim Taehyung, I’ll personally dig your grave next to Yadiel’s. Understood?” 

Nobody speaks as she storms from the kitchen, leaving you still on your back. You can hear every step she takes up the stairs, stomping away back to whatever hole it is she hides in when she wishes to disappear. The kitchen is silent as a mouse as everyone sits in shock, staring down at your prone body.  

“She’s got spirit, Namjoon,” you spit out. “I’ll give you that.” 

Namjoon looks disheveled despite the fact that Victoria never laid a finger on him. He clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from your glare.  

“I’m…” 

“Don’t apologize.” You roll up onto your knees, back screaming in protest. No serious damage, but enough to bruise more than your pride. “Run a perimeter around the building.” 

He doesn’t stick around long enough to say anything more, Yoongi hot on his heels. Jimin’s eyes dance between their retreating figures and you. “Er…So, I’m gonna go see a guy about some hubcaps…” 

As soon as he vanishes, you become ultra-aware of being alone here with Seokjin. He strides over, kneeling in front of you so he’s eye level.  

“Where’d you find this?” He asks, picking the discarded card up from off the floor. The sight of it makes you nauseas.  

“Flowers. On Jungkook’s side table.” 

“Oh.” He lets it flutter back to the ground, fingers finding your hair as he pushes it back gently. “How’d that feel?” 

Your eyes shut, forcing yourself to see nothing but black. “Which part? The part when I realized that our security measures are an absolute joke? Or when I got laid out by Namjoon’s ex?” 

Seokjin cracks a smile that quickly turns into a sympathetic wince. “If it makes you feel any better, you just got more action than Namjoon’s had in years.” 

Croaking out a laugh, you lean heavily on the side of the table and rise to your feet. Seokjin watches your every breath, something hard and calculating hiding behind those dark eyes of his.  

“Spit it out,” you say, although it comes out as more of a whisper than anything.  

“I just…” he shakes his head. “Not sure this is the appropriate moment to say this-” 

“Seokjin.” He meets your eyes at your firm tone. “Out with it.” 

He frowns, staring down at the table. It strikes you at that moment just how tall he is. He certainly towers over you, but it’s the way he’s ever so slightly hunched over, as if shielding you from what lies beyond these four walls. It makes you lean in a little closer, hand reaching out to grasp the sleeve of his sweater.  

Seokjin’s eyes flash as you sway into view, latching onto yours with an electric shock. He visibly swallows before he speaks.  

“If you’re going to fight,” he murmurs, “you need to avoid getting so beat up.” 

You can’t help but scoff. “Are you seriously telling me to win next time?” 

“And if I am?” 

“Well,” you shrug. “It couldn’t be helped. She was better. Angrier.” 

Seokjin shakes his head, eyes dropping to the ground as he steps closer, effectively trapping you against the table. You rest against it, arching a brow.  

This man. You don’t know where you two stand, or where you’re going. Everything since that night you kissed is a blur – a memory that you find playing on repeat at all hours of the day. Whatever this is, it’s impossible not to feel as if you’re being pulled in by his personal magnetic field.  

He grasps your hands only to plant them firmly on the tabletop, making you lean back even farther. Any hope that he didn’t hear your faint gasp is diminished when he grins, cheeks reddening.  

“Next time, it’s ok to play a little dirty,” he whispers. He clamps down on his smile long enough to nose along your throat. You wonder if he can feel your heart pounding as he pauses, lips trailing just below your jaw.  

Your eyes slip shut as you frown. “That’s hardly fair,” you respond, lungs no longer functioning as Seokjin plants an obscenely innocent kiss to your neck. It’s quickly followed by another, this one much slower.  

You can feel his smile against your skin, sending goosebumps racing along your flesh. “You’re seriously concerned about fair? In our line of work?” 

It’s silly, you know that. To be concerned about keeping score while working as a glorified thief. Yet it’s how you’ve always worked. Keeping track of the hits, as though counting cards in a casino.  

A part of you had always thought that you could anticipate when the next blow would come. Now, you can hardly get back up again before Taehyung strikes again. 

Seokjin pauses, straightening up until he meets your eyes. 

“You’re thinking about him again.” 

Not a question – not that it needs to be. He seems to be able to sense it whenever you get sidetracked like this. It’s certainly not the first time that it’s come between you and what you want.  

Which is Seokjin. Your heart seems to beat out his name as you frown. Seok-jin, Seok-jin. Seok-jin. 

It’s a struggle to not lean forward, lose yourself in his touch rather than have to face the issue nipping at your skin. 

“I don’t want to be,” you whisper, eyes closing. “I hate this. Everything he’s left behind.” 

“What will you do?” 

There’s his lips again, whispering into your hair. He’s pulling you against him, letting you rest in his arms. Your mind flicks back to your earlier revelation. Seokjin, coming into your bedroom. Checking on you. Just making sure you’re still there.  

You’re both too broken for this. 

“Tonight? Start looking into staff. Doctors, nurses, janitors. Whoever might be on his side. Someone here must have planted the card.” 

A pause. “And then?” 

“Seokjin, I...” you chew on the inside of your cheek as the truth roils through your veins. Leaning back, you look up into his dark eyes. See the fear that sometimes grips him in the middle of the night, lingering just below the surface. The something else that you never know what to make of.

You let out a long breath. The something else in his eyes wins out. 

“I’ll go with you.” 

Killing a man has consequences. Of the bad sort, typically. Jail time, guilty conscience, a trail of blood and tears left behind. Nasty business. 

Yet standing here, now, you just can’t find it in yourself to care.  

“Jungkook, lay down.”  

He obliges, bed creaking. The glare he directs toward the end of his nose is most likely directed your way, although you can’t be sure. It could be for the chocolate pudding, now out of reach.  

Hoseok, sitting on the edge of his bed, reaches it and passes it back to him. “So...how do you want to go about this?” 

Everyone is here, even Victoria. She sits in the back, near the door. There’s a bruise blooming along her jaw. This you add to the list of things you don’t care about. Besides, you’re fairly certain she gave you a concussion.  

“Do we even have eyes on his location?” Jimin asks. “Did he actually go home?” 

Yoongi clears his throat. “He was last spotted five days ago. Looks like he’s holed up in his family’s estate for the moment.” 

Like the rat he is. 

You clap your hands together, wincing at the loud sound. “Great. Here’s the thing – we can’t all hop on a plane and jet over to Italy-” 

“Sicily,” Jimin and Hoseok speak in unison. 

“Same thing. We can’t all show up looking for him. We’d be caught out in no time. So – here's the deal. Yoongi, you’re here. We have business with the Genovese family, which you’ll be heading up. Don’t look at me like that – we've talked about this. Jimin, Hoseok, you’ll be helping him.” 

Hoseok frowns, but it’s Jimin that complains. “There’s no way you’re leaving me behind. You’ve already broken the terms of our contract-” 

Your ears burn bright red as you recall that Jimin – Jimin, the gods-forsaken heathen – is the one who found out about you and Seokjin. And now he’s blackmailing you with it.  

“- and I’ll do much worse than that if you don’t do as I ask,” you finish for him, offering up a sickly sweet smile. “Namjoon, Seokjin, with me. We’ll be leaving first thing tomorrow for Italy-” 

“Sicily,” Jimin groans forlornly. 

“- so pack your bags. We’ll go over the details on the plane and fill the rest of you in.” 

Jungkook makes a sound of protest from his bed, and struggles to sit up on his elbows. “Take me with you!” 

“No.” 

“Sorry, I meant to say, I’m going with you.”  

You turn your back on him, heading toward the door. “No, you’re not. You’re not in any state to go anywhere right now, Kook. You’ll stay here. When you’re ready, you’ll join Yoongi and assist him here.” 

“But I-” 

His protests are cut off by an icy voice. “I’m going with you.” 

You stop in your tracks. “You don’t want that.” 

Victoria rises from her seat. The fire in her eyes hasn’t gone down yet. If anything, it’s burning brighter than before. As she nudges past Namjoon, she tilts her chin up a bit higher.  

“Take me with you.” 

She stops right in front of you, and you see it, then. What she needs. All the pent up anger and the sheer sense of loss she must feel after losing herself to Yadiel.  

All of it is Taehyung’s fault.  

I’m you, she’d said in the kitchen. As she gazes into your eyes unflinchingly, you can’t help but know she’s right.  

“One condition.” 

Her head tllts to the side, interested. “Name your price.” 

The smile threatening to break through is difficult to contain. Still, you manage it. “Teach me how to fight like you.” 

Victoria grins, and the sight is unnerving. Feral.  

A reflection of yourself.  

“Deal.” 

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[gergthecat]

Home - Toby POV Hannah/Toby

I can’t imagine this situation is anyone’s ideal, but when I received a letter telling me the sender had information about my dead girlfriend, I couldn’t just leave it alone. Now, I’m in the back alley of some random bar—the type of place where I would have thrived fifteen years ago. I made the stupid decision of telling Avery about this over the phone. Now I’ve got the poor girl’s hope up and a three-person security detail tailing me as I weave through the backroads towards the old wishing fountain the sender told me to meet them at. Its only light comes from a few flickering streetlamps, which intensifies this whole scene's creepiness. I don’t even know what ‘information’ they could have. I never knew my Hannah to mess around with many druggies, aside from myself, and I like to think she stuck around more for my charm. Maybe she was in debt, though, however much it might be, there's no doubt Avery’s got more, and she’d give up anything for her mom. 

I check my phone, and the time reads 10:56 PM. There are still four minutes to go, so I start to circle the fountain idly. I can hear the careful trail of one of my followers as they pull into a parking space about a block away from me.

A soft voice cuts through the quiet dark, “Toby?”

I can’t be.

It’s got me stopped clean where I’m standing. 

I spin around and sure enough, it’s her.

My Hannah, standing right in front of me, picking at her left thumb like she always used

to do. Her hair is greasy and tangled, and her eyes are red and puffy from crying, and her lips are chapped and split, and she’s beautiful and so alive. 

My legs are shaky as I stride towards her and pull her into my chest. A flash of fear creases her face before she snakes her arms around my waist, whispers, “Toby.”

“My God, Hannah, it’s you. God.”

“It’s me,” she smiles against the base of my throat.

“Where’ve you been? God, Han, it’s been so long.”

She leans back to look up at me. “How long?”

“Almost four years.”

“Almost four ye—.” She makes a face like she’s going to vomit. “Where is Avery?”

“She’s okay. She’s with my family.”

“Your father?” Hannah remains the only person who knows everything about my relationship with my father.

“He’s dead. He gave everything to Avery.”

“Really? He knew about her?” She looks up at me with Avery’s eyes.

“Yep,” I sigh. She hums in response.

A hunk of emotion hits me all too fast; the idea that she’s actually alive and here in my arms. I lean my forehead down to her hairline to pillow my tears as my body starts to shake again. Hannah just keeps saying my name. Like a prayer.

“I don’t know what’s going on!” She cries suddenly, grasping the front of my shirt. “I don’t know where I was. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Someone must have poisoned and kidnapped you. I’m sorry, Baby,” I whisper into her hair. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Avery,” she responds quickly, “She was visiting me in the hospital. I—I don’t know anything after that.”

“Okay. It’s okay, Baby. I’ve got you now.” Just then, my phone rings, the name ‘Horrible Girl’ lighting up the screen. I show it to Hannah.

“Who—.” I cut her off by answering the call, and immediately, Avery’s worried voice shakes the space between us. Hannah’s face lifts up at the sound of her daughter.

“Toby! What’s going on? Oren told me to call you. Is everything okay?”

Once again, tears line the rims of both of our eyes.

“Hey, Sweetie,” she breathes into the phone. There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Mom?”

Masterlist

Check me out on AO3 :)

I actually handwrote this in cursive so that's there.

[cyber-skeletons]

hiii:>>>

6 + 9 + 5 for megatron, 1 + 10 for Optimus, and/or 13 + 4 for both:333

hc game

HI FRIEND!!!!!! Once more you have come to bless us with asks I see <333 Sooooo sorry for how late this is, things got busy and stayed busy

Megatron:

6) Something they lost, but would love to have back

My god. I've seen some HEAVY answers to this one and I love toying around with those, but as for what I actually believe in:

Terminus.

9) What calms them when they are upset. 

When she's angry and frustrated, she likes to destroy things. Sometimes those things are people. As for sadness and fear, I'm running away with my age regression headcannon again and saying that she likes to hide under a weighted blanket and listen to a safe, trusted love one's spark pulse as they rock her. If there's no one she considers safe, she'll play an audio file of some random spark pulse and pretend someone loves her.

5) A cherished personal belonging. 

During the war, she tried to keep no sentimental belongings ("no attachments"), but after, when she's in recovery, she holds onto the first thing given to her as a genuine act of kindness and belief in her goodness. (In IDW, a Rodimus Star; in Earthspark, a "live laugh love" framed photo of her and Dot; etc.)

Optimus:

1) Something this character is truly proud of.

Can it be someone? Because my first thought was "Bumblebee." Yes I'm on the "Dadtimus" hype train, but more than just the simple cuteness I genuinely think Optimus's pride manifests in the lives he manages to guide and protect for the better

10) How they deal with pain. 

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck you just had to hit me with this didn't you. damn. well. The answer is that he ignores it. Optimus is the #1 target of Ratchet's wrath when he comes in with three rust infections and a completely stripped joint because he played the "I'm fine, tend to others first" game for too long. It's to the point of self harm. And mental pain???????? OH, BUDDY. He just meditates on the Matrix until he loses his sense of self and slips into a state of dissociation so deep that he can function again. Sometimes he implodes and has a 2-hour meltdown in his quarters and then he just starts the buildup all over again.

Both:

13) What kind of parent they would be. 

Crying weeping foaming at the mouth clawing at the walls shaking like a little dog. Them as parents is. everythign 2 me

Anyway, Megatron is a hot mess. He oscillates wildly between being the "fun dad" and the helicopter parent. Always obsessed with knowing exactly where they are at any given moment, if their surroundings are safe, if he can trust other mechs to so much as look at them... the moment that sparkling emerges, he's unlocked an entirely new level of PTSD. Also, because he grew up with "wire mother" instead of "cloth mother," he's VERY screwed in the head and doesn't know how to give affection at first. He shows his love through acts of service and protection until he finally adjusts enough to hug and cuddle. When their sparkling becomes a teen, that's when he really hits his stride. He handles the rebellious streak and the angst with an almost supernatural grace and shocking empathy and patience.

Optimus meanwhile is a tempering, nurturing force right out of the gate. He is the Snugglemaster, always willing to provide praise and affirmations. However, he is also just as paranoid as Megatron about their safety and is also a helicopter parent. That sparkling is 2000% homeschooled and has next to NO privacy. He absolutely gets cornered by the likes of Elita and Bumblebee staging an intervention that he's going to crush his bitlet if he doesn't open up that iron grasp, and that Megatron needs a counterweight. After that, Optimus absolutely earns those "#1 Dad" mugs, and even gets Megatron to chill tf out. It's the teenage years he has to watch out for. He struggles adjusting to his sparkling's new interests and struggles and he tries but man... it takes him a long time to break out of seeing his little one with Permababy Syndrome.

4) What they would do if they had one month to live. 

Megatron is no holds barred fighting it with all her might. She'll spend the entire month searching for a cure or a solution, she'll struggle and rage and defy it every step of the way, even if it means leaving her loved ones in a time of peace. She will never go gently into that good night. It is her nature to rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Optimus, if he's not going "finally," then he's using that time to give as much closure to others as he can. Making happy memories with loved ones, tying loose ends, building things. He's already written like three separate speeches for this day, a la "when I am gone, do not lament my absence" and "when you look up at the stars, think of one of them as my spark."

[demonic0angel]

The “Imaginary” Friend one-shot is out! Read it here on AO3 or here!

CW: non-graphic violence, murder, arson, emotional manipulation, domestic abuse (from Willis Todd)

When Jason was little, he had a friend. It was only when he was able to understand words that he noticed that his "friend" wasn't very real.

"Mom, you don't see her?" Jason asked again in dismay. He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that nobody could see his friend! Couldn't they all see her red hair, blue eyes, and nice smile?

His mom looked at him with an odd look. "No, sweetie. She's imaginary, of course I can't see her."

Jason stared at her, trying to detect the lie, but he couldn't see it. Biting his lip, he turned to Jazz, who stared at him with big eyes and a small frown, looking as worried as he felt.

Again, he repeated, "You really can't see her?"

"No, I can't."

He accepted the pat his mom gave him while he stared, disgruntled at Jazz.

She was totally real!

… right?

The door opened and his mom stood up quickly, pushing him away and striding to the kitchen to prepare a meal. Jason stiffened and skittered away to his room, where he silently shut the door. Already, he could hear the shouts coming from his dad as he yelled at his mom.

"You stupid, slow bitch! What the fuck did I say about making dinner, huh?!"

Jason trembled in place, his heart aching as he resisted the urge to go out and help his mom. The last time he had done that, he had been hit so hard that his head knocked against the walls and his mom's screams had alerted the neighbors to them. That incident had made his dad control himself for a few weeks, but the fear and anger in his mom's eyes made Jason regret it.

He had been scolded so much that time, so he didn't know what to do now.

He couldn't leave his room, so he could only sink to the floor and wave Jazz closer. Jazz sat next to him and said, "My parents weren't like this. They're neglectful."

"Neglectful?" He asked. "You remember them?"

She shook her head. "It was a long time ago. I just recall a few memories. I had a brother named Danny."

"A brother?" He asked to confirm, and she nodded again. Jason blinked and thought about it. "I think I'd like some brothers. We could play games together!"

"Nuh uh." Jazz shook her head. "Siblings are annoying. They cry all day when they're babies. And poop all the time." Like an afterthought, she added, "They're stinky."

Jason snickered. "Then maybe I can have a big brother instead!"

Jazz sneered. "Why not a big sister?"

"Ew, girls are weird."

Jazz gasped in offense and then said, "Fine then! I curse you to have two younger brothers! And they'll fight all the time!"

Jason gasped and blurted, "Wait! I'm sorry! I'll have two sisters then!"

He knew that she said strange things, so he wholeheartedly believed that she had cursed him.

Jazz gave a pretentious 'hmph' and then said, "Fine. Then I'll mend the curse. Two younger brothers, two sisters, and a big brother. Okay?"

He nodded, agreeing immediately before she changed her mind and gave him three younger brothers.

With a sudden sinking heart, he realized that it didn't really matter. His mom said she was fake after all. Her voice, her looks, her everything, it was only his imagination.

"What's the matter, Jay?"

Even her nickname for him was probably fake.

But whatever. Jason would enjoy this anyways.

He smiled at her and said, "Nothing."

Jazz stared at him for a few moments, before she turned away and then said, "I think you should kill your dad."

Jason nearly jumped out of his skin, standing up in alarm to look down at her. "W-What are you talking about?! Kill him?!"

There was a loud crash outside his door and Jason clapped his hands over his mouth, sliding back down to the floor. He gave Jazz a glare, who smiled apologetically. When there was only more murmuring outside, he turned to her and said, "Why would you say that?!"

Jazz shrugged. "I don't know. Don't you think about it sometimes?"

"No! Normal people don't kill!" Jason said sternly.

Jazz stared at him for a moment, before she went, "Hmm," and then turned away again. Jason stared at her, baffled and definitely horrified.

How could he kill someone? Didn't her parents teach her that things like that were bad?

Jason suddenly remembered her parents ignoring her and he swallowed back the scolding words. Still, he felt uncomfortable with the thoughts that Jazz had now given him, because he couldn't help but imagine pushing his father down the stairs and getting him out of their lives once and for all.

Jazz remained silent for the rest of the day.

And Jason thought about it all night long.

————

Only a few weeks later, as Jason watched his dad grab his mom by the hair and toss her into a wall, he made his choice. He waited until the next morning, when the sun was still dark out, to push his father down the stairs when he went out to empty his bladder.

He and Jazz watched his father's head crack open on the ground and shine with a dark liquid, only barely shining red in the rising light of the sun.

"Come back inside, Jason." Jazz said. "Someone will see."

He went inside mechanically, quickly slinking back to his room and nuzzling against his thin pillows as Jazz sat next to him.

"I'm proud of you," she said quietly, and for a moment, Jason feared the person he would become with her praise.

————

He had thought that with his father's death, things would become better.

It did not.

Somehow, his mother had become depressed and people started to collect themselves around her.

One man in particular was uncomfortably close with her, always getting into her space and ignoring her stammered protests. He also would viciously glare at Jason every time he came nearby to get between them, but since Jason knew that he was afraid to hurt him in front of his mom, Jason took advantage of that to be really obnoxious.

"You should kill him too, Jay." She whispered, a trace of ghostly fingers brushing across his shoulders.

Jason stared at his soapy hands, in the midst of washing dishes, and he mumbled, "You're not real."

Ever since he had killed his father, he had regretted it.

A human life was too easy to take and it scared him.

"Are you sure about that? You suspected it, haven't you? I've helped guide you for so many years, Jay. Since you were a baby. It's been so long— how come I haven't disappeared yet?"

"... maybe I've been crazy from birth."

"Do you really believe that?" She asked, and he resisted the urge to shake his head and say no.

He didn't believe that.

But who would believe him if he said that his imaginary friend wasn't so imaginary and was actually real? Who would believe him if he said that the reason why he killed was because of her? Who would believe him if he said that his actions were influenced by a person nobody else could see?

He couldn't even believe it himself.

"Do you think I'm a bad influence on you?" She asked and he nodded.

"You are." He said without malice.

She laughed a little. "I am a bad influence." She admitted. Her fingers brushed against his shoulders. A trail of goosebumps rose wherever she touched, but he couldn't even tell if she had actually tried touching him or if he was imagining it all and his body was reacting to his thoughts.

Arms curled around his neck. He could feel the faint coldness of her body, but he felt no touch.

Was she even real?

"Jay," she said softly, "are you angry at me?"

"No."

It was the truth.

"Then why aren't you looking at me?"

Immediately, he tensed. He couldn't, because looking at her seemed to confirm his thoughts that she wasn't real and he was simply hallucinating.

It was terrifying.

He was scared.

Something touched his cheek and Jason couldn't help but turn around to look at her, his eyes wide. "D-Did you just kiss me?"

Jazz smiled, a faint blush covering her cheeks. "Yeah."

Jason's face felt hot. He didn't know what to say. Did she like him in that way? They had grown up together and although Jason had always entertained thoughts of marrying her when he was little, he was older now. And she wasn't real. What the hell was he all worried for?

Jason blinked out of it.

"I..." he started, but Jazz's ghostly fingers brushed against his lips to make him stop speaking and he paused immediately.

"It's okay if you don't believe me or yourself. You're not crazy, Jason. I'm real. I'm real and I'm with you right now." She smiled sweetly, and Jason relaxed unwillingly, his heart and body trusting in her words completely, even while his mind denied it all.

"I... I—"

"Shhh..." she shushed him softly. "Trust me, Jason. When have I ever lead you astray? When have I ever done you wrong? When have I ever lied to you?"

... she had never.

Jason closed his eyes so he couldn't see her. The moment he did, he could almost feel how disappointed she was as she was immediately silent and still. He was conflicted. He knew that murder was wrong, but when Jazz spoke so sweetly to him, he was afraid of what could happen. He was afraid that he would never be the same again if he continued this pattern of killing at her command.

"... I see." She said. "If that's how you feel, then I guess I'll just leave."

Fear, worse than the one he had felt when he had first killed, immediately washed over him like cold ice water. His eyes snapped open and he called out, "Wait! Wait, I'm sorry."

She paused.

He had never seen her leave him before. From as far as he could remember, he had never been separated from her side. They had been together through all hardships. He had never experienced a life without her and he didn't want to experience one now.

He immediately apologized. "I'm sorry. I-I'll do what you say."

Jazz frowned lightly when she faced him. "I don't want to force you. If we cannot agree, then it is better that we just separate or we'll fight all of the time."

"No! Please don't leave me!" Jason began to cry. He hadn't cried since he was a baby, and he felt even more ashamed of it now. He furiously wiped away the tears as he stuttered, "I-I'm just scared. But I don't want you to leave me."

She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "Alright. Then I'll forgive you. I don't want you to be sad, Jason. I want you to be happy. I was made for your happiness." With that, she smiled a little and reached out. Her hands went through his tears but the sentiment of the gesture still made him calm down.

He sniffed and then asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"Be yourself, Jason. And come when I call." She smiled and then sat next to him. For the next few hours, they sat there in silence, with no other words left to say.

————

The man had killed his mom when she had refused his proposals too many times. The townspeople did not punish him for it, and he hated them all the more.

Even when his father had been publicly abusing him, they had done nothing but give condolences to his mother. They hadn't even offered food or coins, only their empty words.

So with a cold fury, Jason had slaughtered the man who killed his mother with a butcher's knife and fed him to his own pigs.

"What happens when I kill people, Jazz?" He asked, as he cleaned up the mess he had made. Jazz looked proudly at him as she stood next to his side, a reassuring presence as always.

She smiled. "You make me stronger. And soon enough, I'll be able to meet you and we can be together forever."

Jason's breath caught in his chest. "Forever?"

"Forever," she said firmly, and Jason was filled with such a sharp sense of longing that it surprised even him.

"Okay," he said with a nod. "You and I will definitely meet!"

She chuckled and didn't say anything else.

————

Jason grew older.

He was past the age where he would cry if anybody left him, but he never lost that fear of losing Jazz.

He picked up a sack of flour and called out, "Where do you want this?"

"In the storage room! Fendrel will tell you where!" The baker's wife said.

Jason went into the storage room, where the baker's son sat on top of one of the flour sacks, fiddling with a puzzle toy.

"Hey, where do I put this?" Jason asked.

Fendrel sneered at him and said, "Stop kissing my parents' ass. You won't get more money that way."

"In what way were you kissing ass?" Jazz said and Jason had to hold back the urge to laugh.

It must've shown on his face because Fendrel's expression soured. 

"You're so goddamn annoying!" Fendrel spat. "You think that just because you're handsome and strong that you can do anything you want? Everyone knows that you're from a poor family and everyone knows that you're a disgusting orphan!" 

Jason raised an eyebrow. "And you can say all of that, while coming from a baker's family with both parents and still being worse than me?"

Fendrel gave a shout of rage and moved to lunge at him but Jazz gave a simple, "The baker's wife is coming," and Jason didn't dodge, letting Fendrel smack him.

The moment he staggered back, the door opened and the baker's wife saw what was happening.

"Fendrel! How dare you?!" She looked apologetically at Jason. "I'm sorry about him. Here, your pay." She handed him a few coins, more than his expected pay,  and then let him leave on his own with her fingers clasped around Fendril's ear as she dragged him about.

Fendrel yelped and pleaded and Jason watched with satisfaction before he left.

Jazz curled her arms around Jason, the light pressure of her weight a steady promise of what could happen if he continued to kill more people for her. She floated a little bit behind him, like how the stories would depict of ghosts.

In the past few years, she had grown beautiful and tall, even taller than him when she put her feet on the ground. Her red hair was long and straight, her eyes sparkled beautifully when she was happy, and her smile was one of the most radiant things he had ever seen.

Even her words were less childish, as if each kill that he gave her increased her knowledge. In a way, it was true. When he could afford to be distracted, she was always willing to offer random pieces of knowledge that he knew was useful to him. She had quickly become his mentor, friend, and most trusted confidant.

Seeing her grow alongside him, there but always out of reach, it caused the obsession inside of him to grow.

He lost the fear of what could happen as he grew older, losing his innocence with each new enemy he encountered when he was young, but he still refused to kill any of the innocent.

Because of that, he had only killed less than a dozen people in the past decade.

... still a lot, but not enough for Jazz to manifest herself.

But with each improvement of her form and her now being able to touch him, he was determined to find the right scumbag to sacrifice them to her.

Now...perhaps he found them.

"Should I...?" It was an unspoken question. Jazz rubbed her cold cheek against his neck and nodded.

"Yes. Take Fendrel for me, Jay. Create my body for yourself." She cooed.

Warmth oozed in Jason's stomach, curling up with satisfaction and pride.

"Got it, Princess," he muttered.

In a few days, he easily lured Fendrel to the cathedral on the edge of the town. It wasn’t difficult when Fendrel was easy to anger and Jason was quick on his feet and with his tongue. In a few moments, Fendrel was already chasing him with a mind consuming rage, thankfully with enough stupidity that he also called his buddies to follow so they could beat up Jason.

Along the way to the cathedral, Jazz whispered more secrets into his ear as they ran to the cathedral.

"The bookkeeper's wife is cheating on him with his brother."

"The youngest child of the seamstress died just a moment ago."

"The daughter of the miller is having a secret affair with the farmer's boy."

Jason just kept his breath in control and continued running.

When he arrived, he quickly ran inside the cathedral and turned around, where Fendrel stood at the door, panting and with a face full of rage.

"You're dead!" He snarled.

His friends caught up with them and they all entered through the door and went straight towards him. Jason stood in the middle of the cathedral, in front of the statue of the god of agriculture that the town usually worshipped.

Jason had been a little afraid of offending him when he had come in, but Jazz had already reassured him that he would face no consequences as long as he completed his mission to kill Fendrel and his goons. Two pairs of heavy gazes landed on him, one seemingly of great judgment while the other was gentle and loving.

The latter made him feel the most nervous.

Jason watched the boys in front of him try to intimidate him as they crossed over to him, before he looked up and tugged the rope that was attached to a large sack of flour that he had put on the ceilings. When he pulled the rope, the flour sack fell down with a heavy boom, putting flour everywhere.

The boys immediately began to cough, some having fallen down, and Jason took off running towards them, leaping upwards with a great jump and sailing over their heads before he ran to the door, threw it open, and then closed it. He locked it with the key he took from the local priest and then put a board over the lock, just to be sure.

The door was banged upon to no avail. They shouted and screamed and cursed, but Jason almost couldn’t hear them as blood rushed to his ears from the adrenaline.

Jason took a deep breath, looking into Jazz's calm eyes before he took a flint and steel out of his pocket.

He lit the cathedral on fire and took several steps back.

For a moment, the fire only calmly spread along the line of oil that Jason had put out early, before it went under the large door. He had planned everything so meticulously that it was almost ridiculous.

There was a moment of silence, and then the cathedral exploded.

Jason jumped and then smiled as the fire spread to the entire building and began to burn.

Several people had now been sacrificed for Jazz. It was a few more steps towards giving her a new body.

Soon, he would be able to meet her.

Suddenly, hands tugged him backwards into a soft chest.

A warm chest.

"Jazz?" He whispered. Could it be?

Was it actually enough?

"I'm here," Jazz said softly, laughing.

"You're here!" He beamed and turned around, eyes wide. Her cheeks were ruddy, her eyes glistening with the light of the fire, and her hair blew around her in waves from the heat and air.

She was so lovely that Jason didn't know if he was dreaming or not. Her hands were warm within his and his smile almost hurt with how much it stretched his face.

"You're really here!" He said again, unable to hold back his glee.

"Yes!" She said with another laugh. "I'm here." She brought one of his hands to her face and nuzzled his palm, her breath gusting over his fingers with warmth.

The glow of the raging fire behind them only made her look even more ethereal. She smiled and then said, "Thank you, Jason, for bringing me to this world."

She pulled him closer, and enchanted, he let himself be manipulated by her as she pulled his chin upwards.

"Let me reintroduce myself." She whispered with a smile. "I am Jazz, your own personal god of change and transformation. Jason Peter Todd, for your efforts in reviving me and bringing me into the mortal plane, I will make this world bow to your whims. Do you accept?"

He nodded dazedly and she pulled him by the head.

The fire burned behind them as she sealed their lips together with a promise.

With her here with him, they would never be apart again.

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Yes, later in the future, Jason will have two younger brothers who fight all the time, another younger brother, two sisters, and a big brother.

The reason why Jazz is a god of change and transformation is bc she changed and transformed Jason into who he was now, and Jason also changed and transformed her with each sacrifice.

On another note, the original idea of this fic was that Jazz was kind of like Jason’s subconscious that manifested into a girl that encouraged him to murder anyone and everyone that offended them. Some included Willis Todd, Felipe Garzonas, Sheila Haywood, etc. In the end, Jason becomes a gang leader of his own accord with his hallucination, Jazz, by his side. But that took too much brainpower from me so… this fic is more lighthearted than the others :)

Thank you to @meditating-cat for betaing!